 
### A Tale or Two - The Ultimate Collection

### by

### Mac Zazski

### ***

Smashwords Edition

***

### Copyright 2012 - 2013 Mac Zazski

***

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### Table of Tales - Volume I

The Prelude

Again

A Walk Around the Block

A Teenage Daughter

The Do Over

Mai Lin

Mine

Ten Seconds in an Elevator

The Common Thread

Talk to Me

The Fourteen Stairs

The Visitor

Mile High

### Table of Tales, Volume II

A View of the Park

An Appointment

Cold Storage

Falling

Hunted Like Animals

Learned

Motherhouse

No One Listens

Slow on the Draw

Stephanie

The Baddest Bad Ass

The Ghost Tour

Trying to Fit In

### Table of Tales, Volume III

Batteries Included

Big Date

Daddy/Daughter Day

Delirium

Information; this is Jenni speaking...

John's Dilemma

Rage

So Glad that You are Here

The Champion

The Concert

The Replacement

The Ties that Bind

To Hell in an Hand Basket

### Table of Tales - Five Bonus Tales

Denial

Deserves Another

Don't Speak

Kriminals for Kids

Paintball

### The Prelude

It had been a scorcher, the temperature soaring and the humidity rising all summer till the whole world felt like the inside of an oven. It was hard to breath, hard to think and every movement required an extra effort. At night, lying in bed, all I could do was pray for sleep, a little time when I didn't have to be aware of the heat, but the heat didn't break. Every day I arose and walked around in a stupor, my mind in a haze. Every day I went to work and went home and died a little more.

Who could afford air conditioning on my salary? It was all I could do to make the rent and pay for food. Your salary goes up occasionally, but your bills, they're a different animal all together. A guy in my position can afford bill collectors even less than he can afford bills. Got to keep my nose clean, can't have any complaints. There was no air conditioner in my future no matter how hot it got, no matter how much sleep I lost, so I accepted it, it was all I could do.

After roasting all night in my crummy one room apartment, I'd go to work at the lumber yard. I spent the day in the sun with no shade and nowhere to hide. I walked around the yard like a man in a wood filled desert, praying for an oasis. You lift and you haul, moving around the yard like an ant under a magnifying glass. As I cut lumber I felt the saw dust settle on my sticky arms, hugging me like a neglected child. I swatted at flies and prayed for clouds, anything to hide me from the sun for even a few minutes. When I could sneak away, I'd run to the men's room and douse myself with cold water. I'd wet my handkerchief and tie it around my neck and for a minute, the world was cool and life was bearable, but it never lasted long.

The other guys in the yard would say, "Eddie, what are you doing here? You're smart, why don't you get another job?" They didn't know about that three year hole in my resume that only a warden could explain away.

"I like physical work," I'd lie and I'd keep on walking. They were right, I was smart, smarter than any of them, but I had to wait. It would take a few years and then I could go out and get an office job. With a few years of work under my belt I could change my resume, I would explain away those three years like they never happened. For now, I had to make the best of it.

I had gotten seven years for embezzlement, kept my nose clean and got out in three. I was also up on suspicion of murder, a charge they could never make stick because of a lack of evidence. As I said, I'm smart. On the embezzlement charge I had gotten careless. You can't get distracted when you set out to take other people's money and I had allowed myself to get distracted. I had paid for that mistake.

I had been working for Welsh and Company for eight years, had learned the business inside and out. Old man Welsh was a typical old time factory owner, he knew what he knew and refused to learn anything new. Every year he churned out the same old thing, watching his business grow smaller and smaller. "Changing times," he'd say. Times change, but the smart money changes with them. By year two I knew Welsh and Company was on its last legs, with luck and the old man pumping money into it, it might last five more years. Still it would never live on after the old man.

Then one day, the world fell into my lap. Larry Kegger, a brilliant man with no idea of how the real world works walked in and offered to sell the old man his life's work for a song. The old man balked, but I was smarter. Kegger had invented a heat resistant plastic, a plastic so heat resistant that car engines could be made from it. It would revolutionize the world, it would change everything, and it could be mine for a measly ten thousand dollars. Kegger wanted to sell his idea and save the pandas from the whales or some other such nonsense. It didn't matter to me, all I knew was I was ten thousand away from millions.

A bank was out of the question, they would want a piece of the action as soon as they saw that his formula was legitimate. I knew that it was the real deal; I had spent my life savings on lab tests proving that the stuff really worked. Now all I needed was the ten thousand dollars to buy the patent from Kegger and make my fortune. All I needed was for old man Welsh to loan me that money. I had worked for him for 8 years, had cleaned up his messes, babysat his stupid son as he tried and failed to learn the business and given him more production from his ancient machinery than he could have dreamed possible. He had more money in the bank than most third world countries and ten thousand to him was like a buck to you or me. Of course he turned me down flat. I am, as I said, a smart man. I got the money from him anyway, a little forgery, a flirtatious friend at the bank and ten thousand was mine. If everything worked out, I would have had it back to him before he had even noticed it missing. Everything did not work out. Like I said, I got distracted.

Her name was Joan, she had worked in Welsh's office and she was pretty and smart and a good person. Back then, I was a good person too, so it made sense for us to get together. Soon we were planning a life together, kids, a house, a future. Not much to ask for and no need to wait, all of it within our grasp for a little ten thousand dollar investment. Joan didn't know anything about my little foray into embezzlement, she believed in me, honestly believed in me. I guess she thought I was better than I was, an honest mistake made by an honest woman.

When you're in love you tell people things, things they don't need to know. I told Joan about my little loan, I told her what I had done for us; I told her the truth as I saw it, but she wouldn't see it my way. She demanded that I give the money back. She swore that she didn't care how long it took to get what we wanted, she loved me and that was all that matter. It was then that I knew that what we wanted wasn't all that mattered. I had a chance at millions and I wanted it, I wanted the money more than anything. We argued and she tried to leave. I couldn't let her leave; I could no longer count on her keeping quiet. She wanted to save my soul, I wanted the money, it was as simple as that. I was entitled to it and a little thing like an honest woman was not going to keep me from it. No one saw her again. I'm not proud of it, but I needed her quiet so she became quiet.

Unfortunately she spoke louder in death than she ever had in life. She had a brother and when she didn't answer her phone, he called the cops. The cops started snooping. First they came looking for me and then they started looking at me. They never found Joan, but they did find a little deposit I had made with company funds and I watched my million dollar dream go up in smoke. Kegger ended up selling his patent to an auto manufacturer who quickly announced that the stuff just did not work. They just went right on making car engines out of metal and yours truly went to prison.

It's all ancient history now. All I wanted was my paycheck and a place to hide from the heat. By the time the foreman handed me my wages and wished me a nice weekend all I wanted was to go home and lay down in a bathtub filled with ice cubes. As I headed down the street I felt my legs turning to rubber, with each step my shoes seemed to gain fifty pounds. That's when I saw it, a hole in the wall called McGivers Tavern. It was one of those dark, neighborhood places with old neon beer signs and the smell of urine wafting in the air via the alley next door. None of that matter to me however, the only thing I saw was the puddle by the front door. Every few seconds, a little ripple ran through the puddle as the condensation from the air conditioner above the doorway dripped into it. I had my paycheck in my pocket and an extra ten dollars in my wallet, who could eat lunch when the days are this hot? All I could think of was sitting in that dark, dinky bar and drinking an ice cold beer in the air conditioning. I just wanted to feel like a human being again, even if it was just for a little while.

As I stumbled in I felt my life start to return as that cold air rushed up to greet me. The sweet coolness wrapped itself around me like a long lost lover, guiding me to the end of the bar and depositing me on a well worn stool. A middle aged woman who had spent too many nights in bars like this waddled up to me and barked out, "What'll you have?"

"Is the beer cold?"

"As an Eskimo's ass," she laughed.

"Give me the coldest beer you've got," I begged, getting giddy from the cool air as it washed the heat from me.

I nursed the beer, reveling in the cold. After an hour, I could nurse no more moisture from the glass and I had no more money to spend on such luxuries. I knew what waited outside, I hesitated. I sauntered into the men's room and washed my face with cool water. Jutting out my chin, I moaned and prepared to leave. I walked slowly to the door, lingering a moment more. It was still bright outside, but there was a hint of a breeze and the coolness in my clothes lasted almost the whole block before it was bludgeoned to death by the heat. I felt what was left of the beer beginning to spill out my pores and my brain began to cloud again. In three more blocks I was at my door. Unlocking the door, I stepped into the steaming hot vestibule and eyed the mailboxes standing there. I fumbled with my keys, opening my mailbox just to slam it shut again, happy there were no bills, but annoyed at having to make any extra effort.

It wasn't until I turned that I saw him waiting for me. Joan's brother had not changed much in the last three years, perhaps he was a little heavier, a little broader in the shoulders, but his face was the same as it was that day in court when he watched the judge sentence me. He moved towards me with a smile, like an old friend who runs into you on the street. It was his smile and the heat that caused me to misjudge his intent. As he stepped forward he raised his arm as if he wanted to shake my hand, but the motion was too fast. I missed his hand, my fingers left dangling, grazing his forearm as he moved swiftly forward. I was surprised to find his skin so cold; "he must have air conditioning" I mused as I felt the knife enter my chest.

For a second, my body did not understand what had happened to it and he and I just stood there, looking at each other like two guys who were not quite sure what to say during an awkward pause in a conversation. Then I felt it, searing, debilitating heat, not at all like the wet, soggy, energy draining heat that was all around us. No, this was like a laser, hot, serious, and purposeful. I tried to yell, but I only managed a faint gurgling noise as I sunk onto the ungodly hot tiles of the vestibule floor. He stood over me for a moment and then calmly wrapped the knife in a handkerchief and stuck it in his pocket. He never looked back. I didn't blame him; once I'd done it, I never looked back at Joan either.

Turning my head I watched in fascination as the puddle of my own blood began slowly expanding along the floor towards my face. As hot as the tiles were, I was starting to feel cold, I was even shivering. I smiled to myself, thinking of Joan, thinking of how smart I was and how it didn't really matter anymore. I guess the whole week had only been a prelude; I was going to be hot for a very long time.

### Again

The dusk was still and warm with hints of the impending evening chill whispering in the air, calling out to him quietly in the receding sunlight. The main street that ran through the small town of Lazar was almost deserted save for a few inebriates finding their balance leaning against the front of the lone bar in town. Such an odd name for a bar, The Golden Moth, he shrugged, it was somehow appropriate.

Across the street from the bar moved, shuffling passed the dusty flats and heading for the low lying hills just outside of town. A long handled shovel perched on his narrow, bent shoulders and a small bag clutched in his hand he saw the dust from the road swirl and dance around his shuffling feet with each step. Occasionally he stopped to remove a worn red bandana from his back pocket and mop the sweat from his worn, wrinkled face.

"Such a long night ahead and I've started sweating already," he mumbled to himself as he continued his journey out of town.

Slowly the ground began to rise and about midway up the first slope he entered the gates of the town cemetery. Trudging up the gravel road, the old man shuffled onwards until he reached a row that began just beyond the peak of the cemetery's hill. Taking a right turn onto a grass covered lane, he picked his way passed the tombstones to a blank footing above a patch of freshly dug earth. After a quick look around, he tossed the bag gingerly to the side and drove the shovel into the dirt with a sigh. After a few shovelfuls, he began to dig with a well practiced, steady rhythm. Every few minutes, he found it necessary to stop, offering a reluctant sigh to the dirt as he mopped his forehead against the flood of sweat that poured down his face.

"Why do they have to bury them so deep?" he muttered, resuming his labor. "Wasn't so bad when I was younger, mind you, but I don't know how much longer I can keep this nonsense up. Maybe I'll speak to the undertaker next time, ask him to put you up a few feet higher. A whole night wasted..." he spat some dirt into the mound growing on his right, "Serves me right for talking when I should be shoveling."

The sound of footsteps on the gravel caused him to pause a moment. What sort of lunatic would be in a graveyard at dusk if he didn't have to be? Pausing in his labor, he listened to the sound of the footsteps as they slowly faded away down the path. "Couldn't have stayed a little longer and helped out?" he called out softly. "The least you could have done was to help me shovel. Lord knows I wouldn't have refused a helping hand."

The dirt grew rockier, a good sign. Stopping for a moment, he watched the sun take its final slow dip below the horizon. Almost instantly the stars unveiled their light and the moon dripped a soft, white glow upon the scene. Almost instantly the wind began to shudder through the graveyard, hinting at the dropping temperature the night would bring.

"Stupid place for a cemetery," he muttered, looking up at the night sky. "Someone should have had the sense to build a house up here. Look at that sky..." With a reluctant shrug, he looked from the sky back to the brown soil beneath him and began shoveling again. It was a good, long time before he stopped again. He was near now, after a time you got a sense about these things and he could tell he was near to the end.

Holding the shovel loosely in his calloused hands, he examined it a moment. It was a good shovel, not the best he had ever had, but a good one. His favorite had been the one he had gotten from Otterman's Hardware, back in Oklahoma. Now that shovel had been a thing of beauty, slicing through dirt like a hot knife through butter. You could balance that baby on the edge of a sheet of paper, why a man could dig to China with a shovel like that, but then he went and broke the head by backing up over it in the garage when they had moved to Nevada. It broke his heart just to think of it. Still, this was a pretty good shovel, not magical like the old one, but still pretty good.

He greeted the dropping temperature like an old friend, it made the work easier and then it made it necessary. The breeze blew harder now, but the mounds on either side of the hole kept it at bay.

The tip of the shovel struck wood, he was sure of it. One final push and he would be done. The scrape of the shovel on wood always tested his nerves. "Finger nails on a blackboard," he muttered, shoveling the last residue of the rocky sand from the lid.

Climbing out of the hole, he located the bag he had brought with him and removed his crow bar. Easing his way back down onto the lid, he made several attempts to work the end of the crow bar under the lip. "Why do they lock these things?" he grunted with an effort, "Not like they've got important papers in there..." The lid groaned and then popped upwards. Careful of his footing, he raised the top.

With a nod to his aching back, he slowly lowered himself and grasped the shroud, slowly pulling it back to reveal the remains of a well dressed elderly woman. Peering down at the cold features, he noted the unsmiling mouth, the wrinkled eyelids.

"Stop fooling around," he barked in a hoarse whisper, "come on now." Nothing happened. "I'll put it all back, all this dirt, now come on." The wind whistled overhead and still nothing moved. "Fine, I'll just take this pendant," he said, reaching down and grabbing the locket around the woman's neck.

The old lady's face cracked and began to flake off, a writhing motion apparent just under the surface.

"I knew that would get you," he chuckled.

The arms moved ever so slightly and then suddenly lurched skywards, splattering the old man with flakes of dead skin.

"Watch it," he crabbed, wiping his face with his bandana.

"You leave my mother's locket alone," whispered a husky female voice.

The old man looked at the face and smiled, "You never look more beautiful than just after you've been dead."

A young woman's eyes stared back at him shyly, "Sometimes, Earl, I remember why I love you." She giggled coyly, "Did you bring my clothes?"

"I thought you'd wear what you had on."

"Oh, Earl!"

"I'm joking, just joking. Got a dress up there, it's in the bag for you."

Climbing out of the hole and locating the bag, he strode back to the edge of the pit.

"I'll toss the whole bag down, don't want to mess your dress with my dirty hands." Lowering the bag down, he admired the youthful arm that reached out to retrieve it from his grasp. Turning his back towards the pit, he started to muse, "I'm thinking of leaving the grave uncovered..."

"Oh, why? I kind of like it here, why not do what we did in Kansas?"

"Say you're my daughter till it's my turn and then come back as your boyfriend?"

"Sure, then you we wouldn't have to pack again."

He scratched his chin thoughtfully, "I do hate to pack..."

"No one will know," she said happily. "I could move in to take care of you and maybe you could die even sooner."

"How would we explain me looking like your father?"

"We could say that we're distant cousins, it would work out, Earl. It has before..."

He pondered it a moment and then retrieved the shovel, "Oh, what the heck, the night's still young."

She let out a triumphant cry and he offered her his hand as she climbed up. The woman who made her way out of the pit had dark hair and dark eyes. The blue dress she wore revealed an enviable figure, lithe and petite.

Earl gave a low whistle, "You get more beautiful each time."

She bowed her head coyly and giggled, "Oh, Earl..."

He began to shovel again, heaping the dirt back into the pit.

"What do you think about painting the kitchen blue," she asked as the hole got shallower.

"Not today," he grumbled. Her laugh caused him to smile, "Then I guess it ain't a bad idea."

"Earl," she asked, her voice growing quieter. "How many times do you think we can do this? I mean, the old man who sold us the liquid, he never said how many times..."

Earl straightened up, wiping his hands on his jeans, "He said forever, my dear, remember?"

She shrugged, "I suppose. Still it's a strange way to live, don't you think?"

Earl ambled up and gave her a tender kiss on the check, "Except for the shoveling, it ain't so bad."

With a laugh they walked arm and arm down the gravel road, clinging to each other in the cold night air.

### A Walk Around the Block

The car speeding through traffic weaved ponderously amongst the sleeker vehicles on the road. Joel had always had an obsession with old Cadillac convertibles and this one, despite its size and addiction to gasoline, was his pride and joy. The car was a powerhouse, forcing its bulk through the traffic like a bully through a school yard. Suddenly cutting across three lanes of traffic, it vengefully rammed its way up the off ramp.

"Be careful, Joel, you might get into an accident."

Eyes filling with hatred, Joel backhanded his passenger hard. "An accident? An accident! What the hell do you think is going to happen to us when the Boss sees us, huh? You'll pray we were in an accident!" Running a large hand through his long blonde hair, Joel tried to maintain some sort of control of himself and the car. "What the hell is wrong with you, Carl? I'm not getting into an accident, you know why, Carl? Do you know why?"

Carl cowered in the seat's far corner, eyes anxiously blinking, "I don't know, Joel..."

"Because you and only you, will be the death of me!" Joel's voice whipped through the air, lost in the night behind them. "How the hell could you be so stupid, I give you one damn thing to do, one damn thing..."

"I tried to get the money there, Joel," whined Carl, "I did, but I didn't have no way of getting there. None of the cars were working..."

"Have you ever heard of a taxi, Carl? A freakin' taxi?" Taking a swing at Carl, Joel ran a red light and narrowly avoided a collision. Jerking the steering wheel just in time, he forced the huge car forward, unmolested and undeterred. "Do you have any idea what this man does to people who don't pay up? Does anything above your shoulders work, Carl? Anything?"

"He seemed nice..."

"Nice?" the word hung in the air with all the innate tenderness of a guillotine. "He kills people, you idiot, and not like in the movies, he kills them for real." Joel spit and cursed, unable to articulate a single coherent word for a few minutes. When he regained his composure he threw another punch at Carl, "We're through, you got it? If we get out of this alive, we're through!"

"Come on, Joel, don't say that," whined Carl. "We're brothers. Mama she said we gotta look out for each other..."

"Mama's dead and I wish you were too!"

Carl stared at him, hurt, "You don't mean that, Joel. You don't mean that..."

Joel bared perfect white teeth at him, "In a little while it won't matter what I mean because it will be true, we'll both be dead and it'll be your fault."

With a throaty growl the car lurched forward, the two men lost in their thoughts. After a time, Carl spoke quietly, "Don't get sore, Joel," he pleaded and suddenly his eyes lit up. "What do you say, we just go, Joel? We done it before, just said the heck with everyone and left, why don't we do that now?"

Joel jammed a cigarette between his teeth and punched the lighter into the dashboard, "We can't do that, not this time. This guy is big, bigger than anyone we've ever done business with... we can't walk out of here unless he lets us walk out of here."

"So just pay him back and then we'll go," replied Carl softly. "We got the money, just give it to him and we'll go..."

Joel threw the cigarette out the window unlit and said nothing, tired of trying to make Carl understand. He had cared for Carl since their parents had died, had put up with his endless questions, had been embarrassed by him, by his lame arm and leg, by his constant needs. Joel had done everything for him. If he had not been saddled with Carl, who knows how far he could have gone, or what he could have become? The sky would have been the limit without two mouths to feed, without two people to have to house and care for, without the constant need for money. He glanced over and cursed the happy grin, the eyes full of stupidity and felt the loathing grow even more.

By the time they reached the brownstone, it was dark and the streets were deserted. The boss' house always gave Joel the creeps; it was on the deadest, ugliest block in Brooklyn. The large, black fixture above the stoop gave off an eerie yellow glow, casting warped shadows on the stairs in front of the building. Twisted patches of darkness filled the street behind Carl and Joel as they climbed up the stairs and rang the bell.

A huge block of a man answered the door, his dark hair emphasizing the grayness of his skin. "Come in, the Boss is waiting."

The brothers followed him down the hall, Carl limping softly, oblivious to his brother's rising anxiety. The dark haired monolith maneuvered them into a small, barren room containing three chairs and an unlit fireplace. The light from the overhead fixture seemed to grow weaker. Wrapped in a strange silence, the room was breathlessly warm. Even Carl knew better than to sit, so the two stood, alert and uncomfortable, each next to a chair, each throwing anxious glances about the room.

Suddenly the door opened and in walked the Boss, a thin man with dark hair and sharp, hawk-like features. His face would have been handsome if it were not for the pasty white pallor of his skin; it was as if he had never seen the sun. He gestured the two men to their seats and lowered himself into the third.

"Long time, boys," he drawled. Joel could never pin down the Boss' accent, but he knew he wasn't from Brooklyn. "Joel, it's come to my attention that your payment is late..."

Joel looked about nervously, gingerly reaching into his pocket, "It was a mistake, Boss, a simple mistake. Here it is, all of it. I got tied up with a situation and I asked Carl to bring you the money. You know how he is, he got confused..."

"I couldn't find a way to get here, honest," interjected Carl.

"Shut up," snapped Joel. Turning back to the Boss, who was counting the money, he continued, "Honest, Boss, we would never think of forgetting you or making you wait. It was a onetime thing. It was my fault, I should have never told Carl to do it, you know how it is, you can't trust anyone to do things right..."

"No, Joel," said the Boss quietly, "it doesn't work that way for me. See, when I tell people to do something they do it, or they end up wishing they had." Leaning back in his chair, he regarded the brothers through dark eyes which grew darker, "This is the second time you've disappointed me, Joel, and this isn't baseball. You don't get a third strike."

"Second time?" asked Joel, trying to keep the terror from his voice, "What did I do before, Boss? I didn't do anything I can think of..."

"You remember, Joel," said the Boss slowly counting the wad of bills again, "I had asked you to talk to Eddie Scissors on my behalf, remember?"

Joel frowned, "Big Man, that was six months ago. If Eddie is giving you trouble again..."

The Boss' smile sent a chill through Joel's body, "Nobody gives me trouble "again", Joel. Eddie won't be giving anyone trouble "again"." He rose, calmly pocketing the money, "Now, Joel, my problem is with you."

Joel blinked, his mind too frightened to comprehend, "Boss, after I straightened the guy out, I never had anything to do with him, I swear..."

"I don't care if you did," replied the Boss coldly. "When someone who comes from me corrects someone, they should stay corrected. Your correction didn't stick, Joel, how does that make me look?"

Joel gave a small, nervous laugh, "Boss, Eddie is a stubborn guy..."

"Was," corrected the Boss.

Joel hesitated, "Was a stubborn guy. He was the type who could convince himself of things that, well, that just defied the facts, you know what I mean? No normal guy would have thought of refusing you, it was just the kind of guy Eddie was..."

"It makes me look bad, Joel," murmured the Boss, "and I can't have that. If you can't do a little job for me like that and then you bring your money late, I don't need you either."

"Wait a minute, Boss, please. You know I'd do anything for you. Eddie, Eddie was a special case, he was a loose cannon, thought he was something he wasn't and this thing with the money, I mean," he glanced at Carl, "I should have never trusted anyone with it other than myself, Boss. I'm not making excuses, I was wrong, but that reflects bad on me, not on you." He watched the Boss slowly light a cigarette, the tension in the room becoming unbearable. "Look, Boss, you know I'd do anything for you, just name it..."

The Boss waved out his match, his harsh features softened in the swirl of smoke, "We'll see, Joel, we'll see." Joel coughed nervously as the Boss removed a small sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket. "Come here."

Joel moved quickly, crossing to his side. The paper was a map of the block they were on, the block behind it and the two blocks at either end of the street. "There are three businesses, one on each surrounding street," drawled the Boss quietly. "Each store owner owes me a little something. Each week, I send Tandor to collect from them, but this week, Joel, this week, I'm sending you. They know what they owe me, Joel, and they'll give it to you, but sometimes they can be a bit ornery. Tandor will give you what you need, all you have to do is take a walk around the block and collect what's due. Think you can do that?"

Joel smiled, relief washing over him, "Of course, Boss, of course, no problem."

"Good," smiled the Boss, "very good. The thing is, I'm going to need a little insurance, so till you get back, I'll keep Carl here. Tandor and I will entertain him."

Carl looked at Joel, clearly terrified by the menace in the Boss' voice.

"No problem," snapped Joel, glaring at Carl to remain silent. "Just don't let him drive you crazy, Boss. He's a good kid, but he likes to talk." He looked at Carl again, "Don't talk too much, got it? I'll be back soon."

"Good luck," smiled the Boss, opening the door. Joel moved swiftly down the hall, running into the walking wall that had shown them in.

"You're taking my run tonight," Tandor growled. "The Boss said to kit you out." He produced three wooden boxes, each the size of a cigar box. "Step out the door, then left, counterclockwise around the block till you get back here. Go in order. Bring the first box with you into the first store, the second into the second store and so on. If they give you any trouble, open the box and use what you find." Tandor grunted, a harsh, unreal noise, "Don't mess up and if you don't get the stuff, don't come back." He jerked a huge thumb over his shoulder in Carl's direction, "Not that running will do you any good, but just remember, if you screw up, he won't be here."

"Should I put what they owe you in these boxes?" asked Joel.

Tandor shook his head, "Whatever." He placed a meaty paw on Joel's shoulder and half guided, half threw him towards the front door. Opening it, he pushed Joel out into the darkness, "Counterclockwise, once around the block. Box one, box two, box three."

Joel retreated down the steps as the door rammed closed. For a second he thought of running, of slipping into his car and driving into the darkness, of becoming a memory. He thought of Carl, why should he care? He had been saddled with Carl since he'd been born, so what if they killed him? He grimaced, Carl's one talent was to find him, he was like a homing pigeon, they'd let him out and Carl would find him, with Tandor one step behind him. Damn Carl!

Fear turned to anger as he strode down the block, the three boxes stuffed under his arm. Turning the corner, he could see that everything was closed except one store in the dead center of the block. Dull orange and green neon pushed a throbbing light into the darkness just beyond the store's large window, gently enticing passersby to try Weng's Chinese Take Out. The place looked deserted, but somehow, something seemed wrong. Joel shook off the feeling as a case of nerves and made his way to the door. Pausing, he looked in. A young Asian woman stood behind the counter, a small child seated on a stool next to her, otherwise the place was empty. With a sharp inhale, Joel pushed his way in. The young woman looked up measuring him with tired, almond shaped eyes. Her face was pretty, her clothing worn, but clean, but Joel sensed a less than friendly attitude. Placing his three boxes on a small table near the wall, he sauntered up to the counter.

"What you need," the woman asked, trying to mask her harsh tone behind an insincere smile as she pushed a menu towards him.

"The Boss sent me to collect," replied Joel, his hand resting unconsciously on the gun in his shoulder holster.

"We give to Tandor, not you," she replied.

"Tandor's got a cold, I'm collecting tonight."

The woman's eyes narrowed, "We give to Tandor..."

Joel cut off her reply, "You give to me, Tandor isn't coming, got it? Now hand over the Boss's cut or things are gonna get ugly."

The woman studied him a moment and then motioned him towards a doorway that led to the back. He followed; menacingly pushing passed the small girl who sat on the stool.

"Tiche," barked the woman. The child looked up, dark, sad eyes questioning in a stoic face, "You wait here." The child agreed with a nod and went back to staring out the window.

In the backroom, three men stood cooking over various stations, preparing foods and placing them in containers, paying no attention to Joel or the woman as they made their way to a small office butted against the rear wall. The woman motioned Joel in and closed the door, making the cramped space even smaller.

Shimmying behind the beat up desk, the woman opened a draw and took out an envelope, sliding it across the desktop. "You take," she barked sullenly.

Joel took the envelope, weighing it momentarily in his hand, "Is this everything?"

The woman looked at him, resignation in her tired eyes, "It all there." Her sullen expression gave way to a weary smile, "You want more, something else maybe?"

Joel played it cool, "What else have you got?"

She slid around the desk and hesitantly touched his chest. The weariness seemed to melt from her, a radiance slowly taking its place. "Tandor sometimes wants something else."

Joel smirked, "Does Tandor get something else?"

She leaned up and nibbled his ear, "Tandor big man, but very quick. You, big man, not so quick, no?" Her arms wrapped around his waist as she kissed him hungrily. "You no quick man," she smiled, pulling at his jacket.

The jacket raced his tie to the floor as she stepped back to pull her shirt over her head. She wore no bra, revealing smooth skin, pert, flawless breasts. Embracing him, her warm flesh radiated heat through his open shirt. They moved together awkwardly, advancing, retreating, reacting.

"Tiche!" The sharpness of her tone snapped his eyes open. The door to the office stood slightly open and the little girl stood examining them with her sad eyes and stoic face. The woman wiggled back into her blouse, "Tiche!"

The child closed the door softly behind her and turned to face them. She looked at Joel and smiled. Joel stood, his embarrassment turning to fascination and then to horror. The child's mouth widened in a smile and then passed the point of a smile and then passed the point of a mouth. Her teeth were gray and pointed and hideous and her lips just kept retreating, further and further back, passed her nose, passed her forehead until her entire hideous skull was revealed, cold and gray and sharp with black eyes boring through him. The skin of her head eased from her skull until it fell into turtleneck like folds upon her neck, her hair forming a cape down her small back.

"Sweet Jesus," gasped Joel, "what the..."

"Now!" shouted the woman and the thing that had been the little girl sprang at him, razor sharp teeth seeking his neck. Joel forced himself to react, slapping the beast out of the air towards the desk before springing towards the door. The woman was a step quicker, blocking his path, glaring, laughing and blocking his way. Pulling the gun from his shoulder holster he slashed it hard across her face, sending her reeling back towards the creature now scrambling towards him. The thing side stepped the falling woman and leapt again. Joel aimed, pulling the trigger, the gun's report sounding like a cannon shot in such close quarters. The creature reversed course in midair, slamming into the opposing wall. Joel stood gaping at the thing; no nick, no cut, no damage. The thing sat there, black eyes filled with fury. Remembering the envelope in the coat on the floor, he bent quickly, grabbing the coat only to almost to be pulled off his feet as the woman latched onto the other end.

She screamed again with hatred, "Tiche!"

The creature dove, its hands latching onto his arm, the still human fingers crushing his forearm like a vice. Joel screamed in pain, put the muzzle of the gun into its mouth and fired. The head snapped back and the thing struck the floor hard. Joel gave a frantic tug, pulling the coat free and bound out the door. Grabbing an enormous skillet hanging from the ceiling, he swung it hard just as the woman and the creature appeared in the office doorway. The force of the blow sent the woman sprawling backwards but barely slowed the creature.

Joel glanced at the men cooking, but all of them continued at their work as if nothing were happening. The hesitation cost him as the creature grabbed his leg. Jerking back, he was too slow to avoid the razor sharp teeth entirely as they slashed through his pants and sliced open his leg. The wound felt as if hot lead were being poured into it and as he screamed he jammed the gun against its head again and fired. The bullet bounced the creature off the floor and back a few feet as Joel made a dash for the door leading to the counter.

Instinct took over as Joel slammed through the door separating the kitchen and the store front. Diving over the counter he just avoided the creature's teeth as it took a bite out of the laminated counter top, splintering the surface with the force of an explosive. Joel hit the floor and slid, his eyes catching a glimpse of his boxes. The boxes! Jumping up, he grabbed the top box and snapped open the cover.

A dull gray, metallic ball rested in the center of the red velvet lined box. Grabbing the ball, Joel looked for an on switch, but found nothing. The creature sprang to the top of the shattered counter and immediately dove for him. Instinctively Joel threw up his hand, jamming the ball into the creature's mouth. The creature pulled itself upright, its teeth jammed into the ball. Trying a few bites and finding itself unable to free itself, it shrugged and calmly sprang onto the counter. Turning to give Joel one last look, it bound off the counter and calmly walked through the door and into the back room.

In shock, Joel retrieved the boxes and hurriedly backed towards the door.

"See you next week," called the woman from somewhere in the back.

Terrified, Joel pushed his way out the door and ran for the corner. The street was strangely black save for the dim cone of light produced by the corner street lamp. Placing the boxes on the sidewalk, he pulled up his trouser leg and gasped. A gaping wound surrounded by puffy, raw flesh ran from just below his knee to almost his ankle. Another half inch and it would have been directly above the shin, exposing bone. He tied his handkerchief around the middle of the wound, hissing at the burning pain, "Damn you, Carl..."

He could run. He could leave Carl to his fate, sneak back to the car and drive, just drive. They'd never find him, he'd never stay still and best of all, no Carl. No more caring for that miserable, useless...

"Taking a nap?"

The voice snapped Joel out of his reverie. Tandor stood just outside the cone of light, all the more menacing as the darkness blurred edges, leaving Joel unable to tell where he began and the darkness ended.

"Just catching my breath," snarled Joel.

Looking down the next block, his eyes fell upon a light towards the end of the street, a yellow neon sign flickering in a dirty window. Shrugging on his coat, he picked up the boxes, removing the envelope from his coat pocket. He thought to give it to Tandor, but looking back he could not discern his form in the darkness. Where had he gone? Had he ever been there? Shaking his head, he placed the envelope into the first box where the ball had been. With a shuffling gait, he made his way down the street and peered through the dirty window.

The inside of the store looked musty; a coating of dust lay on the items strewn about in no discernible order. Joel read the flickering yellow letters, "Pawn Shop" and shuddered. Placing the first box on the bottom of the pile, he opened the second box, determined not to enter the place until whatever weapon he'd been given was safely in his hand. The box held a small cube, about the size of a baseball, but much lighter, mirrored and cold. There appeared to be no mechanisms and no way to open it. His skin crawled thinking of the thing he had encountered in the take out restaurant and he thought of making for the car again, instinctively fearing the evil that undoubtedly haunted this place. Still, Tandor was lurking out there somewhere and even if he managed to escape, they'd find him, led by Carl, they'd find him. Damn, Carl...

Joel entered the pawnshop in a bad mood, the cube nestled in his fist. A voice called out to him from a dark corner, "What ya got in the boxes?" A slow, shuffling form emerged from the darkness. He was bent and scruffy, his skin two sizes too big for the bones it covered, a jowly, hound dog face with large ears and wisps of white hair, uncombed and uncared for surrounding his head. His clothing was musty, like the shelves, as if he pulled the dust of the shop onto him like a pair of pants. What caught Joel's attention most were his eyes; dark, vicious, soulless.

"I've come to collect," snapped Joel.

The eyes mellowed slightly, "Where's Tandor?"

"Resting," replied Joel, trying to ignore the throbbing in his leg. "You've got your payment?"

The old man smiled, "What's the hurry? You're the first new guy in years, why don't you come on in and stay a bit? I don't get many customers; Tandor usually keeps me company for a little while..."

"Well, I'm not Tandor," snarled Joel, "so give up the payment so I can get out of here."

The eyes flickered, "Sure, sure thing. It's just I don't get many people in here, just thought it'd be nice to have someone to talk to..." he moved to what might have been a desk under a pile of dusty rubbish and opened a draw. Pulling out a smudged envelope, he handed it to Joel.

Joel took it from him and opened the box, sliding it in. He caught a glimpse of fire in the old man's eyes as he realized the box was empty. "Don't get any ideas," he barked, "I've got the cube right here."

The old man shrank back, "Put it away, I don't want to see it."

Joel was intrigued, "Why? What does it do?"

The old man glanced at the cube, "It shows you things, thing you shouldn't see. Bad things."

Joel moved closer, "What type of "bad" things?"

The dark, cunning eyes stared back at him, "You see your past and you see your future. The cube shows you the highlights of your miserable existence."

Joel glanced at the cube and then back at the old man, "And what if your life wasn't so miserable?"

Turning away the old man whispered, "I wouldn't know."

Joel looked down at the cube and where it had been mirrored before he saw two small figures as if in a photo. Looking more closely, he saw the figures begin to move, two young boys running in the snow, one boy limping behind the other. It was him and Carl! He stared at the image, recognizing his Uncle's lodge. They were running in the snow and behind them was his father, Joel Senior, throwing snowballs, playing with them. Happiness welled up in Joel, what a great day that had been, what a great time.

The cube turned of its own accord and another scene came up on the new side that faced him. They were in the bedroom in the lodge, the one he and Carl shared and he was getting up. It was late, he had to take a leak and opening the bedroom door he could see his father passed out in the living room, dead drunk again.

Then he heard it, the noise, a moan. "No," Joel whispered to the cube, "don't go in..." but the little figure opened the door. How was he to know, he was so young, how was he to know? He ran to his father again, "No," whispered Joel, "don't wake him!" But the little figure was already shaking the man on the couch awake, the little boy was yelling, telling his father how his uncle was hurting his mother. He saw his father rise from the couch, stagger into the room and then the scream, that hideous high pitched scream!

The cube moved again and he was older now, in his early twenties, walking into a corner fruit market. Old man Lee was behind the counter, asking him what he wanted. He pulled something from his waistband, but Mr. Lee didn't notice and then he saw himself raise the gun and fire and Mr. Lee slumped to the floor. He grabbed the money and turning, suddenly, there was Kimberly, sweet, little Kimberly, so small and shy, so lovely, exquisite even in grief. He had wanted to make Kimberly for a long time, but her father wouldn't let her date a non-Asian. He looked at her tears and felt his heart harden, there could be no witnesses and as he raised the gun and fired, the cube turned again.

Joel could barely make out the new image, it was dark and dusty and there was a figure on the floor and the old pawnbroker was standing over it with a knife, a knife dripping blood. He looked at the figure and jumped back just in time as the realization overtook him; it was his body on the floor.

The old man's blade sliced his ear and he felt the warm blood flow down his neck. His movement had thrown the pawnbroker back onto the floor. Drawing his gun he heard the old man's screamed.

"NO!"

The muzzle flashed and the old man's face dissolved into a red mist. Joel watched the body slam against the floor, twitching to silence. In a blind rage, Joel picked up the boxes and stalked out of the store, sliding the cube and envelope he had collected into the second box.

He did not even think to check his new wound until he had stomped his way around the corner and saw...nothing. The block appeared empty, just a series of warehouse doors and battered entrances greeting his eye. The rising feeling of panic must have pushed his blood pressure up a notch, because he suddenly felt a surge of pain from his ear. Raising a hand to it, he drew back a bloody palm. He was out of cloth to wrap around it, his handkerchief already wrapped around his wounded shin and his tie lost to the specter in the Chinese restaurant.

"To hell with it," he muttered, "let it bleed. Damn Carl, all because of damn Carl!" In his growing rage he suddenly noticed a small, square outline in the middle of the block. At first it had seemed to be just another warehouse door, but now he could see it was a store front, devoid of light and apparently life, but a store front none the less. He squinted at the sign on the door, "The Rusty Nail".

Removing the third box from the pile, he gingerly opened the lid and discovered three silver spikes. The spikes glistened in the darkness, reflecting some unseen light on their polished surfaces. Joel placed the spikes in the upper pocket of his rumpled suit jacket and pushed his way through the door.

A long, thick, neglected bar stood to his left, a pool table to his right, a juke box just beyond the bar and then, darkness. A lone bartender stood, staring at the pool table as if expecting it might do something unseemly if not supervised. Joel walked in, catching the man's attention as he placed the boxes on the bar.

The man stared at the sorry sight, "What in hell happened to you?"

"What the hell, indeed," replied Joel. "I've come to collect."

For a moment, the man seemed confused as he pondered Joel's statement. "That kid around the corner finally got to Tandor?" he asked.

"No," replied Joel, "Tandor just wanted a night off."

The man shrugged, "Can't imagine why." He looked at Joel again, 'Did she do all that to you?"

"She did the leg," replied Joel, "the old pawn broker did the ear."

The barkeep considered it. "I warned him. I told him he was too old to go up against someone with that knife. The reflexes just aren't what they used to be at his age and you've got to get in close with a knife, but he wouldn't listen. Going for the throat and he gets your ear... told him."

Joel lowered himself onto a stool, the throbbing in his leg easing. "Get me a beer," he ordered. Carl could wait ten minutes more, he deserved a beer.

"Coming up," replied the barkeep. Drawing the beer, he sauntered down and placed it in front of Joel. "Don't feel bad, the first time Tandor collected, he looked just like you."

"He still does," chuckled Joel, the coldness of the beer easing the ache in his body. "Speaking of which, where's your envelope?"

The barkeep reached under the bar and produced a bulging, white envelope, placing it next to the beer. "Here you go."

Joel picked up the envelope, feeling the weight of it in his hand. He eyed the barkeep, "So, what's your story?"

The old man leaned back against the bar, "I've got no story, just working to make ends meet."

The normality of his voice put Joel even more on his guard. Pushing the beer away, he stood and reclaimed his boxes, placing the envelope in the third box.

Reaching inside his coat pocket, he pulled out the three spikes, flashing them at the old man.

"What are those, silver?"

"You tell me," replied Joel. "I had a ball for the kid, a cube for the pawn broker and these for you."

The barkeep's face remained impassive, "You probably figured out that the kid ain't from around these parts and the pawn broker's been killing people for years..."

"And you," interrupted Joel with a smile, "you're just a working man."

"Aren't you?" asked the barkeep. "Oh, we all work, gotta make a living. Even guys like the Boss, they work for people too, though they don't know it." The barkeep seemed to be getting younger, his face smoother, his hair darker, "Take you for instance, you've got the brawn, but not the brains." Joel grasped the bar; the room seemed to be spinning. "Everyone is missing a piece. The pawn broker had the cunning, but was too old and that kid, well, she's got the weapon but not the wisdom to use it." He was growing taller now and broader and the room was spiraling down, it was sinking. Joel held onto the bar and remembered the spikes, the cold shining spikes in his hand.

"Stop it or I'll use these," yelled Joel.

"You don't know how," roared the barkeep, his eyes glowing red. "You don't have the strength to use them."

Lurching over the bar, he clutched Joel by the throat, his hand unnaturally large. Joel struggled for air. "Give them to me!" commanded the barkeep.

Joel looked at the outstretched hand with the bar looming below it. In one motion he switched two of the spikes to his open left hand and with all his strength drove the remaining spike through the barkeep's outstretched hand and into the bar below it. The barkeep dropped him with a howl and grabbed his impaled hand, trying desperately to pry it loose. It was the respite Joel needed. Taking a spike in either hand, he drove them into the barkeep's eyes. With a scream from the depths of hell, the barkeep's body withered and fell behind the bar, only his rapidly aging hand still evident. The room slowed and stopped, all was as it had been before except for the dusty pile of what had been the old barkeep lying behind the bar.

Unsure of his sanity, Joel retrieved his boxes and bolted out the door. Staggering down the dark street like a mad man he grasped the streetlight on the corner. He had no idea what to expect as he turned the corner, would he be where he had started or on some other planet? Peering down the street, relief washed over him. There was his car and there was the brownstone. Limping slowly, his leg burning, his ear throbbing, he felt like a marathon runner, he had done it! He would get Carl and run and never come back. He would find a place for Carl, some place deep in the woods, someplace where no one would ever find him and he would leave him there to die. He would go someplace and get a job, something easy, something quiet.

Tandor opened the door and ushered him back towards the room he had been in without a word. The Boss was sitting quietly, enjoying a glass of dark, red wine.

"Ah, Joel, you're back. Take a seat."

Joel collapsed into a chair, immediately handing over the three boxes. The boss opened them and nonchalantly tossed the envelopes on his desk. After all Joel had been through, the man's indifference burned, but he kept still.

The Boss smiled, almost sadly, "Joel, I appreciate your efforts, I know how hard you tried, but I'm afraid you've failed me again."

Joel blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly. "Failed? What do you mean I failed? You got your envelopes, I made it back, how did I fail?"

The Boss looked at him wearily, "Don't get excited, Joel, it's just business. You killed two of them, the pawn broker and the bartender. Now I've got to find new people to take over those businesses, they'll be a loss of revenue..."

"People?" screamed Joel. "You mean monsters, creatures, freaks, not people! Do you even know what people are?"

The Boss' eyes went dull with rage, "I know you, Joel and I know Carl..."

Joel rose defiantly, "I don't care what you do to me and I sure as hell don't care what you do to Carl! I always said he'd be the death of me, I'm tired of him and I'm tired of you!" Pulling out his gun he thrust the handle into the boss's face, "Be a man for once and do your own dirty work if you've got the guts!"

Standing, the Boss pushed the gun aside, "I prefer to let Carl do it."

"Carl?" snapped Joel with a bitter, hate-filled laugh, a harsh, choking noise, contrary and vicious. "You want to put Carl in the pit with me?" He pulled the gun back and aimed it at the Boss, "Go to hell."

"Don't do it," said a voice behind him.

Joel turned and stared. It was Carl, but it wasn't Carl, it couldn't be Carl. It was Carl's face alright, but something had changed. It was the eyes, the glow in the eyes. Joel stared a moment longer as he realized, the stupid glow of wonder had gone out of Carl's eyes. As Carl took a step forward, Joel's eyes grew even wider; his limp was gone and his arm appeared normal and strong. Then he saw it, the two small punctures on Carl's neck, swollen and oozing blood.

He turned to look at the Boss, who threw back his head and laughed, a cold inhuman sound issuing from a mouth gleaming with bright, bloody teeth. Instinct took over as Joel burst past Carl and out of the room. As he was headed towards the door, Tandor stepped out into the hall. At full speed, Joel bowled him over, bursting through the front door. Diving down the stairs, he made for the car. If he could just get to the car, get the car started...

Something slapped his legs out from under him, something fast and strong. His torso struck the pavement hard, his legs caught up with each other as he skidded to a halt besides his car. Untangling himself, he leapt up, his back against the car. Carl stood before him, a cunning grin on his face. Anger and hatred caused Joel to shake; he would vent all his fury and all of his anger on Carl once and for all. Tonight he would hold nothing back.

"You were right, Joel, you were always right," said Carl softly, sliding slowly closer.

Joel felt for his keys in his pockets, sliding towards the front of the car. He gripped the keys, blades protruding between the fingers of his clenched fist.

"What do you mean?" he snarled.

Carl smiled coldly, "You always said I'd be the death of you."

Stepping forward, Carl deftly caught Joel's fist as it swung towards him, stopping it as easily as a child catches a soap bubble. His other hand grabbed Joel's jaw, wrenching him forward and exposing his neck.

Joel tried to scream, but the flow of blood down his shattered throat prevented any real sound from escaping. As Carl feasted on the blood of his body, Joel stared up at the dim lamp post on the street corner until even that dull illumination faded to black.

A Teenage Daughter

All Alan wanted to do was to get home and relax. His meetings had run over time and he had almost been late picking up Susan at the mall. With a glance at the young woman seated next to him he sighed and maneuvered the car through traffic, glad the day was almost over.

He thought back to the first time he had met Miss Barker, Susan's mother. His old housekeeper had retired and he had rattled around the house by himself for such a long time. It had become a show place filled with valuable art and decorations and next to impossible to manage on his own. Miss Barker had shown up with all the right credentials, placing the house in order in no time at all. Within a week the house began to feel more like a home, a retreat from his many business entanglements, but along with all that efficiency, Miss Barker had brought a daughter with her.

Hesitantly over the course of several months, Miss Barker had revealed her story. A handsome woman in her forties, she had told him how as a young and naïve girl she had trusted the wrong man, the result of which was desertion and a beautiful baby girl. They were alone in the world, just her and Susan. With little schooling and no skills, she had become a live in, all the time doing her best to raise her daughter.

His heart had started in the right place; he had been all good intentions. He was going to be the kind uncle to an unfortunate girl, wasn't that just the natural instinct of a caring person? When he had first met Susan, he could not help but notice how attractive the high school senior was, how outgoing and friendly. She was always polite and well behaved, a daughter any mother would have been proud to call her own.

The trouble had begun when he had asked Miss Barker if he might take Susan along to a museum opening to which he had been invited. He thought it might broaden her horizons and Miss Barker was flattered. He was surprised at how excited Susan was about the opening, but things had not gone as he had planned. On the way home from the museum, Susan had gotten close to him, had teased him, had suggested things. He was surprised and more than slightly flattered, but nothing had happened, he would not let anything happen. He was an important man in this town for some of the right and many of the wrong reasons and he could not afford a scandal. His mistake was in not saying something to her mother, instead he had remained silent.

A blaring horn caused him to start violently.

"Are you all right, Alan?" asked Susan, snuggling closer to him.

"I'm fine, fine," he replied, fighting the impulse to reach out and touch her. "Please sit over on your side, I'm trying to drive."

Susan laughed, "I don't think you really want me to sit all the way over there, do you Alan?" She drew her long legs up under her and dazzled him with a brilliant smile.

Alan's face grew red, "Yes, yes I do. Go and sit over there."

Susan laughed as she stretched her way towards the passenger door, her movement causing her short shirt to reveal her taut abdomen and tanned skin. Pulling out her cell phone, she dialed a friend and slowly strapped on her seatbelt, all the time smiling at his sidelong glances. Alan felt his chest constricting, caught between desire and guilt. He had taken risks before; he had been involved in some terrible things, but never along these lines. In business he was ruthless and open to any way to win, but when it came to women he was the most boring guy anyone had ever known. Good old Alan, dull, play-it-safe Alan.

As Susan began chatting aimlessly to girlfriends on her cell phone, he tried to lose himself in driving. He was surprised to find that he still had the faint echoes of what might be considered a conscience. He hadn't felt bad about anything since he had gotten old man Murphy fired. Murphy had been the last honest man he had known, but his honesty had stood in the way of Alan's vision. It had been so easy and after that, there had been many other times, but never again remorse.

Traffic grew lighter as they drew closer to the wealthy neighborhood that Alan called home. Pulling up to the front gates, he promised himself that he would never be alone with Susan again, that he would never take the chance of being weak or stupid. He would ignore her, be a stranger to her, it was the only way.

Miss Barker was waiting for them as they pulled into the driveway, a tall, handsome blonde in a blue dress, her big, trusting smile a source of shame to him. She kissed her daughter and looked up at him as he exited the car, her eyes filled with thanks and admiration.

"Welcome home, sir. I can't thank you enough for picking up Susan at the mall."

"It was no prob..." his voice died out as Miss Barker, not waiting for his reply, threw an arm over Susan's shoulder, hustling her into the house, the girl speaking excitedly about her purchases. Alan opened the trunk and retrieved the shopping bags, momentarily dropping them in the large entrance hall and picking up his mail.

"Thank you again, sir," stated Miss Barker, suddenly appearing at his side.

"No problem," snapped Alan, caught off guard. "It was nothing."

"I'd say it was a lot more than nothing," laughed Miss Barker. "It isn't every employer who would help a mother to keep her promise. I should have never promised to take her to the mall, but thanks to you, it all worked out. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your agreeing to take time out of your busy schedule to drop her off and pick her up...I can't thank you enough."

"Really, Miss Barker, it was no trouble at all."

Miss Barker seemed to want to say something else, but changing her mind, she smiled and started on a new topic.

"The men will be here today with the tent for tomorrow's party. You still want it placed on the far side of the pool, is that correct?"

Alan looked at her blankly, "Tomorrow? Is the party tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir," she smiled innocently. "There will be about two hundred people here tomorrow. The tent man wanted to get a jump on things and asked if he could set up the tent this evening rather than wait until morning. The weather report stated that there is no chance of rain and he was hoping to get the tent set up and out of everyone else's way. I thought you would not mind, so I told him to come tonight. He should be here shortly. If you don't mind me saying, you seem very distracted, sir, is everything all right?"

Alan gave an embarrassed chuckle, "Yes, Miss Barker, everything is fine, just a lot going on at work, that's all. Thank you, of course if they want to set up tonight that should be no problem."

"Mr. Goldman?" Both Miss Barker and Alan peered up to the top of the stairs. Susan graced them both with a sunny smile, "Would it be all right if I went for a swim?"

Alan cleared his throat, "Certainly, Susan. You don't need to ask, you have my permission to use the pool anytime you'd like."

"Did you straighten your room, young lady?" called out Miss Barker.

"Yes mother," replied Susan.

"Very well then, but just for a little while," replied her mother. "Dinner will be ready in about an hour." She watched Susan disappear up the stairs leading to the third floor. "You spoil her, sir."

"I hate to see the pool go to waste," replied Alan softly, "no sense in it just sitting there."

Miss Barker smiled, "I'll go check on dinner, sir."

Alan's attention moved to his mail. As he began sorting through it, he turned to go up the stairs to his bedroom when he almost tripped over the bags he had brought in from the car. With a distracted sigh, he picked up the bags and made his way upstairs.

Alan's room was at the top of the stairs, a huge master bedroom furnished in the latest style. He stepped in, dropping the mail on the bed and then made his way to the stairs leading to the third floor.

When the mansion had been built, the third floor had been the servant's quarters; inaccessible from the front of the house but due to extensive renovations, it now was a self contained three bedroom apartment with a narrow stairway that began in a wall just beyond the balcony that overlooked the main entrance. At the time of the renovation, Alan could not bear to compromise the architecture of the grand old house, so there was no doorway hiding the new stairs.

The stairway led to the main hall that divided the apartment, kitchen, living room and bathroom on the right, bedrooms and sitting room on the left. As he gained the top of the stairs, Alan called out to see if anyone was there, but there was no response. Walking down the hall, he intended to drop the packages on the kitchen table, but as he turned to go into the kitchen, he heard a voice behind him whisper softly to him.

"Alan."

He turned, feeling the lust surge up within him. Susan stood in the doorway of one of the bedrooms, arms crossed tightly against her naked chest, thin white panties the only barrier from prying eyes. Her blonde hair hung in soft wisps around her face, while her large, blue eyes appealed longingly to him.

"I'm waiting."

The words were issued in a soft moan, a proposition and a promise. She turned, gliding slowly towards the bed, her arms falling casually to her sides as she smiled and moved beyond the doorway. His chest tightened even more as he watched the delicious movement.

A voice from below called out, "Mr. Goldman?"

Alan dropped the packages and ran to the top of the stairs. He was half way down them before he thought to attempt to regain his composure. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Miss Barker looked at him in obvious surprise.

"I was dropping off the packages from Susan's shopping trip," he blurted out. "I just dropped off the packages and heard you call and ran to see what you wanted."

Miss Barker stared at him trying to conceal her astonishment, "There is a call for you, Mr. Goldman..."

"Is there?" he asked, too quickly. "I'll take it in my room. Thank you, Miss Barker."

Springing into his room, he slammed the door behind him, falling against the door, seeking its support. What should he do, what could he do? What if she said something, she could accuse him of anything. Alan had been accused of many things in business, but he had always been sure to cover his tracks, but Miss Barker had seen him as he came down the stairs. He would have to fire Miss Barker; that was the only solution. He grimaced in thought, he couldn't fire her, it would have to wait until after the party. Collecting his thoughts, he remembered the phone call. Crossing to the desk in his room, he picked up the phone, hearing nothing but dial tone. Who had it been? Miss Barker hadn't said.

With a groan, Alan opened the door, carefully making sure that no one was around. Quickly he descended to the ground floor and began to search for Miss Barker.

"Miss Barker?" he called out, his voice becoming stronger. "Miss Barker?"

From seemingly nowhere, Susan appeared next to him, "I just wanted to say thanks again, Alan, for picking me up at the mall!"

Throwing her arms around his neck she kissed him fiercely. It happened so fast all he could do was panic. Despite his fear, his arms wrapped around her even as his eyes sought out her mother wildly. Thankfully they were alone.

Stepping back, he gasped for air, his senses registering for the first time that he had felt nothing but naked skin. It was then he noticed that Susan was wearing the smallest bikini he had ever seen. With a quick twist of her hips, she flashed a picture of her barely covered body at him. With a devilish smile, she threw a kiss at his stare and sauntered out towards the backyard and the pool.

Alan backed into the main foyer, his hair disheveled, eyes glassy from the encounter. "Did you call me, Mr. Goldman?"

Alan jumped, twisting towards the sudden sound. "What?"

Miss Barker took a step back in surprise, "I didn't mean to startle you, Mr. Goldman, it's just that I thought I heard you calling my name..."

"Did I?" asked Alan. "Yes, yes, of course I did. Yes, I did call you, Miss Barker, I did. The person who called before hung up, do you know who it was?"

"I didn't get their name, I'm sorry," stated Miss Barker, eyes filled with concern. "It sounded like your friend, Mr. Falah, but I'm not sure..."

"Falah?" replied Alan, his mind grasping at the idea. Mr. Falah? Yes, his associate in the jewel scheme. "Oh, all right, Miss Barker, I'll call him back and see if it was him..."

"Are you all right, sir?" asked Miss Barker. "You seem upset..."

"I'm fine, Miss Barker," he smiled, "fine. Just a long day, that's all. Once I get some of that wonderful dinner you're cooking, I'll be fine."

Miss Barker smiled at the compliment, "Dinner will be ready shortly."

Alan nodded, "I think I'll go get changed, relax before dinner..."

He headed up the stairs, why had Falah called? He told him to never contact him at home, not even on a throw away cell phone. What use would the money be if they got caught?

Entering the bedroom, he closed the door behind him and slipped off his suit, changing into a t-shirt and shorts. A breeze came off the balcony carrying a hint of the flowers that grew to excess in the gardens below.

Alan stepped out onto the balcony and saw a panel truck swinging around, attempting to back up to the gate that led to the backyard. Undoubtedly the tent guy; how long could it take to set up a tent?

He heard the water in the pool splashing and saw Susan glide out of the pool, her perfect skin glistening as the water gently rolled from her body. She sauntered towards one of the lounge chairs surrounding the pool and without drying herself, stretched out, her long legs rubbing suggestively against each other. Looking up she spotted Alan and smiled. Without hesitation, she reached up and untied the strings around her neck holding her top on. She giggled as she flashed her breasts at Alan, who found himself unable to move. Licking her lips she invited him, flustering and taunting him. Stumbling back into his room, Alan took a deep breath and retreated to his closet.

In the back of the closet sat a large safe which he tried to open. It took three tries, before the combination finally fell into place. Swinging the door open, he smiled at the jewels sparkling up and down the length of the safe, the closet light igniting them against their velvet lined trays.

Normally Alan was too interested in the gems to think of anything else, but now he stood, unsure of why he had even opened the safe.

"Falah," he said softly. He needed to get the diamonds together for Falah to take out of the country. An urgent knock at his door surprised him. "Yes?"

"Mr. Goldman, are you in there?"

Alan moved quickly into his room, "Is something the matter, Miss Barker?"

The knocking continued, "I need to speak to you, Mr. Goldman."

"Just a minute," replied Alan. To his surprise, he heard the door to his room open and Miss Barker enter.

Alan started to move back towards his room but halted. What was that click? Was it a gun?

"I saw you looking, sir, I saw you looking at Susan!"

Alan swallowed hard, the crushing weight of his secret desire freezing him to the spot, his chest tightening so that he thought his heart would stop.

"I'm sorry," he said, a confession and a plea. He turned away from her voice, his eyes ignoring the light of the diamonds that sparkled before them, "I'm so sorry..."

He felt a pinch as the bullet cut through his skull and entered his brain. How odd, he didn't even hear the noise of the gun firing, just a pinch and some smoke floating gently above him. Slumping to the floor there was no noise at all, just the most wonderful feeling of relief. For the first time in weeks his chest expanded freely. "How wonderful to breathe again," he thought, exhaling for the last time.

Susan sauntered back into the house and up the stairs. She slowed slightly, allowing her eyes to become accustom to the darker interior. Miss Barker met her at the top of the stairs, a large man towering behind her.

"Just throw something over your suit and for Pete's sake, hurry."

Susan ran up to her bedroom on the next floor and threw on the sundress she had left on her bed. The two women descended the stairs quickly and ran towards the front door.

"Is it done?" asked Susan quietly.

"Upstairs closet," the man replied.

"We've already cleaned out the safe," added Miss Barker. Turning to the man she stated, "We'll be back in two hours. Remember, Falah said to make sure it looks like a robbery."

"Two hours is plenty of time," he replied, slipping on a pair of gloves. "I'll leave the garage door open. Remember, pull the car in front of the door, act unsure and then go straight to the neighbors and call the cops."

Miss Barker nodded as she and Susan climbed into Alan's car. "Two hours," Miss Barker hissed as the car eased down the driveway. Susan watch the front door ease closed, the man disappearing in the enveloping darkness.

The two women drove at breakneck speed towards the mall; they needed security cameras, lots of security cameras.

"How much do you think we'll get?" asked Susan.

"Falah already promised us $25,000 each and with all the jewelry and money we took from the safe, plus whatever Tom gets now, I wouldn't be surprised if we walked away with about three quarters of a million once all is said and done. Plus severances pay, of course."

Susan laughed, "I think this is the last time I can play a teenager. I'm twenty four and it's getting hard to keep up the little girl charade. I know it's good for the fantasy, but I think we have to bump me up to being your college age daughter next time."

Miss Barker frowned, "You're probably right, but we should talk it over with Tom. I just hope two hours gives him enough time."

"He's been all over that house before, it's plenty of time." They drove a bit and Susan laughed, "You know, I can't help wondering what sort of lover Alan would have been, if we had to take it that far."

Miss Barker smiled, "Once they think they're getting their hands dirty, the sex becomes better. They try to lose themselves in it to escape the guilt, especially the ones like Alan."

Miss Barker slowed the car as she entered the parking lot, pulling into a parking space by a light pole. Susan spotted the security camera and casually brushed her hair away from her face. "Have to make sure they get some good pictures of us."

"Just play it cool," cautioned Miss Barker as she opened the car door. "Now isn't the time to forget to look innocent."

The Do Over

"Get back in this car!"

Rolling out the car door, Bill flipped a middle finger to the world at large and made his escape down an alleyway. His father's angry voice faded into the distance as he slowed to a saunter before leaping over the small fence at the alley's end.

Lighting up his last cigarette, he took a long draw. He swore he would have used the knife in his pocket on the old man if he had to listen to his crap one more minute. When would the old man learn he wasn't changing, not for him, not for anybody.

Peering back down the alley, he could see that his father's station wagon was no longer there. A station wagon, God, could the old man be any lamer? In a few blocks, he was back in the place he felt most at home. It was miles from his neighborhood, but it was Bill's place and Bill's turf. Checking his watch he saw that it was dinner time; the streets were deserted.

Taking a quick right, he cut through old man Jensen's junkyard and found himself on Nester Avenue, his usual haunt. The action didn't start until after dark, so he sat down on the corner and enjoyed his cigarette, waiting for darkness to come. He was musing about how stupid the principal had looked, all loud accusations and no evidence, when he heard the voice behind him. It came out in a low, deep growl, the kind a dog makes when it knows that you are just beyond the reach of its chain.

"White boy just looking for trouble in this neighborhood," stated the menacing voice. "You don't belong here."

Bill glanced over his shoulder and smirked. Fister was a vicious looking man, his afro powdered with gray, his heavy face set in a perpetual frown. One dark, unforgiving eye stared at Bill, the other, glazed and blind, looked off into the distance. Despite his harsh face, the man's body looked soft, but that was a lie. Nothing about Fister was soft and God help anyone who thought otherwise. Ambling up to Bill he stood watching the gathering darkness.

"Gonna be hot tonight," he stated to no one in particular, his voice coming through a sneer, "Where the hell's my money?"

Bill looked up, "Give me a break, Fister. You're sweatin' a lousy twenty bucks?"

"You bought the shit, you pay for the shit," rasped Fister. "Got you what you wanted didn't it?" Fister looked away disgusted. He'd seen the girl, saw how the light had gone out of her eyes. He spat on the ground, trying to convince himself that it didn't matter.

Bill gave him a conspiratorial smirk. He had no idea what the stuff Fister sold was, but it worked every time. Put a little in a girl's soda and she became your plaything for the night. Replaying last night's adventure in his mind, he smiled, confessing, "I don't have the money." Fister growled, looking ready to strike. Bill jumped up quickly, "Look Fister, I'll have it by tonight, I swear."

Fister rose above him like an evil cloud.

"You'd better, boy," he hissed, "You just better!"

Bill retreated across the street, knowing that at the moment, he had no prospects of getting twenty bucks. Before the night was out there would be someone who had forgotten to take the proper precautions. He would find the money, of that he had no doubt.

He watched the darkness spread, covering the neighborhood's poverty like a worn blanket. Soon nothing was visible other than the small areas illuminated by the harsh yellow streetlights. Crowds on the streets grew, the darkness bring all sorts of lost souls out to wander the landscape, searching for something they could never quite find.

Bill appeared to wander the neighborhood aimlessly, but he was alert, seeking what he felt entitled too. It was in the middle of his seemingly aimless route that he spotted her. He could tell that she didn't belong. She was with a cluster of girls that always seemed to appear magically on the street corner on a warm night, standing near the group but obviously not really part of it. He took in the scene, mesmerized by the sway of her supple shape in the sheer shirt and form fitting pants. He understood it all in a glance; all of them went to school together, it was the only place she would have met girls from this neighborhood. The others had taken a liking to her, a little rich girl with no street smarts. To her, they were new and exciting, but she didn't belong, from the cut of her clothes, to the self-conscious way she looked around, not wanting to make eye contact but anxious to be seen.

Looking across the street at Bill, she locked eyes with him for a moment before quickly looking away. The effect on him was powerful, something he had never experienced before. It wasn't just her look, the long hair and the sexy vulnerability, there was something more. It was as if in that moment her glowing eyes were pleading with him to protect her. Against her plea rose a desire to possess her. His mind swirled with contrary ideas, ideas of meeting and talking, of forcing her, of becoming friends, of possessing her, of finding love.

As she turned away, he spat, angry at himself. It was pity. She would be like all the others, wanting things he could not provide, parts of him that he would never give to anyone. Fury grew within him as he rushed back towards his chosen path. He wasn't interested in sharing himself or anything else. In that moment the girl ceased to exist beyond the pleasure she would give him. She would pay for insulting him. She would learn about something new, she would never pity anyone but herself again.

He knew the game; first he would join the group, all smiles and phony manners, the ghetto poet, the poor but noble soul. Next he would cordon her off, gradually moving her away from the group. Her friends would take the hint, melting away, thinking they were doing her a favor. After they were alone, he would ask her to go to the store with him for a soda. If she said no, he could always accuse her of thinking of him as poor. Girls hated the accusation that they were prejudice. She would go with him, a little apprehensive, but excited as well. She would drink a diet something, they all did, but he would make it a soda with a little something extra. Finally, they would take a walk somewhere dark and intimate. When she woke up in the morning he and a few other things would be gone for good. She would go back to where she belonged a bit wiser; he was just doing her a favor.

His need for twenty dollars had just doubled and time was working against him. She would not stay much longer and there was no hope that Fister would extend his credit. Needing an easy mark and needing it quick, he tramped up and down the side streets, looking at the long lines of barred windows. People here knew more than to provide easy entry.

The back streets seemed deserted, as if the whole world was mocking his need. The chances of getting to the girl seemed to be fading. Rolling a wino presented a less than even chance of coming away with much.

Hope seemed just about gone when he spotted his mark. It was obvious that he'd been a tough customer in his day; the price of a hard life was tattooed on his face. His clothing was worn, but clean. He was coming from some low paying job, a dishwasher maybe, trudging home after a long day of being yelled at in some foreign language. He would be tired and disgusted but most importantly, he would have just gotten paid. Bill eyed him as he trudged past. He would still be dangerous, but the task was not impossible. The advantage belonged to the younger man in these engagements and he had the element of surprise working for him. The old man would never know what hit him.

Bill followed him a few blocks, his mind torn between his mark and the girl. She had better be worth the effort. To his surprise the old man cut off the beaten path and down a narrow alley. Bill smiled at his good fortune, watching the old man huddling against the wall, ready to relieve himself.

Slipping his hand along the inside of his jacket, he felt for his knife. Once, when the police had detained him, his father had identified it as his own and had gotten it back for him. He almost laughed, finding it funny that at a time like this he would be thinking of his father.

A quick glance around assured him that the coast was clear. His thin, muscular frame tensed as he moved stealthily up behind the man. His hand hovered behind the man for an instant, seeking a place to establish a firm grip, when suddenly his world spun out of control. The old man lashed out, a well-placed foot catching Bill in the stomach and sending him sprawling. He was on his feet in a second, only to receive a hammer like fist to the side of his head. He bounced off the opposite wall, hitting the ground in front of the old man's feet.

"Give it up, boy, it's not too late."

Bill stared at the man; his voice sounded so much like his father's that it startled him. This guy was thinner and taller than his father by a head; the voice was just a coincidence. Twisting away from him, he slashed at him with the knife, spinning to his feet.

"I want your money," hissed Bill.

"Got some debts to pay, no doubt," replied the man, circling, breathing heavy. "How much do you owe Fister this week? Twenty? Forty? A hundred? Looking at that girl on the corner aren't you? She's pretty..."

Bill interrupted him, throwing himself at the old man, the force of the collision sending them both into the wall. The old man grappled against the hand with the knife then ducked below the blade, twisting away from him, moving further up the alley. Bill moved swiftly towards the alley's center, cutting off the man's path to freedom. Clutching the knife more tightly he decided that the old man needed a lesson.

"Give it up, Bill," the old man spat, his craggy face covered in sweat, a lifetime of smoking and bad habits obviously taking their toll.

"How do you know my name," barked Bill, the question automatic, too caught up in his own fury to listen to the reply.

"I was like you once," said the old man. "Look at me now. Is this how you want to end up? You could make something of yourself; you don't have to do this."

Bill smiled at the old man's pleading. The fight was winding down, the old man was tiring. "Just give me the money and save the lecture."

"This is your last chance," warned the old man. "You can't do much to me with that knife. Think before you act, Bill, think about what you could be, think about the girl..."

Bill smelled victory in the old man's pleading. He would have the money, the drugs, the girl, he would have it all. With a sudden burst, he leapt at the old man, knife aimed for the throat. He would not listen to another word.

***

Fister noticed the commotion a short time later and sent his lackey, a heavy set kid named Shorty, to investigate. Shorty came back, nervous eyes darting around as if he had been caught doing one of the many things he knew would get him into trouble. Fister fixed him with a glare to get him to concentrate.

"Someone got killed in the alley over there," Shorty blurted out. "Bad for business, Fister, we should get outta here, cops are coming."

"We know 'im?" growled Fister suspiciously.

"Don't know," replied Shorty, shrinking back, scared that he hadn't fulfilled his mission. "I didn't get close, too many people over there."

Such occurrences were common enough in this neighborhood. The cops would close things down for a few hours, and then business would resume as normal. Usually, Fister just retreated to the darkness of a nearby bar to wait out the investigation, but tonight he paused. Something compelled him to look into this personally.

"Get outta here," he groaned to Shorty and with a slow gait, made his way towards the alley.

The large crowd parted as soon as Fister approached, better to be a little late gathering the gossip than to step in Fister's way. Moving casually down the alley, he stopped just above the body. Cocking his head to the side, he examined it carefully as if it were a piece of artwork in a museum. The dead man's eyes stared at him blankly, asking him to explain how such a thing could have happened. Fister crouched down next to the body, his opinion forming slowly. He had seen hundreds of killings, but something about this one did not add up. Whoever had done it couldn't have gotten far. Looking up and down the alley, he stood up, listening to the police cars drawing near. From the footsteps in the dirt, he could tell it must have been a hell of a fight, but there was no blood or footsteps moving away from the scene either towards the back or the front of the alley. He would have seen someone had they run out towards the street, somehow it was wrong.

The arrival of the police charged the air with electricity. Swarming down the alley, they pushed the crowd out in an effort to protect any evidence. A cop approached Fister, examining him in an obvious attempt to locate blood on him.

"You've got something to do with this, Fister?" he asked, his voice low.

Fister shook his head, pointing at his corner, "I was over there when it happened, didn't see anything or anyone."

The cop jerked his head towards the dead man, "You know him?"

Fister frowned. Despite the warning in his mind not to get involved, the words spilled out of his mouth, "Name's Bill Edwards, typical kid, always with a different girl, you remember how it was when you were young, hanging out..."

The cops taping off the crime scene took no notice of the old man standing against the alley wall, breathing hard. None of them noticed the young girl Bill had been eyeing make her way through the crowd to stand next him. No one saw them at all.

"He wouldn't listen," said the old man, his voice mournful, "but I guess I knew he wouldn't."

The girl shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying to avoid looking down at the body. "I told you, Bill, you don't have to..."

"It's better this way." Looking down at the boy with the slit throat, he continued stoically, "He'd have taken the money and paid back Fister and bought some stuff. He would have put it in your soda and you would have died, just like you did last time."

The girl looked away, feeling she should say something, "You can't say for sure..."

"If I can't say for sure, who can?" With a shrug, he started slowly down the alley, the girl falling in step next to him, "Trust me, I know, it is better this way. People will be better off, they'll never meet me, they'll never be lied to or cheated or stolen from, they'll never know the pain..." He gave her a grim smile, "It only got worse after I had stolen your life."

He looked her in the face for the first time since the night they met so long ago. She was beautiful and would become even more so, "You've got a bright future ahead of you, I've seen it. Just be careful, okay? Stay away from people like me, promise me you'll go home and never come back here."

The girl nodded, fighting back tears. Touching her shoulder gingerly, he was going to say something more, but stopped, instead, turning down the alley and slowly disappearing.

She was startled by the voice calling out to her; it had been a long time since anyone on a street had noticed her.

"Hey, how did you get down here?" The cop could see that she didn't belong in this neighborhood. The tears in her eyes put him on guard. "Do you know anything about what happened here?"

"No, officer," the girl whispered. "I lost my cell phone, I was looking for it when heard a commotion. By the time I turned around, there was no one there but..."

Looking at her he sensed something more. Jerking his head towards the body, he asked, "Did you know him?"

The girl smiled a sweet, sad smile. "Not really. I met him once a long time ago, I lost something...he took it... but he gave it back to me..." her voice trailed off.

"We'd better get you out of here," said the cop softly. "This is no place for you."

"No," whispered the girl, drawing herself to her full height, remembering her promise. "No, I guess it's not."

The policeman put his arm around her shoulder, "You can sit in my car, and we'll call your parents to come get you down at the station."

"Thank you," she replied. After he closed the door behind her, she thought of seeing her parents again, of finally being able to touch them once more. As her tears flowed down her face, she whispered quietly, "Thank you too, Bill."

### Mai Lin

Mai Lin's bleary eyes tried to focus on the bright red digital numbers of her alarm clock. Four o'clock? How could it be four o'clock already? Stumbling toward the cramped, cabin shower; she slapped the clock to silence. She muttered angrily as she dressed in the tiny, ill lit bathroom. Four o'clock always came too suddenly, too quickly.

"Are you alright, Mama?" a shy voice called from the shadows as she stepped out into the room.

Mai Lin threw a vicious glance to the darkness. Having a roommate still, after all of her years of service, a disgrace! She knew what the others said, at forty two Mai Lin was too old for the work. Marissa told her she called her Mama out of respect, but Mai Lin knew better. She never received the respect she had earned, the respect she deserved. For twenty years Mai Lin had worked cruise ships and seen the world, had traveled to far off places that these youngsters could only imagine, though she had few adventures to relate. She deserved her own room, she deserved respect.

Ignoring the question, she stumbled out of the cabin, making her way along the dark corridors in the bowels of the ship, fixing her hair into a bun. Taking the elevators to the fifth floor, she moved quietly down the hall and then up the stairs to the eighth floor dining room.

Alistair was in charge of the dining room today, barking orders and assignments, checking his clipboard. He spotted Mai Lin and referenced his clipboard, giving her a polite smile, "Mai Lin, I have you doing clean up in the Garden Room."

Mai Lin frowned, "No waitress?"

Alistair ran a pasty white hand through his short clipped, blonde hair, "Not this morning, dear. You waitress in the Alcove this afternoon, I didn't forget you."

As Mai Lin reported to her station, Alistair shrugged. It was their third cruise together and he had never seen Mai Lin smile. As well as being anti-social, she was a horrible waitress, refusing instruction and becoming more defensive each year and yet he felt sorry for her. Twenty lonely years on cruise ships, he thought, what a life.

After an exhausting morning, Mai Lin had an hour to hide in her tiny cabin, finally alone. Changing her uniform, she rubbed her tired feet. She frowned at the talking in the hall, the flirtations and laughter of the others. She despised them, in twenty years she had never joined in and she never would. Each of them would leave in a few years, marry, make homes and families, but Mai Lin would still be here. Slipping on her second pair of shoes, she made her way to the upper deck, reporting to her waitress station.

Shairpo was in charge of the bar, a young, thin boy/man from India with soft brown eyes and a brilliant smile.

"Mai Lin, good to see you," he cried enthusiastically. "It is good to have experience here, it helps anchor the team. You take the inner ring of tables, if you please, less walking you know."

Mai Lin nodded, insulted by his familiar manner. She needed no consideration from a mere boy. The other waitresses ignored her except for Marissa, whose kindness and attention only infuriated her.

Marissa was barely twenty, a beautiful Philippine girl, a girl all the men on the crew spent their time watching. Mai Lin watched Marissa walk by, her anger growing. Stupid girl, she had no idea of the way the men undressed her in their minds, stupid girl. Sweet, innocent, Marissa, everyone's darling. Some rich man would meet her and then another one would be gone and Mai Lin stuck here for another year.

"Are you all right, Mai Lin?" asked Marissa later in the evening. "You work so hard," she said softly, fibbing gently, "you must find the days long."

"Work never killed nobody," Mai Lin snapped. "Maybe you tired, but not me!"

Leaving the sympathetic girl, she stormed out onto the deck to take her break. It was on the deck that she saw him. It took a moment, his hair shorter and lighter, his skin darker, but Mai Lin knew the man standing by the rail.

All alone puffing on a cigarette, he looked out dreamily upon the ocean seeming without a thought or a care, just a man and his cigarette and the ocean breeze and the sea swelling angrily below.

Turning, he caught her looking at him and smiled, "Could it be? Is that my Mai Lin?" His eyes grew wider but no less dreamy. "It is Mai Lin, my little, Mai Lin!" Stepping forward, he hugged her before she could reply. "Oh, my dear, how long has it been?"

"Three years, I think, Mr. Goldman, three years I think." Her smile was frozen on her face, forced there by her whirling mind.

"No, Mai Lin, no," he replied gently, his lustrous gray eyes smiling at her, "it is no more than a year my dear, certainly no more than a year."

"One year?" She feigned surprise, "Only one?"

Taking one last draw on his cigarette, he paused and savored the exhale.

"No more than one," he replied regretfully, "no more than one." He examined her carefully, "You remember the wedding, my dear; you came to the wedding."

Mai Lin nodded as if just remembering, "Yes, Nadia. Yes, you and Nadia, how could Mai Lin forget?" Her throat constricted, "Is Nadia good?"

"Poor Nadia," replied Mr. Goldman, instantly sad, "Poor, dear Nadia. She drowned, poor child."

Mai Lin feigned surprise, "Nadia die?"

Mr. Goldman gazed over the rail, a curious smile on his face, "I just wanted her to be happy, Mai Lin, just to be happy. I brought her to my beautiful home and tried to protect her, tried to keep her safe, but she was young. Young and beautiful and she would not listen, she ignored my warnings, ignored my good intentions. She was so young, so beautiful and now..." he stubbed out the cigarette. "She drown in the little inlet near our home. I told her not to swim there, but she thought she knew better. Now she knows, now she knows..."

Mai Lin spoke quietly, "You move again, Mr. Goldman?"

He nodded, "I couldn't bear to live there anymore. Our home lost its magic, you see."

Looking down at her feet, Mai Lin continued quietly, "You sold your house where Liu died also..."

Goldman's strange smile returned, 'Yes. That was a lovely home. It had a beautiful gazebo and terrace. Liu died in the gazebo, you know. She didn't listen to me, you see. I told her it was dangerous at night, but she was so young and beautiful...all I wanted to do was protect her..."

"You come back to this ship," stated Mai Lin gently.

"To forget, Mai Lin and of course, to look for you," he replied, gracefully lighting another cigarette and savoring the first taste.

"You know I help you if I can," replied Mai Lin softly, "I help you last time and time before and even time before that, but Mai Lin all alone. You know Mai Lin all alone, no one to care for Mai Lin but Mai Lin."

"I understand," replied Goldman, gracing her with a dreamy smile, "we must look out for ourselves, mustn't we? I could offer you say, seven thousand this time?"

Mai Lin revealed her joy behind the briefest of smiles, "That is kind, Mr. Goldman, most generous. I be able to care for family back home," she lied. "Thank you, Mr. Goldman."

"Now I saw a young woman at the reception desk with blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes..."

Mai Lin shook her head, "Oh no, Mr. Goldman, she not for you. That one is European trash, she whore. She like rotten egg, clean and white outside, stink and bad inside, she be with many men, not for you, Mr. Goldman, not for you!"

Goldman looked hurt, "Such a pity, so young and beautiful...Better to find out now, before tragedy..."

"I have better for you," Mai Lin smiled, "you see, much better for you."

***

Mai Lin stood by the bar, shifting her weight upon tire feet. "Marissa," she purred softly as the younger woman moved past. "You take table twelve for me? Feet tired."

Marissa smiled; it was the first time Mai Lin had ever asked her help. She finally felt as if she were breaking through, "Of course, Mai Lin, of course."

Mai Lin repaid her gentle smile with a solemn nod and watched her as she made her way to the table.

"I am your waitress, Marissa," she announced happily. "What may I get for you?"

The handsome gentleman looked up at her with a dreamy expression, "My, my, you are quite beautiful." Marissa blushed as the gentleman drank her in, "Perhaps you could suggest something, my dear."

Mai Lin watched from her perch across the room. Yes, sweet Marissa would be leaving soon. Once she was gone, Mai Lin would tell Alistair that she deserved her own cabin. It would be difficult to replace Marissa midseason anyway, so she would have her own room, at least for a while. How nice it would be not to have to share a closet. With the money she received this time, she had almost enough. One girl more, two at the most, and she could retire to her own house and have servants of her own, all hers, all paid for. She smiled at the idea of her own servants; she deserved to be waited on as she had waited on others for so many years. Perhaps she would even splurge a little now and take some of Goldman's money and buy herself a new pair of shoes. She could buy the new shoes at their next port of call at the same time she was buying the picture frame. She always gave picture frames to the happy couple at Mr. Goldman's weddings.

### Mine

"Cook has left, madam. If there is nothing further, I will be leaving now."

"Fine, Hobson, you may go."

The elderly butler hesitated. It went against a lifetime of training, but he had to speak, "Before I leave, madam, if I might remind you of our conversation of two weeks ago..."

"Hobson, I have no time to speak to you about your salary now."

Hobson lowered his head, barely containing the humiliation he felt behind his placid mask, "I hate to disturb you, madam, but if my need were not so urgent..."

"We will talk of it at some other time," she snapped.

"Very well, madam. Good evening, madam." Hobson withdrew and once out of sight, slid into his worn overcoat and with a bitter sigh, left the apartment.

Mrs. Allison rose and began to lower the lights. The apartment spoke of another time, an entire floor of high ceilings and heavily carved wooden furniture, a musty relic of a forgotten era. There had been many offers made through the years, but none of them approached the price she felt the place was worth. They thought they could make a fool of an old woman, but no one was going to fool Mrs. Louise Wainwright Allison. She had made her money and what was hers was going to remain hers. She had always lived up to her life's motto, "What is mine is mine." When her father had died, his fortune had become hers, a fortune she had nursed, protected and expanded. She ruled her companies, ran her own affairs and loved to exploit others weaknesses for her gain. Get them before they get you, she laughed, and no one had ever gotten her. No one had or would ever change that, no one.

Retiring to her changing room, she dressed with great care, her final adornment a platinum and ruby choker. Squinting at her image in the mirror she felt she had achieved her goal, she looked regal, even haughty. She felt it vital to impress her guest. Yes, he had much to offer, but she had much more.

The doorbell rang and her eyes immediately moved to the nearby mantle clock. Staring to focus on the time, she cursed her failing eyesight, finally taking out her dreaded glasses and even with their help, squinting hard. Eight o'clock, she noted, punctual as ever.

Gliding out of her bedroom she crossed the massive living room and hesitated at the front door. She took a deep breath...

He was handsome, thick black hair slicked straight back, narrow face, vibrant black eyes, not too tall, thin but muscular, clean shaven, pale and intent.

"You wanted to see me, Mrs. Allison?"

"Come in," she said softly, "come in."

The young man entered and was surprised to be ushered towards a chair. His heavy gray coat rustled as he sat down at her insistence, his sharply brocaded hat at rest in his hands. He scanned the room briefly and was shocked to see Mrs. Allison take the seat across from him. Like everyone else who worked here, he knew she was not the type to sit and chat with the help.

"You wished to see me?" he repeated politely.

"How old are you, Edward?" asked Mrs. Allison, squinting slightly to see him more clearly.

"Twenty eight, madam."

"And you've been working at the Fairmount about three years..."

"Yes, about three years..."

"I've noticed you since you first started, Edward. You've always worked the night shift." Her statement hung in air for a moment.

"I prefer the nights, madam."

"Indeed," she wheezed, "I cannot recall ever seeing you during the day."

"Day is my night," he replied softly. "I spend my days sleeping. Does this have to do with why you asked to see me?"

"A friend of yours has died, Edward."

He started, "A friend of mine?"

"Thomas Rutherford." She studied him intently as she said the name, "You remember Thomas, don't you?"

He stared at her quizzically, "I am afraid that I don't know anyone by that name, Mrs. Allison."

"Chester Worthington died last year, do you remember him?"

"The name does not ring a bell."

"Of course, Jonathan died over thirty years ago..."

"Jonathan?"

"Jonathan Allison, my late husband. Surely you remember him."

Edward smiled uneasily, "I am afraid, Mrs. Allison, that he would have been dead two years before I was even born."

"Oh no, Edward," she replied menacingly, "no, that won't do."

"Begging your pardon, Mrs. Allison?"

"Your real name isn't Edward Sid, is it?" she rattled. "And you aren't twenty eight years of age, though you certainly look no different than when you were."

He began to rise, "If you'll excuse me, perhaps..."

"Sit down, Edward," she snapped. "We are not through yet."

Lowering himself, he replied, "I did change my name. I want to be an actor and the name Sebastian Cqebyke does not exactly roll off the tongue..."

"An actor," she mused, "that is new. I never knew you had wanted to be an actor."

Edward shrugged, "I haven't gotten the opportunity to do much..."

She waved her hand dismissively. "Let us not play games, Sebastian, not us. Not after all we meant to each other."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean..."

"Do you think I just let you go, Sebastian? I tried to find you, once father died, I hired a detective, he tracked you as far as Wyoming."

"I'm sorry Mrs. Allison, should I call a doctor? Is there some medication you are on...?"

Mrs. Allison stopped him with a stare, "You had an accident. There is doctor, patient confidentiality of course, but there is also money and persuasion in this life. You rented a small cottage in the woods, despondent no doubt about our break up. While you slept, something attacked you, you couldn't identify it, but it bit you..."

"I've never been to Wyoming, Mrs. Allison," he replied quietly. "You have me mistaken with someone else."

"The doctor documented it all, the problems with sunlight, the strange change in diet." She looked at him smugly, "I know who you are, Sebastian and more to the point, I know what you are and what you can do." She patted his hand, an awkward attempt at comforting. "Don't let a golden opportunity slip through your fingertips."

He remained impassive, "Perhaps you could explain to me exactly what this "golden" opportunity is..."

She rose angrily, "Oh, don't be a fool! I know what you have and you know what I have, isn't it plain? I am offering you a lifetime of comfort! What use is immortality if you spend it being a doorman? You were never a stupid man, Sebastian, so don't play the fool now. I remember how you pleaded with me so long ago, but you had nothing to offer, just hopes and dreams. Don't you see, it's different now, we're almost equals! We could be together, wasn't that what you pleaded for all of those years ago?"

"I pleaded with you?"

Exhaling sharply, she glared at him, "You know you did, just as you knew I could never marry you. You wanted me to lose everything and for what? For love? Love doesn't make poverty easy; it doesn't give you comfort and possessions. I married Jonathan because it made sense and my father would have disowned me if I had married a person like you with nothing but an empty wallet. I saved my father's fortune, just as I saved Jonathan's. I've worked for years, building my companies, making the tough decisions, but I never forgot about you, Sebastian. I took comfort in knowing that there was a man out there who loved me..."

"Loved you as a woman, not a banker," he countered.

She glanced at the mirror over the mantle place behind him, "I was a great beauty, once. You said so yourself. You could change me, Sebastian; it is within your power to change me, to make me young again, you could do it." She countered his raised eyebrows with sly smile, "Oh yes, I've read up on your abilities. The first rule of business is know what someone has to offer."

"Even if I could do what you say I can, why should I? What would it benefit me?" He rose, stifling her protest with a raised hand, "I have learned a few things in this life and the most important one is to look out for myself. With that in mind, why should I make you young again?"

"All of this," she said, with a sweep of her arms, "will be yours. I have it all planned, figured to the last detail. I have read about your condition, once you bite me I will appear dead. After they intern me in the family vault, you will come and get me and once I feed, I will grow young again. We can be together, you, me and the money."

"You can't inherit from yourself," he replied with a laugh.

"No, but you can inherit from me," she smiled. "I will leave it all to you. Once you have freed me, we will marry, finally, we will marry. We will have everything we both wanted, youth, beauty and money, all of my money."

"Won't your attorneys argue against leaving all your money to a doorman?"

"They'll do what they're told," she snapped. "Besides, I have no relatives to contest the will." Grabbing a vase from the side of her chair, she flung it at the mantle, shattering it. "No one will stop me, Sebastian, I worked for this money and I will not be cheated out of it by a little thing like death! It is mine and what is mine stays mine!"

Sebastian glanced at the shattered vase, "You always knew what you wanted. Still, my kind feast on the living, won't destroying lives to continue your own existence bother you?"

She looked at him condescendingly, "Really, Sebastian, I am a business woman."

With a slight bow of his head, he acquiesced, "Very well then, when will you have all of your affairs in order?"

"Meet me back here in a week," she said softly.

He turned and headed for the door.

"Sebastian," she called out softly. "Won't you kiss me good-bye, like you used to when we were both young and in love?"

He smiled, "A lot has changed since then. I will kiss you once things have changed back."

***

"I am sorry, madam, but my need is most urgent," begged Hobson.

"We will discuss it tomorrow," barked the old woman, fumbling to place her eyeglasses back in her purse. "I have my finance people looking into it, now leave me alone."

It went against every fiber of his being, but Hobson continued, "So I will be getting something."

"You'll be fired if you don't stop this insubordination," replied Mrs. Allison.

Hobson gathered up the remnants of his dignity along with his coat, "Very well, madam." With a stiff bow, he slipped into his coat and was gone.

Mrs. Allison moved as quickly as she could, retreating to her bedroom and laying out her clothing. She dressed carefully; the final touch was her diamond choker, a gift from her father for not marrying Sebastian. The irony brought a small smile to her face. The doorbell startled her. Giving her room one last glance, she moved swiftly to answer the door.

Sebastian stood at the door, impassive. "Are you ready?"

She nodded, a bit disappointed by his cavalier tone.

"Very well, we need moonlight," he said, gesturing towards the elevator. Taking the elevator to the top floor, he led her to the staircase and up the final flight to the roof. Exiting out onto the roof, she could hear the distant sound of the traffic far below.

"I should have brought my shawl," she crabbed.

"You're going to be cold for a very long time," he replied mildly, "it is best you start getting used to it."

Walking to the edge of the roof, he gestured to her to follow.

"Are you ready?"

She shrank back slightly, "Will it hurt?"

"A pinch, nothing more..."

Steeling herself, she whispered, "Then we will be together forever, you, me and the money."

"Forever," he agreed, removing her choker. She watched as he passed his hand anxiously across his mouth and then he took her by the shoulders. There was a pressure on her neck and then a warm, wet, dribble. As he pulled his head back, she touched her neck, examining the bright red on her finger tips.

She felt dizzy, elated, powerful, "Is it done?"

He swiped at his mouth, "Yes." Looking at her through hooded eyes he said, "Replace your necklace, when they find you we do not want the marks to be immediately evident."

She quickly produced a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her neck, replacing the necklace and throwing the handkerchief over the side of the building.

"I don't want them to find a bloody handkerchief and become suspicious," she explained, feeling strange and more alive than she had in a long time. She eyed him, unsure of herself. "What do we do now?"

Suddenly, he stepped up onto the ledge surrounding the roof, holding an inviting hand out to her. She shrunk away, frightened.

"What do you fear?" he asked boldly. "Don't you feel the change? As long as the moonlight shines on us, we are invincible."

She hesitated and then drew her hated eyeglasses from her purse, gleefully dropping them to the ground and stepping on them. Taking his hand, she stepped onto the ledge. She was sure of it now, her legs no longer ached, her eyesight was becoming clearer, the transformation had begun.

"They will find you; apparently dead in your bed tomorrow morning, but tonight, you will rise. Come my love, come fly with me!"

"I have it all," she muttered to herself, the news too precious to share, "all of it!"

She looked out over the city and the pitiful fools who had to die. She would never die; she was too smart for death.

Turning to him she asked, "How do we do it? How do we fly?"

"Turn your face to the moon, spread your arms out and leap." His tone was sensual, beckoning. "You'll feel yourself change, but don't be frightened. Once you are ready to land, just let your feet touch the ground and you will change back."

She did not hesitate. Flinging her arms open, she threw herself out into the air. She felt the changing and the cool night air rushing past her as she gained speed, her body enveloped in a rush of youth and power.

"I have it all," she moaned greedily, "what is mine, is mine forever!"

***

"Hobson, pull back those curtains, won't you please?"

Hobson moved quickly and pulled back the curtains, letting in a stream of sunshine that fell on the master's face and filled the room with light.

"After working nights all those years, I can't tell you how much I enjoy the sunshine," smiled Sebastian. "Now, Hobson, please take a seat."

Hobson hesitated, it went against his very being but for the first time in his many years as a butler he took a seat in front of his employer. Sebastian picked up some papers and regarded them carelessly.

"I see here that you have taken a loan of a thousand dollars in order to make ends meet..."

Hobson cleared his throat, embarrassed, "Yes, sir, I did. I had spoken to Mrs. Allison about a raise just prior to her death, but she never approved the increase, so I was forced to take out a loan."

The younger man examined the papers a moment longer and then set them aside. "Hobson, I'll be honest. Of all of the things I inherited, you are without a doubt the best," Hobson responded with a smile at the sincerity of the complement, "therefore I have decided to double your salary."

Hobson's eye's grew wide, "Pardon me, sir, did you say "double"?"

"Yes," laughed Sebastian, "I said double. I've also instructed my attorney's to pay off this loan. The fact that you had to take it out in the first place is a disgrace."

Hobson allowed himself a small laugh, another first in front of an employer, "I... I... I don't know what to say, sir."

At that moment the doorbell rang, "Stay where you are, Hobson, I'll get it." The young master returned a moment later with a small box. He took it to the coffee table and opened it. "Oh, it's Mrs. Allison's personal belongings from the night that she died." Pulling out a diamond choker, he examined the red specks on it. Returning it to the box, he commented, "According to the police, there were traces of red ink on the necklace, I wonder how she managed to do that." Unconsciously he swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"It is a shame," said Hobson rigidly. "I had no idea that madam was in such a state, I would have never left her alone that night."

"Despondent no doubt about her failing eye sight," mused Sebastian. "They found her glasses smashed on the roof, she had stepped on them before she jumped. Suicide leaves so many unanswered questions..."

"May I take a liberty, sir?" asked Hobson, discreetly drawing the young master's attention to a photo on the table beside him. "Is this a picture of you, sir? It so looks like you, but the clothing..."

"No, Hobson," smiled Sebastian, "that was my father. Everyone comments on how much alike we look. That picture was taken a long time ago, when he was about my age. He married my mother late in life, he was a good, hard working man, you remind me of him. He would have married sooner but the woman he proposed to turned him down. She preferred money to his love, but his memory must have haunted her because she remembered his only son in her will."

"Mrs. Allison was the lady, sir?"

"Yes," replied Sebastian. "My father had told me about it, I suppose by leaving her estate to me she was trying to make up for an old wrong." With a smile, Sebastian picked up the papers and the box. "What do you say, Hobson, should we finish packing? Our new home awaits us and it will be a welcomed change from this place."

"It is a beautiful home," agreed Hobson happily as he rose. "I would like to thank you, sir, for all you have done for me. My quarters at the mansion are exceptional, so much nicer than the little apartment I currently occupy and it will be delightful not to have to travel home every evening. As for the salary increase and the paying of the loan..." The older man reached for his handkerchief, losing his composure, another first.

"Now, now," smiled Sebastian, "it is nothing at all. After all, Hobson, if Mrs. Allison's demise has taught us anything it is that you can't take it with you."

Ten Seconds in an Elevator

Tick...

The stainless steel doors of the elevator had just kissed closed, joining to form a picture of the three people standing behind me. I had glanced at the man, now on my left, when I had stepped in, tall, bronze with Asian features, dark nervous eyes, his hand adjusting his tie. Obviously here on a job interview, I thought, would I see him every day. Tall, thin and nervous...

The man behind me and to my right is older, a regular rider, thin and pallid, hair thick and gray, movement wooden. He has worked here for years, a minor functionary, a petty tyrant, passed over and forgotten, here every day, same time every day, year in and year out, forgotten by those whom he most wanted to be remembered by.

Between them a woman, tall, sleek, dark suit, no jewelry, her hair is blue-black, her eyes brown, her face pretty but pale, her lips an even paler pink, almost lost in her pale face, pretty but vague, the contrast between the hair and skin too jarring, too severe. I hit the button for my floor and stared towards the doors. As the doors embraced I see the glint, the soft sparkle, the slightest, sharpest glimmer.

Tick...

My eyes focus on the glint reflected in the door, in the polished surfaces of the cold, gray steel. Resting just to the left of the line that marks the eternal separation between the doors, the impenetrable barrier of their separateness, it is no reflection of the ceiling light, no reflection of a pin or diamond, no necklace or bangle. Its position shows true on the polished door, shows true on the face in the center of the car, in that reflection split by the doors and their barrier. A single tear in the corner of familiar eyes, besides those eyes, a single tear.

Tick...

They don't know. The gruff, forgotten functionary who holds his unremembered post, whose life runs with the precision of a clock he hates, that ages him and reminds him of the time wasted doesn't know. And the other, little more than a boy, nervously hoping to start his career, desperate to make the first impression, to convey what he doesn't believe, to show experience he doesn't have and claims to possess, he doesn't know.

The tear rests just outside the corner of the eye, just beyond the edge, holding desperately to the corner like a child afraid to come down a slide, perched and pitiful and helpless.

Tick...

Her eyes, the familiar eyes, on either side of the great divide separating the polished doors, the eyes behind the tear and the pale, porcelain skin, the eyes familiar and yet strange, the eyes a contradiction. Yes, familiar, yes, warm, yes, sad, but also manic, also burning, burning with anger, burning with hatred, hatred of something loved and lost. Not lost, no, but discarded, destroyed, something precious but not protected and now the delicacy has turned sharp, the delicacy has splintered and shattered and has become razor sharp.

Tick...

Eyes stare into the doors on either side of the line and I see the movement, just beginning but unstoppable and resolute. The eyes do not betray the movement, a separate thing, it is automatic, fixed in the mind behind those familiar eyes, fixed and unyielding. Yes, the movement sweeps through the divide, the movement of the hand leaps from one side to the other, effortless grace, smooth, subtle gracious motion. Beneath the jacket slides the hand, slips beneath and in, close to the body, between the curves of the chest and waist and still they don't know.

Tick...

The hair! My brain screams the realization, my brain bellows the thought in a strange panic, like a man emerging from a forest to plunge over a cliff realizing his peril, it is the hair! The hair is not hers, it does not belong but the hair that does is hidden beneath it, the golden hair that reflects the light, that shines and forms the halo that surrounds her delicate features, features made at once hard and vague by the darkness that caps them now, it is the hair!

Involuntarily I think back, a flood of thought envelops me, those features, that hair, my pursuit, her evasion and still the hand moves, it twists slightly in that delicate space, the motion fluent, smooth, the motion velvet.

Tick...

How I longed for her, how I long for her still, how I have sought her. It took time, so much time, too much time, until finally we spoke. We spoke, never here amongst careless ears and knowing eyes, never here. The day I first saw her, I feared she was just a visitor, just here to see a friend, a vision of a day to be lost forever in the labyrinth of city streets and city friendships. No, she worked here and my heart soared, she worked in this building, this monolith of steel and glass, of petty rivalries and corporate hatreds and I pursued her, clumsily no doubt, awkwardly, but relentlessly. She laughed at my awkwardness, laughed at my stammering admissions, smiled at my naive hopes.

And still, they don't know, don't see the movement as it reversed course, gathering speed, its reflection mirrored by the polished doors, they don't know.

Tick...

Friendship, friendship only and then that friendship died, both of us wanting more, needing more, but never the same more. For me, I wanted more of those eyes, more of the perfection I saw in those features, now vague and hard in the reflection, now hiding and damped down, brilliant only from the tear that glitters and hangs tenaciously, hung like the functionary to its post, passed its usefulness, passed its tour. For her, the desire for more than I could give, more than she could get, wanting more, not needing, but wanting, until want turned to need and friendship died, killed by a desire for things.

Still they don't know, the tall nervous man's hand fidgeting with his tie, bracing himself, steeling himself to be what he's not and the functionary scowling, dark pouches forming altars for his angry, cold, unfeeling eyes, staring out on the unfeeling reality he serves, his own creation forgetting him, his own truth rejecting him. Still they don't know, neither knows.

Tick...

The tear's diamond sparkle is no longer alone in the reflections of the polished doors. A new glitter extends from her hand; a glitter made longer and thinner by the fluid motion, but no less razor-sharp than the blade it reflects.

I begin to turn, but it is too late, the impact is the same as when I first saw her, the impact mocks my memory, sudden, violent, sharp, and warm. I feel the warm blood oozing down my neck and down the side of my face as I twist towards her, as the blood spurts from the opening. I catch a glimpse of the Asian man/boy's face contort, his bravado ripped from him, his mask destroyed. I see his scream before I hear it; see the shock, the terrified animal shock as the scream echoes in the confined space. Now he knows, he will never forget what he now knows.

Tick...

I grasp her now, I hold her as we gently slide to the floor, entwined, two feathers from the wing of a fallen angel, interlocked and drifting towards the floor. The polished doors retreat, spreading the impassable barrier wide as the Asian boy/man's screams terrify the crowd awaiting the elevators arrival in the lobby.

I hold her still; hold her tight, not as I prayed to hold her, not as I longed to hold her in passions embrace, in lover's arms, entwined and unbreakable. I hold her tight until they come, until the police arrive and hold her fast, until they see the functionary on the floor, his lies of more silenced, her knife firmly sheathed in his heart. The echoing scream still pierces my ear as her want for more still pierces my heart and the polished steel doors reflect glitter no more, hiding across the expanded divide, rejecting what their mirrored surface so recently revealed.

The Common Thread

In Old Mill Basin, Brooklyn, New York hidden down a long street, surrounded by quiet homes occupied by middle class families there stands a series of three large stone buildings protected by a low stone wall. Whether the wall was built to secure the residents from wandering out or the neighbors from wandering in is unknown, but the wall does a poor job of both since the neighbors come most mornings and every Sunday to pray with the inhabitants in the beautiful Church of Our Lady, the tallest and grandest of the three stone buildings.

To the right of the Church stands another building created of the same brownish stone as the Church. The building is slightly shorter and slightly wider and hosts a retreat center and youth center and finally, to its left and just behind the Church stands the beautiful, old, Passionist monastery of St. Paul of the Cross. Flowing outward behind the Church like a stone lake, the monastery appears lower than either of its two cousins but three times wider. People come occasionally to the monastery door, seeking prayers or comfort or bringing light and laughter depending upon the circumstances, for though the monastery is mostly a quiet place, it is a living one. A knock on the door produces Brother Edmund who politely asks you to enter and have a seat in a large, warm foyer area.

A surprising number of people still come, seeking out the monastery's library and after a short wait; Brother Edmund leads them quietly down the long hallway that extends passed the rear of the foyer to a door at the very end of the hall. The door itself is solid, dark and inconspicuous, the word LIBRARY printed in white lettering on a plate of black slate.

Opening the door for the first time, most people are surprised by the enormous room filled with orderly books and orderly tables and at the number of students and scholars sitting quietly, absorbed in their work.

In the back of the library you would find the librarian seated at a plain wooden desk, his bald head bowed, either in prayer or to read, his white beard caressing gently the top of his all black robe with the white heart and cross on the left breast. The robe is filled out in such a manner as to confess that, despite his age, the occupant is a sturdy specimen. Looking up, his narrow face and bright blue eyes make one feel a certain closeness to the man even before he speaks.

"Brother Ditmas, we have a problem."

Brother Ditmas' bright eyes revealed a slight surprise as he rose to his superiors call. He stood, stroking his beard absent mindedly and smiling at the two men who stood before him. As the chief librarian for the monastery there are seldom any emergencies for him to deal with other than finding a missing book, a situation that surely would never cause his superior's urgent tone.

His superior, Brother Christopher, is a man in his mid forties with thinning blonde hair and an easy smile who gives one the impression of a retired surfer rather than of a man who has dedicated his life to God.

Gesturing towards a young man standing to his left, he continued, "I want you to meet a friend of mine, brother. This is Thomas Parker."

"God's peace be with you, Mister Parker," replied Ditmas, taking the young man in at a glance.

Mister Parker appeared to be about twenty five years old with neat brown hair and sad brown eyes. Sensing a feeling of desperation about the young man, he gestured both men towards the seats opposite his desk.

"Our young friend needs our help," explained Brother Christopher, taking a seat. "He stands to inherit his uncle's estate, but he must first satisfy the terms of his late uncle's will."

"I beg pardon, Brother Superior," interrupted Ditmas politely, "but perhaps it would be better to speak to Brother Matthew. He was an attorney before finding his calling."

Brother Christopher smiled, "Legalities are not our problem, brother."

"There is no doubt about the legality of my uncle's will," explained Thomas, his anxious eyes examining Ditmas doubtfully, "I was hoping Brother Christopher could help me to satisfy its terms."

"I take it that your uncle's estate is worth a considerable sum," replied Ditmas softly.

"His estate is worth about one hundred million dollars," replied Thomas, embarrassed by the figure. "The will states that based upon the clues found in this poem," he continued, handing a sheet of paper to Ditmas, "I must choose a statue from among the ones in his reading room. If I make the right choice, the statue will contain the combination to his safe and I will inherit his estate."

"If he chooses wrongly, he gets nothing," added Brother Christopher. "I have known Thomas for years; his parents were great friends of mine from my college days. His Uncle Edward became Thomas' guardian after they both died in a car crash when Thomas was just twelve."

Brother Ditmas stroked his beard, his eyes narrowing as he read the poem

***

From niches alone, though images abound,

add only glass, though crowded walls surround.

My fortune inherit, its founder dead,

seek amongst these things, the common thread.

***

"I don't want the money just for myself, Brother Ditmas," stated Thomas. "I opened a center for underprivileged children. It is called Lifechance..."

"I knew your name sounded familiar. I have heard of both you and your organization. From what I have read, there is wonderful work being done," stated Ditmas.

"Lifechance is in a bad way financially," continued Thomas. "Without Uncle Edward's money, we may have to close our doors."

With a nod, Ditmas retrieved a magnifying glass from his desk draw and examined the paper. After a moment, he regarded Thomas, "Perhaps you could endeavor to describe your uncle's reading room to me."

"My uncle collected miniature statues," Thomas began. "The reading room is filled with miniature copies of all sorts of sculptures, some are reproductions of famous works, others just struck his fancy. There was no real rhyme or reason to what he collected, as far as I can tell, he bought anything that intrigued him. The room contains easily a hundred of them, I'm afraid that there are so many, I can't recall all of them..."

"Would it be possible to see the room?" asked Ditmas.

"The will required that the reading room be locked immediately following Uncle Edward's death," stated Thomas. "Mr. Sauer, that's his attorney, will open it tomorrow once the witnesses and I are prepared to enter."

"Forgive me, Brother Superior," stated Ditmas, "but without seeing the clues the poem points to, I am afraid that I can offer no opinion."

"Are you allowed to bring other people with you, Thomas?" asked Brother Christopher.

"They never said I couldn't," replied Thomas, "but I would have to ask Mr. Sauer to make sure."

"Perhaps it would be best if we went with you tomorrow," stated Brother Christopher. "Even if they do not allow us in with you, I don't think you should go through this ordeal alone."

Thomas nodded, "I would appreciate that, Brother Christopher."

"Very well, what time should we be waiting for you?"

"About eight o'clock?" asked Thomas.

"We'll be ready," replied Brother Christopher. The two men rose, wishing Brother Ditmas a good evening.

Thomas followed Brother Christopher out of the library and back down the corridor. "Tell me, Brother Christopher, what makes you think he can help me? Please don't misunderstand me; he seems like a very nice man, but...well he seemed like a pretty ordinary librarian."

"Brother Ditmas has certain talents. He may not be overly impressive on the senses, but I assure you, if anyone can untie a riddle, he is your man," replied Brother Christopher, accompanying his young charge to the monastery door. "Even if he is not able to help us, Thomas, we must remember to trust in God's will and accept His ways."

"I don't mean any disrespect, Brother, but what if he can't help me? If I don't find the combination, all the money goes to Mr. Sauer's firm. What if he won't let you into the room with me?"

"Then we will pray for you while you search for your answer. Amazing things have been known to happen due to prayer." Opening the door, he smiled, "Until tomorrow."

***

Daylight broke across a warm, lazy day as Brother Christopher and Brother Ditmas climbed into Thomas' car. Taking his place in the front seat, Brother Christopher said cheerfully, "Good morning, Thomas. Did you manage to get any sleep last night?"

"Not much," admitted Thomas, watching Ditmas ease himself into the back seat. "Good morning, Brother Ditmas."

"Good morning, Thomas." Brother Ditmas smiled momentarily at the morning sun before turning his attention to Thomas. "I took the liberty of doing some research regarding your Uncle Edward last night, Thomas. From what I read in the papers, he was quite an accomplished attorney, but perhaps you could fill us in a bit more on what type of man was he?"

Thomas laughed, "If you've read the papers, Brother, you know that Uncle Edward was accomplished in everything he did, a great intellectual and a tireless worker. Still, he was the type of man for whom there was no room for sentiment. He used to tell me, "Thomas, cowards hide in grey areas. Right is right and wrong is wrong and a man should not make excuses." He was an honest man but he was never what you might call affectionate. Don't misunderstand me, he was always very good to me and even though he was disappointed in the path I chose and would never contribute to Lifechance, he was always very generous to me personally. When my parents died I always knew he was watching out for me. I know he wanted what was best for me."

Thomas maneuvered through the morning traffic, happy to be focused on anything other than his big choice. "I think in a way, he felt that he had failed with me."

Brother Christopher perked up. "But how? You graduated from Harvard at the head of your class; you never caused him any embarrassments, never got into any trouble..."

"He was afraid that I would turn out to be like my Dad," replied Thomas. "I guess I've inherited a lot of my Dad's outlook on life. Uncle Edwards was very much a bottom line type of guy, but my Dad and I, well I guess we were always more inclined to go with our hearts. Uncle Edward and Dad had a very complicated relationship and I think some of that got incorporated into his dealings with me. To Uncle Edward, business was an intellectual exercise, feelings didn't enter into it."

"Interesting," stated Brother Ditmas softly as he turned his attention back to the world beyond the car windows.

Thomas parked the car in front of an opulent townhouse in an exclusive part of Manhattan. The front door opened before they knocked, revealing a gaunt giant impeccably dressed in a gray suit. Dull green eyes peered down at the three men from the peak of a long nose. The gentleman's bald head reflected the powerful light of an enormous chandelier standing at the foot of a grand staircase lurking in the foyer behind him.

"Brother Christopher, Brother Ditmas, this is Uncle Edward's attorney, Mister Sauer."

Sauer acknowledged the two men with a nod. "The witnesses are upstairs, Mister Parker. We have been waiting for you."

Clearing his throat, Thomas responded, "Would it be all right if Brother Christopher and Brother Ditmas joined us in the reading room?"

Sauer gave the two men a glance, "I cannot imagine what purpose that would serve, but there is no stipulation against it."

"Thank you, Mister Sauer."

"If we could begin," replied Sauer briskly. Leading the four men across the foyer, they climbed the ornate staircase and made their way down a short corridor to their left. At the end of the hall stood three people regarding the approaching men with an air of aloof boredom.

"Your uncle's will states that this exercise must be observed by three of his closest associates and for that reason, I have engaged the help of Mister Jonathan Finch, one of your uncle's business partners, Miss Veronica Singleton, his long time secretary and Mister Vernon Limely, his accountant. These two gentlemen will assist Mister Parker in making his selection; this is Brother Christopher and Brother Ditmas."

After the group exchanged greetings, Mr. Sauer continued. "You will have two hours, Mister Parker. At the end of that time, you must make a decision as to which of your uncle's statues contains the combination. Your choice will be final. Once you have handed the statue to me, I will break it open using that hammer." Sauer pointed to a large mallet lying on a sideboard in the hallway. "You may touch or examine any piece in the study, but if you or your assistants drop any of them that will be considered your choice and regardless of what it does or does not contain, the provisions of the will are to be enforced. Do I make myself clear?" Thomas acquiesced with a nod. "Very well, each of us will take a seat in a corner of the room. You may speak to your assistants, but do not attempt to engage any of the observers in conversation. Are you ready?"

"Yes," replied Thomas.

Unlocking the door, Sauer motioned the three observers into the room followed by Thomas, Brother Christopher and Brother Ditmas. Each observer took a seat in one of the rooms corners. Sauer checked his watch, "The clock officially begins...now."

Brother Christopher and Thomas walked in opposite directions, inspecting each layer of the shelving that surrounded them. Breaking the silence, Brother Christopher asked to see the poem again, a copy of which Thomas produced.

Moving deliberately to the center of the room, Brother Ditmas surveyed each wall slowly. Shelves rose from floor to ceiling on all sides accept on the wall opposite the doorway. This outer wall held an enormous stained glassed window of Saint Thomas Aquinas through which the morning sun gave the room a rainbow hue.

Turning, Brother Ditmas observed the wall to the left of the window. Shelves covered the entire wall accept for a niche located about three feet from the ceiling and in the center of the shelves. From the niche a larger than life bust of Homer's Ulysses stared down at him. On each of the surrounding shelves from the floor to the ceiling were multiple statues of famous military leaders ranging from the ancient Greeks to modern times, both fictional and real.

Moving to face the door, Ditmas inspected the statues grouped on those shelves. Directly above the doorway, in a niche identical to the one that held Ulysses was a bust of Stan Laurel, manic grin and trusty bowler firmly in place. The shelves cascading down on either side of the doorway were graced with a collection of comedian and clown statues, many brightly colored and in various positions and groupings.

Turned to the wall to his right, Ditmas observed that it was the identical twin of the wall to the left of the window, except that from its central niche stared down an angry bust of Beethoven. Sculptures of famous composers lined the shelves from ceiling to floor. Ditmas moved slowly taking stock of the rest of the room.

Eight overstuffed chairs, each with its own small table, provided the reading room's only furnishings. Four of the chairs resided in the corners and were occupied by the observers. Each small table hosted a miniature statue as well as a reading lamp. At Mr. Finch's elbow, a copy of Michelangelo's David, next to Miss Singleton, a bust of Mercury, besides Mr. Limely, a copy of the Venus De Milo and next to Mr. Sauer, a statue of a dragon. The four remaining chairs sat roughly in a circle in the center of the room, each with a table, a lamp and a statue by it. Next to one sat a bust of George Washington, next to another, Rodin's Thinker, the third sported a sculpture of two dolphins leaping out of the water and finally, a bust of Abraham Lincoln.

Ditmas picked up the statue of the dolphins, holding it gingerly for a moment before returning it to its table.

"Do you think it is the dolphins, Brother Ditmas?" asked Thomas hopefully.

"I doubt that they contain what we are looking for, but it is a delightful piece."

"Do you have any idea of what "the common thread" is, Brother?" asked Brother Christopher.

"A most intriguing puzzle," replied Ditmas, stroking his beard, "but like most puzzles, it seems to fit together properly in only one way."

"There are so many statues here..." began Thomas.

"Thankfully your uncle did not instruct us to seek the common thread amongst all of them," stated Ditmas. "Remember, "from niches alone, though images abound, add only glass, though crowded walls surround..." Our first clue is that the statues in the niches and the figure in the glass are to be our guides in finding the common thread. They must form the basis for our conclusion."

Thomas and Brother Christopher examined the three niches and then the window. "Ulysses, Stan Laurel, Beethoven and Saint Thomas Aquinas," Thomas stated. "I don't see a connection."

"They must have something in common," stated Brother Christopher.

"All right," said Thomas softly, "what have we got? A warrior, a composer, half of a comic duo and a Catholic saint, what do they have in common?"

Brother Christopher smiled, "They're all men."

Thomas eyed the copy of the statue of David. "Many people consider Michelangelo's work to be the idealized man..."

"I am afraid I must disagree," interrupted Ditmas. "While all four are men, strictly speaking the David of Michelangelo's statue is just a boy."

"What else could they have in common?" groped Thomas. "Perhaps they were born under the same sign." Looking at the dragon sculpture, he continued, "Maybe they were all born in the year of the dragon?"

"A possibility," drawled Ditmas, "but unlikely. First, historians have never been able to establish if there ever was truly a warrior Ulysses. If, as we believe, Ulysses was born of a man's imagination, his date of birth would be hard to authenticate. With no way of verifying your choice, it would amount to little more than a guess. I think your uncle set up this exercise expecting a little more from you."

"You think that his uncle was trying to make some kind of point through this puzzle?" asked Brother Christopher.

"Brother Superior, the point of this exercise is not, in my opinion, the inheritance, but rather, what his uncle perceived as a lack of inheritance. This puzzle is about what your uncle wanted for you, Thomas, not about your wants or indeed, about the money." Pointing towards each in turn, Ditmas continued, "Let us turn our attention to the clues. Saint Thomas Aquinas, saint yes, but also a writer, philosopher and teacher as well. Long admired as a genius, his work is still being grappled with by the most brilliant minds."

"Next we come to Beethoven, innovator, creator and musical genius. A deaf man whose music is almost other worldly, an innovator so great that all subsequent music can be traced back, in some way, to his work."

"Ulysses, the hero, but a very particular type of hero, especially in Greek mythology; if you will remember, Ulysses rarely overpowered an opponent, unlike a Hercules or an Achilles. No, Ulysses was the first hero of the intellect. He outwitted his opponents, he planned, he tricked, he out thought others. Of all of the Greek heroes, he perhaps understood man's follies the best."

"Finally, Stan Laurel. On screen he played a simpleton, but in fact he is universally acknowledged as one of the most gifted and clever comedians who ever lived. He wrote most of the duo's best remembered work, a comedian's comedian, the ultimate clown, recognized by his peers as a comic genius."

Ditmas moved slowly to the other side of the room, "The final clue came on the ride over. You stated that your uncle frowned upon your tendency to listen to your heart, a disappointing similarity that you shared with your father. I believe this exercise is an old lawyer's last attempt to win an argument. It has been said, Thomas, that great minds think alike and in some instances that is true." Picking up the statue of Rodin's Thinker, he handed it to Thomas, "While all great minds may or may not think alike, all great minds think. That is the common thread."

Thomas held the statue a moment. Turning to Mr. Sauer, he stating firmly, "This I my choice."

"Are you sure?" asked Sauer, "You still have quite a bite of time left."

"I am sure." The reply left no room for doubt.

Signaling the other observers, Sauer ushered the group out into the hall. Placing the statue on the sideboard, he picked up the hammer and with a glance at Thomas, shattered the statue with one blow. Amongst the rubble, a crumpled piece of paper emerged. Retrieving the paper, Mr. Sauer and Thomas moved down the hall towards his uncle's office while the others waited in the hall.

"This is all very interesting," stated Mr. Limely in a hushed whisper.

"I hope that you are correct," clucked Miss Singleton.

"It is my hope as well, but it is all in God's hands," replied Ditmas.

Further discussion was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Sauer at the office door. With Thomas behind him, he approached the group wearing the same dour expression he had worn all morning. Clearing his throat, he began, "In accordance with the conditions of the will of the late Edward Parker, his nephew Thomas Parker has become his sole beneficiary." Extending his hand to Thomas, he continued sourly, "My congratulations."

A polite murmur arose from the group, each in turn offering their congratulations to Thomas. Clasping hands with Brother Christopher, Thomas whispered, "Thank you, Brother Christopher, for being Dad's friend and mine."

"I really didn't do much," smiled Brother Christopher. "Brother Ditmas was the one who solved the puzzle."

"Thank you, Brother Ditmas," said Thomas, grasping the older man's hand warmly.

"It was my pleasure to be of assistance to you and the children, Thomas." replied Ditmas.

"A most remarkable conclusion, Brother," stated Limely.

"I would never have thought that a man in your line of work would have every come to the conclusion that thought was the answer," drawled Mr. Sauer with a smile.

"Men in my line of work do a great deal of thinking, Mister Sauer. To paraphrase the great Archbishop Fulton Sheen, the senses lead to reason and reason leads to faith." Ditmas picked up the smile that Mister Sauer had earlier lost, "It makes sense, I assure you, Mister Sauer. Just think about it."

### Talk to Me

Joe isn't just my boss, he's my friend. If it weren't for Joe, I probably wouldn't even have a job. Joe kept me when no one else would have. See, I'm not the smartest guy in the world, I made a lot of mistakes, especially in the beginning, but Joe never got mad at me. He always took me to the side and talked to me. After a while I got to be one of the best forklift guys in the whole warehouse thanks to Joe.

Joe read a lot and he was always explaining stuff to us. He's smart; it's like he knows everything. Some people just give you answers, they can't be bothered explaining things, but not Joe; he would ask you questions and make you figure it out. He made you think. He cared about us, he always wanted us to be better men and all the guys in the warehouse, we cared about Joe too.

One day, as we were unloading a truck, the owner came down to the warehouse. The old man never came to the warehouse unless there was a problem. He never talked to us; never had anything to say to anyone but the guys in suits who worked on the sales floor. He went into Joe's office and closed the door. I didn't think much about it until Tony came over.

Tony is the nervous type and he talks real fast. "I think they're trying to get rid of Joe. I think the old man's looking to fire him."

"No one's getting rid of Joe," I said, "he's the best guy they got working here. Someone probably put something wrong on one of the trucks and the old man is giving him hell about it."

"Joe's getting old," Tony sputtered. "They hate you gettin' old. They always try to get rid of guys before you're ready to retire." Tony licked his lips, "You watch! The old man never comes down here and stays in the office that long. Nothing good is gonna come of this, I'm telling you."

I waved Tony off and got back to work, but what he said gnawed at me. Later I asked Joe about it, but he said it was nothing to worry about, just business. I tried to forget it, but as the week dragged on the old man kept coming down. He started talking to us guys and that's when I knew Tony was right. He kept telling us how good Joe was and what a great job he had been doing for such a long time. We call it "the funeral speech" because you have to be dead before they say anything good about you. Now they were saying nice things about Joe. We all knew what it meant, even me.

***

Joe wasn't gone a week before the old man brought that woman down. None of us had come to grips with Joe leaving yet and here's the old man showing her Joe's office and saying, "and this is where you'll be working, little lady..." None of us could believe it, a woman boss in the warehouse. Roger, another guy I work with, knows one of the guys in human resources and found out that the old man was in some kind of trouble because he didn't have any women bosses working for him. So the people who hire people did what everybody in the world does, they made their problem somebody else's problem. They made it our problem.

I didn't hate her right away. I was just going to do my job and keep my nose clean, you know, not make any trouble, but she wouldn't let me. She was one of those women who wants to be a man. She acted the way she thought a man would act but you knew she'd never met a nice guy in her life. The man she was didn't do any laughing or kidding around, the type of guy she was is grim and miserable. She felt we weren't real men if we weren't miserable too. Pretty soon, none of us wanted to go to work anymore.

With Joe it was different; we all knew we had lousy jobs, we all knew we'd end up with a nothing pension, scraping by on social security, that life was never going to be easy, but with Joe you could pretend you didn't know, you'd laugh at life and get on with it. With that woman, you couldn't pretend anything; she threw our lives in our faces. She made us think about it all the time, every minute of every day.

It was an accident. I had picked up the pallet and was maneuvering it towards the truck, talking to Lou and she stepped out in front of me. I never saw her till the last minute, it was her fault, not mine, but she was never wrong. She started screaming at me in front of everyone, the guys, the customers, everyone. She could have taken me to the side, like Joe used to, could have told me, "be more careful, watch it," but she didn't. I felt like crawling under a rock and dying. The other guys might not be too smart either, but they aren't mean. They made light of it, told me to forget about it, but I couldn't forget it. I thought about it and kept thinking about it. My head and my body ached from thinking about it. I decided to go see Joe after work that day.

I'd known Joe was sick for a while, nothing you could put your finger on, but every since he'd left the job, he just didn't look right. He was alone now, he had no kids and his wife had passed away a few years ago, so I'd stop by from time to time and check up on him. I'd go with some beer and knock on the door and he'd invite me in to his "parlor", that's what Joe called his living room. We'd have a few beers and it was like old times. We'd laugh at life and the crummy deal we'd gotten ourselves and suddenly life wasn't so bad anymore.

That day I knocked but he didn't answer the door. I pushed the door open and found him lying on the floor, his one arm flapping like a fish on a pier. The stroke didn't kill him, but he couldn't talk and he could only move his right arm a little. I'd visit him in his room at the nursing home and he'd sit in his wheelchair, looking out the window. I'd clean his drooping, drooling face, look hard into his eyes and talk to him. I could see he wanted to talk back, but he couldn't, he just couldn't.

I'd tell Joe about that woman, about the yelling and how everyone hated her, but anything Joe could say was locked inside of him. I sometimes wondered if I should stop telling him stuff, but somehow I knew that even if he couldn't talk, he wanted to listen.

One day I'd been there a while and I was telling him about the time she stepped in front of me again. I couldn't get it out of my mind, looking up at the ceiling, trying to keep my voice steady and not get too angry when suddenly, Joe moved a little. I looked and he was sweating, his eyes were closed and he was turning red. I got scared, thought he was having another stroke, so I got up and called the nurse. Then it hit me.

It felt like someone laid into me with a metal pipe to the back of my head. It was inside though, bouncing around inside my head so hard that it knocked me off my feet. I fell back into the chair next to Joe, afraid I was having a stroke too. It was Joe's voice, but it wasn't coming from outside my head, it was coming from inside! It was loud and it kept repeating the same phrase over and over;

"Finish the job, finish the job, finish the job..."

I held my head for a long time before I could get my bearings. Joe was out cold and he had sweat through his shirt. I couldn't believe it; Joe had found a way to talk to me. I called the nurse again and she finally showed up. We cleaned Joe up and got him back into bed, the nurse yelled at me all the time for "overtaxing" him. She told me not to come back for a few days, that Joe needed to rest and if he didn't he might die. I got scared, I grabbed my coat and left.

"Finish the job, finish the job, finish the job..." why would he say that? It made no sense as far as I could tell, but it kept repeating over and over again in my head. I heard it as I left the hospital and went out into the night and I heard it as I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. I remembered it as I moved boxes and unloaded trucks the next day and I heard it, day after day, over and over in my head. I didn't understand it but knew that, for some reason, I needed to know it.

The next day the woman barked at me to get my forklift. For a moment I forgot the chant, her voice driving it out of my mind for a minute. When it came back, it hit me harder than the first time, like it was angry at me for having forgotten it for that one moment. It was pounding in my head and banging against my skull like a jack hammer against a sidewalk. Suddenly, it made sense. It was as plain as if Joe had just explained it to me. If I had killed her it would have been an accident and my problems would have been over. She stepped out in front of me, the guys would say so, it wasn't my fault. All I had to do was finish the job.

I jumped on my forklift and swung it around, scooping up the pallet of 55 gallon drums she had pointed out to me in one smooth motion. I pulled back on the shift that caused the forks to lift as if I were trying to rip it out of the drive panel. Then I twisted the wheel, spinning the load around and positioned it over her head. Men got hurt in the warehouse all the time because forklifts dropped something on them, sometimes they even died. Something stopped me. It was wrong, somehow it was wrong.

She didn't deserve a man's death; she didn't deserve to be crushed and trampled like us. She wasn't a man and she never would be, no matter how hard she tried. She glanced over her shoulder, never realizing the danger. She just started barking orders again, completely unaware. I realized then that the chanting had stopped; it was all quiet in my head. I felt tired, but Joe had made his point.

I spent the next week watching her, looking for a clue, any clue to show me what was different about her. The trouble was she never acted like a woman around us, she hated being a woman. I was thinking about that one day when she walked passed me and went upstairs. She had to go up onto the sales floor because there was only a men's room in the warehouse. Somehow it made sense now; I understood what I needed to do.

First, I needed information. I decided to ask Sheri some questions; she would be able to give me answers. I had to be careful, but she would tell me, I knew she would.

You probably think a guy like me doesn't know any woman. Sheri is a woman, but she isn't a lady, if you understand. For a fee, she'll be your girlfriend for the night. I'm not proud of it, I know it's wrong, but when the lights are out, everyone does stuff their not proud of, it's what the dark is for. When the lights come back on, she takes your money and leaves you more alone then you were before and you spend the rest of the night trying not to feel bad about having had to call her in the first place.

I could tell that Sheri was uncomfortable, it was the first time I'd called her over and asked her to talk. She was a bit antsy until I showed her my money and then she settled down and answered my questions. Joe had told me once that women like Sheri had to do certain things not to have kids. I don't know much about how women's parts work, but Sheri explained it to me. She explained that there were pills to take and other pills if those didn't work. That was what I wanted, I wanted the other pill.

I asked her where she got them from and she said she had a connection that got them for her. I lied and told her that I had gotten a girl into some trouble and that I needed those pills. She laughed. She said she knew I was lying but she knew that as bad as I lie, she could still trust me. She asked me how many pills I needed and I guessed.

"Five, just to be sure."

She laughed, "Five? How knocked up is she? You'll kill her if you give her all five idiot. I don't know what your game is and I don't care, lie all you want, just as long as you've got the money."

She named a price and I said okay. Two days later she showed up at my door with a crumpled napkin with 5 pills in it. She shook her head when I handed her the money and then, like always, she just left.

I'm kind of a people watcher; I notice other people's habits. Take coffee, for instance. Most people drink coffee in the morning, but the woman never touched coffee in the morning. Every day, like clockwork, she had two cups of coffee with her lunch. I never said nothing about it, other than me, who cared, but I noticed.

Nervous Tony comes in early every day. He stops off for his coffee and bagel, buys the paper and then opens up. That day, he opened the door and was on his way to the warehouse when he saw the woman lying on the floor.

"She was lying there," Tony said, all nervous and scared, "and there was blood everywhere. I touched her, she felt cold. I called the cops right away and I got a tarp and threw it over her. I didn't know what else to do."

The firemen came first, then the ambulance and then the cops but they couldn't do much by then. They taped off the store with that yellow police tape and they asked everyone questions, especially Tony. He never had his bagel and coffee that morning, never got to read his paper.

When the old man got there he told us to go home, he was closing us down for the day. I didn't go home, I went to see Joe. I hadn't seen him since he had talked to me and I was proud of myself for having figured out his message. I went to his room and found him sitting there, looking droopy like normal. I got a wash cloth and cleaned his face and told him.

"It took me a while to understand, Joe, but I did it, just like you wanted me too. I made sure she didn't die like a man, too. She died like a woman, Joe, I made sure she died like a woman."

Joe got a queer look in his eyes; he stared at me hard and began to turn red again. I got up, his look scared me, I thought it was another stroke, I didn't know what to do.

***

I'm sitting in Joe's room still, my head in my hands. I guess I have kind of a thick skull and maybe that's why when Joe "talks" to me it hurts so much and he gets so tired. It must be hard work to get his words into my head. The nurse is angry with me, Joe's wringing wet and slumped over again.

"He was doing so well until you showed up," she keeps screaming over and over. "I'm going to tell the doctor, I'll see that they never let you in here again!" I hear her in the background, her words sound far away. My head is ringing with Joe's words; they're ricocheting around my skull like a bullet in a brass bell. I just keep holding my head, glad for once that I don't have any thoughts of my own. I know that for the first time Joe is mad at me, I can hear it in his voice. His angry words keep repeating over and over again, "Not her, me! Not her, me! Not...."

### The Fourteen Stairs

"Do you have to go out?" asked Mrs. Phelan softly, pulling her ivory colored shawl snuggly around her shoulders.

"Come now, dear," smiled Mr. Phelan, tapping her shoulder affectionately. "The girl is here and it's only for a few hours. You are the one who said I should get a little part time job to keep from being under foot."

"True," she murmured.

"It's only a few hours," he repeated, brushing a speck of lint from the arm of his jacket.

The young woman who was his wife's aide stepped up behind Mrs. Phelan's wheel chair, "Are you ready to go in now, Mrs. Phelan?"

"Yes, take her inside," responded Mr. Phelan. "She looks a bit tired. I'll be back before you know it, dear." He stooped stiffly and kissed her cheek.

Mrs. Phelan watched as he descended the porch steps, his back as ramrod straight as when he had first left the academy. Pulling her through the front door, the aide noticed her patient's anxious air. 'How touching,' she thought, 'after all of those years to still care so much.' Drawing Mrs. Phelan into the house, she closed the door on the outside world.

The subway car held few people despite the early hour. The commuters filed on and off, all ignoring the dapper gentleman sitting stiffly by the center door. For his part, Mr. Phelan ignored them, lost in thought as the train pulled into his destination. Noisy scuffling and shouting on the platform caught his attention just as the doors opened. Stepping out onto the platform, Mr. Phelan surveyed the situation with a practiced eye, alert and ready. A crowd gathered to his left, surrounding several police officers engaged in some sort of activity.

Mr. Phelan made his way through the crowd until he found himself peering past a large policeman working crowd control.

"No closer please, sir, let's stay back folks..." the patrolman focused on Mr. Phelan's face, "Chief Inspector?"

Phelan responded with a tight smile, "Former Chief Inspector."

A sergeant walked up impatiently, "Polizzi, I want you to..." His face broke into a smile of recognition, "Chief Inspector Phelan, it's good to see you, sir."

"Sergeant Cannon, good to see you as well. What have you got going on here?"

"Another shooting," stated Cannon good naturedly. "We've got the man in custody."

"Well, it's nice to know you wasted no time," replied Phelan.

"Polizzi, get those people out of here," stated Cannon, pointing at a cluster of spectators.

"Come on folks, it's not a museum," called out Polizzi, moving towards the group.

Alone with Phelan, Sergeant Cannon lowered his voice and asked discreetly, "May I ask how Mrs. Phelan is, sir?"

Phelan lowered his gaze, his voice appreciative, "Doing much better, Sergeant. Thank you for asking."

An awkward moment passed, "We miss you on the job, sir."

Phelan smiled, "I miss the job, but you get used to things. You cope."

Polizzi wandered back, "Should I call for some more help down here, sir?"

Cannon considered it, "We can handle it. Just keep them moving, the lab boys will be here shortly."

"Good luck, gentlemen," called out Phelan, already heading towards the stairs.

"Thank you, sir," replied Cannon, watching the proud figure glide upwards.

"He always seemed like a good guy," murmured Polizzi.

"It's a damn shame," spat Cannon.

"Twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight," murmured Phelan, climbing the steps to the street. "Twice too many..." It was funny how something so trivial sticks with you. Fourteen stairs: before the incident he never counted steps and now, he seemed to count them all the time. Odd habit to have picked up, but he was getting older, the mind changes even if, in the end, you never quite change your mind.

It was three short blocks to Dave Gray's Florist, a small shop dwarfed by the sky scrapers that dominated the dark, dead end street on which it stood. Phelan slowly opened the shop door, inhaling the smell of stale flowers and dust. Scanning the small shop, he noted the coating of dust on the displays; business wasn't good for Mr. Gray apparently. He closed the door with a thump and waited. A moment later an ill lit door behind the counter eased forward and a thin, bald man thrust himself into the room. A drooping brown mustache below a hooked nose sat prominently on his drawn face. Dull blue eyes peered at Phelan with a mixture of hatred and resignation.

"Dan," state Phelan by way of greeting.

"Inspector." The man's voice was worn and raspy. "Come to work today?"

Phelan smiled, "I'll need a dozen roses, Dan."

Dan jerked his head towards the door, "Got some in the back."

"Put them in a box, no card. Make it nice." Dan moved to comply. "Oh, and Dan...I worked until two this afternoon, should anyone ask."

"Might someone ask?"

Phelan leaned closer, "It's doubtful, highly doubtful, but if someone should ask, I worked until two."

Dan nodded noncommittally, "Was you here the whole time?"

Phelan nodded, "The whole time, Dan. I was with you the whole time."

Dan turned and touched the doorknob, but hesitated. "What if..."

"What if they found out about Jerry, Dan?" snapped Phelan. Dan stared at the door, eyes filled with hatred, "Now we wouldn't want anyone to know about Jerry, would we?"

Dan opened the door meekly, "Dozen roses, boxed, no card."

Phelan turned to look at the deserted street. He checked his watch; he had an hour before lunch. He could meet her and then try that new place on Fifth. She appeared to his mind's eye, blonde, blue eyed, always dressed in something subtly sexy, nothing overt mind you, but it was always there.

"This okay?"

He hadn't heard Dan return. He took the box and nodded, "Be seeing you, Dan."

"Yeah," replied Dan as Phelan reached the door, "looking forward to it."

Phelan checked his notebook, checked the address and then checked his watch. Plenty of time yet, the doctor wouldn't be in for at least forty five minutes more, he never needed much time. He crossed the street and headed up the next avenue, three blocks, four, five, turning at the sixth block and entering an older brick building. It was an old fashioned lobby, no doorman or security, just an old elevator with a brass plate and a big, black button.

Depressing the button, Phelan waited patiently for the doors to slide slowly and silently open. Entering the car, he depressed the button for the third floor. Exiting the elevator, he turned left, walking down the deserted hallway, past the door for Fazio's Imports, past the door for Neiman's Casting Agency and to the worn, brown door bearing the legend, Albert Roberts, Dentist. Phelan checked his watch, adjusted the rose box in the crook of his arm and pushed open the door.

The waiting room was empty. Behind a low lying desk he saw her busily thumbing through a stack of folders. She looked up at his approach and smiled a cold, insincere showing of perfect teeth.

"Doctor Roberts won't be in for another hour," she stated pleasantly, "may I help you?"

"I'm here to make a delivery," he announced, pulling out his little notebook from the pocket of his coat and examining it.

Her eyes fell on the box and her smile softened, "For me?"

"For Mrs. Ellen Gil," he replied, returning the notebook to his pocket.

"Whoever could these be from?" she asked knowingly, reaching for the box.

"Why from Greg, of course," he replied, shifting the box away from her.

"Do you know Greg?" she asked, made uneasy by his prompt reply.

Phelan smiled, "I know he isn't your husband."

She clutched her left hand in her right, instinctively covering her wedding ring, "What business is that of yours? Who are you?"

The subtle sexiness was gone, the playful vitality replaced by cold anger and calculating hardness. You could see it, the lies, the betrayals, the journey she'd taken up the fourteen stairs, the harsh desperation, the destructive, selfish desire. He dropped the rose box casually to the floor and reached into his coat, drawing out his nine millimeter pistol.

The first shot struck her in the left side of the chest. He saw the blood and saline begin to stain her blouse as the second shot took off the top of her head, the golden hair suddenly dyed crimson. A moment later, her perfect coiffeur lay tangled, matting as the blood drew it closer to the floor to mingle with the carpet.

Pulling out his handkerchief, Phelan picked up the box of flowers, examined it and quickly tucked it under his arm and went to the door. He opened the door using his handkerchief, wiped the outer knob, closed the door and wandered quietly down the hallway. He wondered if the place on Fifth had spaghetti, he could do with some good spaghetti.

***

Four stairs up to the porch and through the front door, as the aide stepped into the foyer from the living room and smiled prettily. She was a pretty young thing, very kind, very considerate.

"She's asleep, sir," she whispered. "You're home early."

He checked his watch. Despite his walk in the park and solitary lunch he had made it home about ten minutes earlier than normal.

"Caught a break with the trains," he whispered back.

"Can I put those in water for her?" asked the aide as she eyed the box.

"Yes, of course."

Handing her the box, he edged his way to the stairs and stiffened as he began his ascent. One, two, three, four...he remembered the call as if he had just received it. He had been at the scene of the Estamco Murder, talking to the next door neighbor when the call came. He was needed immediately, hand the investigation over to Wilkins and get over here immediately.

Eight, nine, ten...he paused. He remembered thinking it strange that they would pull him away from a homicide to the scene of an accident. He remembered pulling up to the place for the first time, a cheap, per hour motel just outside the city on interstate 95, the tall, good looking man, stripped to the waist, surrounded by angry cops, the ambulance...

Thirteen, fourteen...he stood at the top of the stairs watching the aide walk through the foyer absorbed in arranging the roses in the vase she carried. There had been an argument and somehow she had ended up at the bottom of the stairs. The medics spoke to him in hushed tones, her back was broken, paralyzed from the waist down, she would never walk again. The couple next door had heard the argument, had seen him pursue her to the top of the stairs, but did he push her? Did she slip? No one knew, no one had seen it happen...

Walking to his room, what had been their room, he remembered the face of the cops, the shame filled faces, the averted eyes, the murmured discussions that died the moment he approached. The Chief Inspector's wife at a place like that with another man, they all knew what it meant, even the rookies knew what it meant.

He remembered the speech two weeks later, his boss trying to be reasonable. There was morale to consider and the distractions from the bad publicity. The news wouldn't let up, they had to do something, he had to think of the department. He had his time in; it was the best way, best for them anyway. Suddenly, he was home, full time, preparing to care for the woman who had ceased caring for him.

Removing the gun, he put it on his bureau, pulled off his coat and tie and eased himself onto the bed. Alone in the house it hadn't taken him long to uncover her secrets, the letters, the phone records, the little mementos. Funny what you don't notice till you're all alone, waiting for the silence to begin.

His brothers in blue had harassed his tormentor into flight. They could never prove anything beyond an accident. Had she fallen, had she not, in the end, did it matter? She would never have the chance to walk out on him, or dance with him again, or glide through the house in that silent, soft, sexy way. They had withdrawn, retired, barricaded themselves in their hole and sunken out of sight. Seven days a week he would leave her and the aide downstairs and climb to his room, fourteen stairs to his room, the same number of stairs she had fallen down at the motel, his daily reminder, his daily, unending reminder, for the rest of his life, fourteen stairs.

When she came home, they never spoke of it, the incident, the accident, the truth, never spoke of it. It had happened and the silence trapped them both, the silence of no friends, the silence of no visitors, the silence of no trust.

He knew he was slowly going mad, cracked inside while maintaining the mask for the world to see. As madness approached, he remembered Dan. It had been his last week on the job and he had gone on a case just to consult and met Dan. Dan had murdered his partner, had killed him in cold blood and had made one mistake, ditching the gun without cleaning it. He had found the gun but had never turned it in, he would have turned it in but the call came. The gun sat in a safe deposit box with a note explaining what it was and how it had come to be there. A few times a week, Phelan stopped by the shop and told Dan his hours. Then he'd go back to the motel and sit in the parking lot across the street and watch. He would see the women meeting their other men and follow them home. He would use his skill and learn all about them, learn their secrets, learn their lies and then pay them back. He did it for every guy who had worked and slaved and tried to do his best and who would find out and be left asking himself why. He was their avenging angel, their seemingly random blessing. He would save others from his burden, save them from the fourteen stairs even if he could never free himself.

The aide knocked again and opened the bedroom door. "She's awake now and ready to eat."

Phelan nodded, "I'll be right down."

She closed the door softly and once he heard her footsteps on the stairs, he crossed the room to his bureau and began to change into his casual clothes. Leaving the room, he descended the stairs, at the bottom smiling to himself; he had not counted a single stair. He would be free of the habit for a day or two, the need to count them always lessened after he had avenged a husband, but it wouldn't last long. Before he knew it, he'd be back to counting and back to the motel again. He would return, he would go back to trying to kill what was killing him, if not for himself, than for everyone like him.

### The Visitor

His eyes looked blankly at the man standing at the foot of his bed, a painful time of searching memory and not finding any clue. Slowly the haze lifted, the smoke of confusion drifting from his mind like the fog from a river on a windless day. He stared hard, unsure of how to proceed, unsure of what to say.

"Good evening," said Alan kindly. "How are you feeling this evening?"

"Alan?" asked the old man. "It's Alan, right?"

Alan smiled, "Yes, it's Alan. How are you feeling?"

Ed smiled, the light in his eyes burning momentarily against the dementia that stole his memories.

"I feel pretty good," he stated finally. "I have trouble with my stomach sometimes, but not today. I ate good today, had chicken for dinner with some rice, I think. I think it was rice, it wasn't normal rice, like white or brown, it was that foreign rice that looks like seeds... I don't really like it but it's all they serve us here..." his eyes wandered to the edge of the room for a time before returning to Alan. "I had chicken tonight and rice."

"Did you have dessert?" asked Alan, glancing at his intravenous bag casually before returning his gaze to the weathered old face.

"No, I don't think so," replied Ed. "I like dessert. Ice cream, I like ice cream. My wife and I used to go for ice cream sundaes when we were courting, they were only a nickel and they really gave you a lot of ice cream back then, a lot of ice cream." He smiled at the memory. "She could never finish hers; I always had to help out. I used to tease her, "How can't you finish ice cream?" I would ask." He chuckled slightly. "I really like ice cream but I don't think they had it tonight. Maybe we had pudding. I'm not sure, I wouldn't remember pudding. Why would anyone remember pudding?"

Alan laughed as he eased out of his chair and came to stand next to the old man's bed. Gingerly, he sat just on the edge of the bed, taking Ed's withered, spotted hands into his own and examining them. "These did a lot of work, didn't they?"

Ed held his hands up, peering at them suspiciously.

"They look terrible now," he murmured. "They're all bent and twisted, but they used to be strong. I used to have muscles, you know, real muscles. I used to put in a fourteen hour day and think nothing of it, nothing at all. Now I can't even walk to the toilet without help, but when I was younger, I used to work all day long. Back in those days, they didn't have the machinery they have now, back in those days, we did everything by hand. You started off as an assistant, they would tell you, go get this, or go get that and you'd run and get it. Then when you had watched for a while, they would let you do something simple, a little patch of tile and they'd show you, you do it this way, you have to do this; don't forget that, that's how they taught you. You had to watch, if you didn't watch, you didn't learn anything and they got rid of you. It's not like today. Today they have classes for everything, everyone goes to classes, but it was different back then, the job site, that was your classroom, that's where you learned."

"You worked hard, didn't you?" asked Alan quietly.

"I worked fourteen hour days and half a day on Saturdays," replied Ed. "Fourteen hours a day and only a half hour lunch. On Saturdays, they called it a half a day, but old man Guidaro, he owned the flooring company, he'd make you stay until two o'clock, get there at six in the morning, stay till two o'clock in the afternoon. Half day my ass, he was a cheap bastard." The old man's face clouded with anger at the memory. "He told me I'd never make it on my own, told me no one would hire me if he didn't say so, but I did it anyway and we did fine. The first year was hard, I worked alone, but people knew I did good work. They knew. I put the tile in in the Church, Our Lady of Good Counsel Church, my wife and I got married there, it was our Church. I didn't do the whole Church; I did the tile right by the door, when you come in the back. Did you ever see it? I did that all by myself, my labor, my materials, it still looks beautiful. I did a mosaic, you should see it. It took me two weekends, all day Saturday and all day Sunday after the masses, four days...two whole weekends... People were complaining because I wouldn't let them see it until I had finished. Two whole weekends...You had to see my wife when I took the covering off and showed everyone, you had to see her eyes..." His eyes filled with tears at the memory. "She looked just like she had on our wedding day; that pride, that happiness... I'd do anything to see that look again..."

Alan smiled sadly, "Do you want to talk some more, or do you want to watch some television."

"I watch TV," replied Ed vaguely. "I like some of the programs, mostly the reruns. The stuff they have on now a days is garbage." Ed looked at Alan again and forced himself to focus. "I don't sleep anymore. I stay up all night and they have nothing on. They used to have the late show, you could see a good movie. I wish I could sleep, but I don't anymore. The doctor, he said I sleep too much during the day, that's why I don't sleep at night, but it's not my fault. I try to stay up, but there's nothing to do. There's no one here to talk to during the day. Truth is, you're the only one who stays and talks with me. The nurses are busy during the day, everyone is hollering, I want my bath, I want some water, I don't feel good... I don't blame them, but there's nothing to do. There's nothing on television, how many times can you watch Lucy? I've seen more of Lucy than Ricky every did!"

Alan laughed at his joke which brought out a new vitality.

"I'm not joking, really," he said, his face breaking into a wide smile, his thin white hair fluttering softly above his head, reflecting the light. "I'm not complaining, but there's nothing on. If I did the programming, you know what I would put on?"

"No," replied Alan. "What would you put on?"

"Well, there's a lot of things I'd like to see," began Ed, "but I would really like to see a western. They stopped making them and they never show the old ones anymore. I used to watch "Bonanza", or "Have Gun Will Travel", they were wonderful. There was that other show with the two guys, it was in the old west but they were like James Bond... I can't think of the name of it..."

"The Wild, Wild West," stated Alan as he poured him some water.

"That's it, that was the show," said Ed excitedly. "I loved that one. I used to watch it with my kids, used to sit up and watch it with them. Sometimes, I'd fall asleep because I was so tired from working all those hours, but we had fun. The kids and I would watch that while my wife did the dishes." His eyes darkened again, "I sure do miss her. She was a good woman, beautiful, just beautiful. Maybe not to everyone, not everyone finds the same things attractive, but she was beautiful to me, that's all that ever counted. I was no bargain in the looks department, but it made my life because she thought I was something worth looking at. Every morning I woke up and I'd look at her and think, I'm a lucky man. I worked hard, but she and the kids were worth it, they made it all worth it."

"They were lucky too," said Alan. "They had you."

The old man shook his head, "Now look at me, I'm just a shell. I'm good for nothing anymore, I'm worse than a baby. I eat and shit and sleep, except at night. I don't sleep at night no more. The doctor says it's because I sleep during the day, but that isn't so. I nap once in a while, but I don't really sleep."

Alan crossed to the window and lowered the shade against the enveloping darkness.

"What day is it?" asked Ed.

"It's Tuesday," replied Alan.

"No, I mean the date," replied Ed. "I don't know what day it is. Is it winter or spring, I have no idea. You don't know in here. No one visits during the day accept you and you never wear a coat, so I can't tell. I miss the seasons, the snow and the sunshine. I don't miss shoveling the snow though, it had to be done, but I hated that. My boys used to help me shovel. My wife and I had three boys, two of them used to come out after a snow storm and help me shovel..." His face grew thoughtful, "Our other boy died when he was just a baby. He was so tiny, he was too small the doctor said. He didn't live long. They wouldn't let us hold him or touch him. My wife was recovering from giving birth and I'd go see her for a little while and then I'd run over to him and watch him, pray for him and beg him to keep fighting. He was a tough little guy, he fought for four days. I sat with him for four days before he died... I finally held him after he died..." His eyes moistened at the memory. "My other two boys were big and strong. My son Sal, he could lift up a truck with one arm, that one. Strong as an ox and Vincent... he's not like Sal, but he's healthy... When they were little, we'd get all bundled up and play in the snow. We'd have snowball fights and make snow men. Is it snowing outside?"

"No," replied Alan softly. "It's August, it's hot outside. Snow won't be here for a few more months."

"I hope I make it to see the snow again," said Ed. "I liked the snow. When we were first married, my wife and I used to go out in the snow and go to Itgens, you ever go there? It's an ice cream store, oh it was wonderful. Anyway, we'd go and buy hot chocolate and walk home in the snow... We didn't have a lot of money so it was a big treat for us. They made the best hot chocolate... If we were careful, sometimes, we'd have enough to get a burger or something. We didn't have much when we first got married, but we had more than enough... I hope it snows soon, maybe they'll bring me some hot chocolate..."

Alan patted his hand as the older man's eyes teared up again. "Do you want to try to sleep?"

"I would love to sleep," said the old man. "I can't. I just don't. I'm not trying to be difficult... I just can't sleep at night. I can't turn off, it's not that I don't want to, I just can't... The doctors say I sleep too much during the day, they say that, but it isn't true. I mean I nap; sure, a guy my age is going to take a nap once in a while. Who ever heard of an eighty seven year old..."

"Ninety three," said Alan gently.

"Ninety three?" he asked, surprised. Alan nodded, "Ninety three? Really? I missed a few birthdays or something; I was eighty five when my wife died..."

"She passed away eight years ago," said Alan softly.

"Eight years," repeated Ed. "She's been gone eight years? It seems like yesterday... it sure hurts like yesterday. They say you get over it, that time helps, but it doesn't. You accept it because you have no choice... No one asks you, you just have to do it... It's like walking or talking, you do it because you have to, no one asks you... It never gets easier. Eight years, my baby... Gone eight years?" He shook his head, "I wish I was with her. I'm not good for anything anymore, and I can't sleep no more. Not at night."

"You really do miss her, don't you?" asked Alan softly.

"You know what?" replied Ed softly. "You know what?"

Alan shook his head no.

"I'd give anything to see her again, I really would. I tell you Alan, I don't want to be here anymore without her. I could take it, getting old and forgetting and all the rest of it, but without my baby, without my girl, what the hell am I alive for? I wasn't a bad guy, I made mistakes, we all make mistakes, but I wasn't a bad guy, so why did God leave me here?" he leaned back against the pillows. "God I miss her. I don't know what I did for her to have to leave me, but I miss her... When we got old, we couldn't do much, but it was okay, we were together... Oh, you bitched and moaned, it's hard not to, everything hurts, but you know what hurts most? Being alive when nothing matters, being alive when your reason for living is gone... Oh, I love my kids, but I can't do nothing for them, they don't need me. I'm a shell, Alan..."

"You're not a shell," he replied softly. "You're not alone." He sat on the edge of the bed and took the old man's hands in his own. "I'm sorry you won't see the snow again, I know you really wanted to, but you'll see her again. Do you want to see her again?"

Ed nodded, "Oh, God, if I only could."

He looked at Alan and the light flickered brilliantly in his eyes. He could see more clearly than he had in years, a glorious moment of renewal and then, slowly, he closed his eyes and his head sank to his chest. The monitors began to beep loudly and the nurses rushed in followed by the interns. Chaos, organized and desperate barged into the small room as the hospital staff tried desperately to bring him back.

***

An hour later, Sal stood over the shrunken form of his father, his brother Vincent hugging him as he cried softly.

"I can't believe he's gone," he said softly. "I can't believe it."

"We were spoiled having him for so long," replied Vincent, drying his own eyes. "He looks peaceful, just like Momma looked, so peaceful.

A young nurse entered the room and smiled tentatively at the two brothers, "I was your father's night nurse this past week, I just want to tell you, I'm going to miss him. He was so sweet, never complained, never gave anyone a hard time..."

"He was a good man," replied Vincent.

"He spoke about his boys often," said the nurse, looking at the peaceful expression. "He was very proud of you both. He would sometime tell me stories while I was helping him, how you used to love the snow and how you would have snowball fights and make snowmen..."

Sal laughed softly at the memory.

"I think he loved making snowmen even more than we did."

"Your mother, she's gone also?" asked the nurse.

"She died eight years ago," said Vincent softly. "We all took it bad, but I don't think Pop ever recovered from it."

Sal nodded, "It was bad. He put a good face on it, but you could see the life just drain out of him after she died. He never complained. You could see how much he was hurting, but he'd never let on, never complained."

"We've got arrangements to make," said Vincent suddenly. "We've got to call the funeral home..."

"It's all arranged," replied Sal. "He and Mom, they made the arrangements a long time ago."

"Where will he be buried?" asked the nurse respectfully.

"Out at Calvary Cemetery," replied Vincent. "He and Mom bought a plot out there a long time ago. He'll rest beside her and Alan..."

"Alan?" asked the nurse.

Sal wiped away a tear, "Our brother. He died when he was four days old. He was born premature, Pop stayed with him the whole four days, never left his side except to see Mom."

The brothers smiled at their father's peace filled face.

"He'll be with Mom and Alan again."

Mile High

Vernon Edwards leaned back in his first class seat, unable to look away from the woman who had just entered the airplane door. Her silky, dark hair framed one of the most beautiful faces he had ever seen, her dark eyes exuding a smoky sensuality, her lips full and perfect. A white satin blouse hugged her slender frame, emphasizing a perfect cleavage. Shapely legs flowed from a tiny skirt that hugged perfect hips. He watched as she lowered herself onto the chair across the aisle, melting into the cushions with the slightest of smiles.

Anxiously awaiting the end of the boarding process, Vernon rehearsed in his mind what he would say to her, how he would present himself. She had caught him several times glancing already, but seemed to appreciate the attention. Just before the door closed, a tall, attractive man entered, anxiously looking past the stewardess who greeted him at the door. Immediately he made his way towards the beautiful woman and spoke to her in low, hushed tones. Vernon could not hear the words of the conversation, but there was no need; the tones, the gestures, the flashing of eyes all pointed to a disagreeable situation. Before Vernon could react, the stewardess stepped forward and spoke firmly to the man. Initially he appeared prepared to argue, but then thinking better of it, moved further into the first class section and took his seat several rows back.

The stewardess leaned over the woman and spoke to her quickly and happily. The woman favored her with a smile, a brilliant, warm display of sunshine. Vernon waited until they were in flight before leaning over the aisle and introducing himself.

Smiling at him, she leaned delicately over her arm rest, "I'm Carrie Simpson, it's a pleasure to meet you." Her voice was warm, soft and inviting and he could not keep from smiling.

"I thought you looked familiar," replied Vernon. "I hope you don't mind me saying that the pictures of you in the paper do not do you justice."

She smiled warily, "There are enough of them, aren't there?"

"Having met you, I don't think there are half enough."

"Thank you, but I can't stand to be photographed. I feel as if I've been photographed non-stop since birth." Her chuckle was warm and sexy.

The stewardess interrupted them, "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Might I interest you in some champagne?" offered Vernon.

Carrie smiled coyly, "I hate to drink champagne alone and I hate speaking across an aisle. Might you consider changing your seat? The one next to me is open."

Vernon looked wishfully at the stewardess, a pretty young blonde who considered the offer. "I would say yes, but do you think your "friend" might object? I'm sorry to ask, but I must consider the other passengers..."

"To hell with him," replied Carrie. She looked at Vernon and then demurely turned away. "I'm sorry. I had no right... we're in the middle of a divorce and the young lady is right, he might make a scene..."

"I would love to sit with you," replied Vernon. "I think you're worth any scene."

The stewardess stepped back as she poured their champagne, giving Vernon room to slip behind her and across the aisle to the seat next to Carrie. Drinks in hand, they clinked glasses.

"To new friends," he said gently.

"To new friends," she repeated, raising the glass to her lips and taking a sip.

Vernon examined his new friend at close range. He knew from her press clippings that Carrie Simpson was in her forties, but she looked to be no older than her late twenties, early thirties at the most. He detected no signs of the surgeon's art and concluded that she must be one of those genetic anomalies, a beautiful woman who refused to age. He smiled as he noticed her examining him as well, her dark eyes flashing above her champagne glass as she drank both him and the bubbly liquid in.

"So Vernon, tell me truthfully, you're not a reporter, are you?"

Vernon favored her with a brilliant smile all his own, "No, I'm not a reporter. I've done some modeling and work for the airlines; I'm going to New York on vacation."

"I love New York," she purred. "It's so big and impersonal; you can get lost there and be anyone you want to be."

"Are you trying to get lost?" he asked softly.

She nodded and drew closer. "It's this divorce. I know, the newspapers make me sound like a cold hearted bitch, how could I feel bad about a divorce, I've been divorced twice before, but I really thought it was different this time."

"It's never easy to lose a person you care about," he offered.

"I didn't lose him," she snapped testily, "he ran away. We were so in love and then he got himself some whore on the side..."

"I can't imagine being married to you and wanting something on the side," said Vernon. "You're so very beautiful..."

She smiled sadly at the compliment, "Oh, you men, it always starts out that way. "You're the most beautiful woman in the world, I can't live without you" and then you get bored. Or you can't handle the fact that I make more than you or that the damn photographers won't leave us alone and then, you just want to get away with your friends, or you need some time alone and then..." He was surprised to see her eyes fill with tears, "and then you end up finding some whore or getting drunk or doing drugs. I should swear off of men."

Vernon touched her hand gently, "Carrie, I hope you aren't really that cynical, I don't believe that you are. Yes, there are some men who want to have you because you're beautiful and then there are others who are attracted to you because of your wealth, but there will be someone who cares for you because of who you are. Now, I'm not saying I'm that man, I'm not trying to give you a line, all I'm saying is that I find you extremely attractive and more than a little fascinating."

The stewardess interrupted them to refill their glasses before disappearing once more.

Turning back to Vernon, Carrie found him watching her again. "That man, your ex..."

"Soon to be ex," she corrected.

"Soon to be ex," he repeated. "Did you catch him in the act?"

"No," she replied softly. "I just know the pattern. I met Richard in Hawaii; I'd gone there for a photo shoot and to get away from the press after my second divorce. He owned a restaurant there; we began to flirt one night at the bar. He was so romantic and smart and funny and God what a kisser." She laughed at the memory. "He was kind and protective and well, the physical attraction was undeniable. He swept me off my feet."

"At the risk of prejudicing my chances, what changed?"

She reached out and took his hand, "He sold his business, wanted to be my full time husband, so he sold the restaurant and we traveled together. Money was never an issue and he was always attentive and then it started. They started calling him Mister Simpson in the press, ignoring him to get single shots of me on the red carpet. I told him it would happen and he said it wouldn't matter but it always does. Men don't like to be ignored, Vernon, no one likes to be ignored."

She wiped at her tears, opening an exquisite clutch that she had brought on board.

"Are you going to be met at the airport?" he asked, not sure of how to proceed.

"They'll be a car; it will take me to my estate on the island. I'll have to supervise the removing of his gear from the closets."

"It's probably not the right time to ask, but perhaps you would be free for dinner one night. I'll be in New York for a week..."

"Where are you staying?" she asked casually.

"A friend is loaning me their apartment while they're out of town," he said excitedly.

"A girlfriend?" she asked, her voice trailing off suggestively. She was surprised to see him blush.

"Yes, but not like that," he stammered. "We used to work together, but there was never anything between us."

"You're blushing," she laughed, touching his cheek with a velvety palm. "I didn't know there were still men who could blush."

"I don't want you to get the wrong idea, that's all." He seemed a bit embarrassed, like a school boy who had told a dirty joke in front of the head master's wife.

"I'm beginning to get a better idea," she purred, crossing her exquisite, long legs and leaning closer to him. "You're just an innocent, aren't you?"

"I'm not innocent," he replied. "Could an innocent have gotten up the nerve to speak to the beautiful and successful Carrie Simpson?"

"Touché'," she replied, raising her glass in salute. "But there might be enough innocence left to make it interesting."

He chuckled as the pretty blonde stewardess interrupted them again. "Can I take your dinner orders now?"

Dinner was not bad by airplane standards, roast chicken with potatoes, string beans and some wine. He noticed that Carrie didn't finish her meal or have dessert.

As they continued talking he noted the way she drew closer, the light brushing touch of her fingers on his arm, the warm laugh and flashing eyes. She was everything he imagined she would be and more.

"So what is the boldest thing you've ever done?" she asked suddenly.

"You first," he replied.

She considered it. "Running off to get married at sixteen was bold; incredibly stupid, but very bold. My father disowned me, at least for a little while. Once I divorced my first husband, he welcomed me back with open arms."

"And why did you divorce your first husband?" asked Vernon.

"To be welcomed back with open arms, of course," she giggled, motioning the attractive blonde stewardess for another glass of wine. "My first husband was sexy and funny and we were great together, but he was also broke and frankly, Vernon, I wasn't cut out to be poor. He cried so when I handed him the papers, it nearly broke my heart. He even refused a settlement, just walked away and wished me well. He died a few months later, auto accident. I always found that ironic, he died in an auto accident and my father offered me a car to divorce him. So strange..."

"And your second husband?" asked Vernon.

"I caught him cheating," she said, finishing the wine quickly and motioning for another glass. "It was just after my father had died. Jerry was a corporate man, good with finances, but he was never a nurturer. My father had just died and I needed some compassion, Vernon, is that too much to ask for? Jerry was always working late, always late at the office and there I was, with no one to comfort me. That's when I met Barry, he worked for my husband in some capacity, I'm not really sure what he did for him, but he was kind to me. He came over to leave some papers for my husband and he saw how distraught I was...we made love in the gazebo by the pool."

"I thought you said you caught your husband cheating," he said softly.

"I did," she answered, finishing the wine in a gulp and waving to the pretty stewardess for more. "He accused me of cheating and then I hired a detective who found out that he was having an affair with his secretary. Lying bastard, when my lawyers got through with him, he didn't have to worry about his finances anymore, I can tell you that."

She sipped her wine aggressively and undid the top button of her blouse seductively. "Then I met Richard. God, I miss Richard, he's an amazing lover, Vernon, just amazing. He is a man who knows how to please a woman. How about you, Vernon, how are you as a lover?"

Vernon blushed again, "I've had no complaints..."

"And you're young and good looking too," she purred. "Oh yes, I bet you know what you're doing. What did you say, Vernon, was the boldest thing you've ever done?"

"I didn't say, but if I had too, I guess the boldest thing I've ever done is to strike up a conversation with you," he replied softly.

She saw the stewardess flip her long blonde hair over her shoulder and motioned to her for more wine. Grasping his arm, she pulled him closer, "That wasn't nearly as bold as you would like to be, though, is it? I saw it from the moment I boarded this plane, the way you looked at me, I saw it. You want to make love to me, Vernon, don't you? You want to show me how good a lover you really are..."

He watched the stewardess saunter away with the wine bottle, "Perhaps when we get to New York..."

She leaned over and bit his ear lightly, whispering, "To hell with New York. Be bold, Richard. I want you to be bold."

"What are you suggesting?" he asked softly, their lips barely brushing each other.

She peeked over the back of her seat to see that no one was listening, "There's a bathroom only a few short aisles back. What about it, Vernon? Are you bold enough to join the Mile High Club?"

Vernon smiled, "How do you know I'm not already a member?"

She kissed him, a soft, inviting kiss filled with promise, "If you are, isn't it time to renew your membership?"

He smiled and raised himself to peer over the seat behind them, searching out the bathrooms. Pulling her closer, he whispered into her ear, "I'll go now; I'll be in the bathroom on the left. Knock twice and I'll let you in. Be careful that no one sees you."

"I'll give you two minutes," she giggled.

Vernon rose and casually made his way down the aisle.

Carrie waved the stewardess over again and gulped down another glass of wine. She needed a man now, someone young and pretty to make her feel complete. Looking about she saw that the cabin lights had been dimmed, people were dozing. Peering back, she could not see where Richard was, not that it mattered, she was done with him. Vernon seemed adorable, he would be good for a weekend, maybe even a whole week. She imagined the week ahead, he'd be all excited and call her and profess his love, they all did. By week's end, after she had disposed of Richard's things, she would need to write a new chapter to her life and Vernon would have served to have gotten her over the emotional hump. There would need to be someone else afterwards, but for now, Vernon would do.

She knew how tiny the bathroom would be and after making sure that no one was watching her, she quickly pulled her thong down her long, shapely legs and hid it in her clutch bag. The less clothing to hamper them, the better, especially with someone as young and potentially inexperienced as Vernon.

She rose unsteadily and sauntered slowly towards the bathrooms, the plane moaning quietly as the passengers and crew relaxed in the darkness. She gained the bathroom on the left and knocked softly but distinctly, two knocks on the door. Her breath caught in her throat and the door quickly unlocked and drew inwards. Quickly she stepped inside and pushed the door closed, the light snapping on as the door locked shut.

Turning she stared in disbelief.

"Richard," she whispered harshly.

Richard said nothing, instead wrapping his powerful arms around her and pulling her close to him. His lips descended upon hers fiercely. She tried to protest but he was such a good kisser and she was a bit drunk and he was sooo strong. Her body melted against his as she felt his hands unzip her skirt and pull it up around her waist. Vernon was forgotten long before he entered her, long before they found themselves panting and moaning against each other, long before she left the bathroom to find the empty seat next to Richard and cuddle close to him for the remainder of the flight.

She saw Vernon only once more, saw him as he rose to gather his carry on from the overhead compartment, saw him search the cabin with a pained gaze briefly before disembarking. She looked about for him when she left the plane on Richard's arm, looked to see if he would follow her as the photographers did when she entered the waiting car with Richard and drove off to their house on the island but he was not there.

***

Vernon had not looked for Carrie once he was off the plane, retreating instead to the employee lounge for a drink with his carry on. He waited for almost an hour before the attractive blonde stewardess who had served them their drinks joined him at the bar. She was tall and leggy, with a bright smile and sparkling blue eyes. She sat down on the stool next to him and pulled out a set of keys which she jingled in front of his eyes.

"Thank you, Vernon, so very much. You did a great job."

"No Susan, thank you for the use of the apartment, I can't believe it, a whole week in New York!"

"You did a great job," she repeated, before asking the bartender for a beer. "I won't be back from the South Pacific run for another eight days, so you have a blast. I didn't go shopping before I left but you're welcome to any food there is in the fridge and anything else there is. Do you have any special plans?"

"Well," he began coyly, "I met someone last week when we did the California to New York run. He seemed really nice, he's a painter and he invited me to his opening this Tuesday."

"Fantastic," she said, leaning over to give him a hug.

"I've got my fingers crossed," he nodded. "Well, look, I'm going to get going, thanks again for apartment."

She stood and hugged him as he collected his bag, "No, thank you. You were wonderful. I'll talk to you in a week." She watched him sashay out of the bar and smiled. Vernon could fool anyone when he had the mind to do so.

Susan sipped her beer and checked her cell phone. Richard would not chance calling her this week, which was fine; she wouldn't have the time to talk to him anyway. The South Pacific run was always a busy time and besides, she needed some space too. Richard would have to use this time to convince Carrie that he wasn't having an affair, which was crucial because Carrie had all the money now and Susan liked nice things. It was Carrie's money that paid for her apartment and Carrie's money that paid for the expensive gifts. Yes, if she was going to be happy, Carrie had to be happy.

Smiling to herself, Susan finished her beer; it would be at least an hour before she had to board her next flight. Yes, Richard would have a lot of convincing to do, but she was sure he could do it. As Carrie had said, Richard was a man who knew how to please a woman.

### Volume II

A View of the Park

She floated through the apartment like a whisper, silent, thoughtful. I had lusted after clients before but this was different, this woman was perfect, a Greek statue brought to life. I watched her hungrily, imagining making love to her in the empty rooms of this place, the sun dancing off of her perfect skin.

"It is a lovely apartment, Robert, but it is not right," she said, her beautiful emerald eyes flashing above perfect cheekbones. She sauntered effortlessly through the living room, the click of her high heels tapping a mesmerizing beat to the sensuous movement of her body. Her raven black hair accentuated the creamy pearl like glow of her skin as she turned to face me again.

"Too low," she purred in her heavily accented voice. "I want a view, Robert, a view of the park. I need to see the park."

"The next place has incredible views of the park," I promised. "You're going to love it."

She smiled, the vision knocking the breath from me, "Yes, Robert, yes. I want to see this apartment you speak of, take me to see it."

The building on Prospect Park West was a tall, brick structure built sometime in the early 1900's. I could see that the outside embellishments held no charm for her, but she responded graciously when the doorman greeted us and ushered us onto a beautiful old elevator with a gate that closed before the door would. It climbed noiselessly to the penthouse, opening onto a glorious living room with marble floors.

I watched her glide into the space, bypassing the state of the art kitchen and the beautiful fireplace to cast aside the French doors and step out onto the massive terrace. She stared in wonder at the beautiful park below us, her glee infectious.

"Prospect Park," I announced, "Brooklyn's crown jewel, placed at your feet."

"And that," she pointed excitedly, "that there!"

"Grand Army Plaza," I answered. She glanced at me, puzzled. "A monument to the army that won the American Civil War," I explained.

"Yes, sad, very sad," she replied. She brightened as she looked across the plaza, "And there, the building with the gold?"

"The Brooklyn Public Library," I smiled.

She acknowledged the building with a hint of distain, "A tomb for old books." Looking down at the park, she smiled in the way angels must smile. "I can see people with dogs and people on bicycles and people pushing babies, wonderful!" Turning to me she touched my arm and I felt fire engulf me. "I take this place, Robert."

"But I haven't even shown you..."

Placing a finger to my lips, silencing my lips and enflaming my desire, she drew closer, "I take it, Robert. Get me papers, I sign."

***

I visited her at her old apartment to hand her the extra sets of her new keys. She answered the door in a pair of bicycle pants that displayed her slender hips and a sports bra that strained to contain its bounty. Her bare midriff was toned and slender and her dark hair bounced as she led me into the apartment and offered me a soda.

"You come tomorrow night to my new place," she stated. "House warming, you come."

"I'd love to," I replied as she hugged me.

"Thank you, Robert. You make me happy."

***

The dress was black and sparkled and plunged down her back revealing flawless skin for from her shoulders to her waist. It was short and offered a generous view of her perfect legs, long, lean and incredibly shapely. Her hair flowed down her shoulders and framed the masterpiece that was her face.

"You came!" she stated excitedly. "Come everyone, this is Robert! I tell you about Robert, this is Robert!"

Her friends surrounded me, greeting me like a conquering hero, slapping my back, taking my picture, begging me for my business card. The party went on and on, the liquor flowed and the music played and I danced with her. I danced with her and we shouted over the music and I got her drinks and danced with her slowly and brought her soda and I wished her guests well with her and brought her breakfast from a little café on Flatbush Avenue. I spent the whole next day with her and when I stayed that night, we made love and danced and made love and slept.

I woke up in the dark apartment and saw her nude, her prefect form on the terrace, swaying in the moonlight as she gazed out over the park. I moved to her side and drew her back to bed and we made love and slept until morning.

When I awoke she was in the shower and I heard the sirens blaring below. I staggered onto the terrace and saw the police and the ambulance and the yellow tape in the park, stretched from tree to tree to tree. She came up beside me, wrapped in a towel.

"So sad," she said as the police removed a body bag. "So sad..."

A woman, the newscaster said, a woman killed and torn, a woman dead in the park. No clues, no one seen, just another senseless murder in Brooklyn, just part of the violence of New York.

I worked harder now, I had things to buy and we found it harder to stay apart. I begged her to move in with me, but she said no, it was always the same.

"The park, Robert, I must be able to see the park."

In the end it worked out anyway, I moved in with her. In time her friends became my friends, our parties became a thing of beauty and we danced and drank and laughed and made love and the killings continued. First one, than two more, then a third, no pattern, no reason; just torn and dead and then a man, ripped and torn and dead, all of them dead.

I began to live in fear, in terror of her going for a walk in the park; living in terror of not being there when she went out. I made her promise over and over to stay in, to be safe. She would always smile and kiss me, "You worry so, Robert, but I am fine. Remember, I am fine."

It was winter now and the cold weather had stripped the park of its leaves and color, laying it open to our view like a mound of dirt and twigs.

I awoke one night to a cold breeze in our bedroom, a blast of cold, raw air ripping me from my slumber. I peered out our bedroom door and saw the French doors on the terrace opened wide to the frigid night air. Wrapping my robe about me, I moved out onto the terrace and found her footprints in the newly fallen snow leading to the terrace edge. I peered out as the snow gently fell and saw a figure, a dark heavy set figure walking slowly through the park.

It was a tall man in a black sweat suit, the hood of his sweat shirt raised against the snow, his hands crowded in his pockets, seeking warmth against the rising wind. He trudge along the path toward the park the entrance, his breath preceding him in white, smoky blasts.

To my amazement, he suddenly flew sideways, his large body parallel to the ground, but at least four feet above it. He flew fifteen or twenty feet before skidding against the ground to a stop. Pulling himself to his feet, he called out, a strangled cry cut short as he was brutally slammed against the ground. A force lifted him and slammed him down again and then again. I stared in horror, knowing I must be mad. There was nothing there, nothing at all, but a body being contorted and torn to pieces before my eyes.

I stumbled back into the apartment and came to my senses. Racing to the phone, I dialed 911, trying to arrange the information in my mind to deliver it as efficiently as I could. Peering out at the terrace, I felt an indescribable coldness begin to rise in my chest. The French doors closed, not like a wind closes a door, slamming it or slowly pushing it closed, but as a person closes a door, gliding it closed to shut firmly.

"This is nine, one, one, what is your emergency?"

I felt something pass me, a gentle movement of air as something glided past me, but nothing was there, nothing.

"This is nine, one, one, what is your emergency?"

To my growing terror, I heard the light in the bathroom click on and a moment later, the water in the shower began to run.

"This is nine, one, one, what is your emergency, please?"

"I misdialed," I lied and hung up the phone. Slowly, I stumbled forward towards the bathroom, now fogging with steam. Peering beyond the glass shower door I saw the familiar figure of the woman I love sensually soaping herself beyond the refracted surface. The door slid open and her head peered around it. Her hair was slicked to her skull, giving her a feline look and her eyes looked wilder and darker than I had ever known them to be. When she smiled at me, her usually bright teeth were bathed in red.

Stepping into full view, displaying her beautiful body, she motioned to me, dripping wet, her hands slightingly tinged in red.

"Well Robert," she asked seductively, "you join me?"

Taking a deep breath, I pulled the robe from my body and let my pajama bottoms drop to the floor. I entered the shower first, turning to face her, the warm water relaxing me enough to embrace her and pull her closer to me. She kissed me, the taste of blood filling my mouth as her tongue intertwined with mine. Breaking the kiss, her lips traced a path down my chin and to my neck as I felt the skin near my collar bone beginning to rip...

***

The realtor threw open the doors of the terrace and stepped out into the open air. "Isn't it beautiful? There is no finer view of Central Park anywhere in New York City."

She stepped out onto the terrace, her sensual movement accented by her form fitting dress. Smiling, her eyes glowed as she took in the view of the below. "People walking, women pushing babies, people walking dogs, people riding bicycles, it is wonderful, don't you think Robert?"

I walked out onto the terrace and removed my sunglasses, staring at the scene below. The scene made me smile and brought with it a tinge of hunger.

"Bring us the papers, Edward, we'll sign them."

"But I haven't even shown you..."

"Bring us the papers," interrupted my angel. "It is the view of the park. We love the view of the park."

"Yes," I stated quietly. "We love the park."

An Appointment

Candace Williams awoke with a start and stared at her alarm clock in a dazed amazement that quickly turned to fury. Seven fifty? No, NO, it could not be seven fifty, it couldn't be! She had a nine o'clock meeting with her new client at New York Law School, downtown. It would take between twenty five and thirty minutes to get there by train and she hadn't showered or done her hair or make up or anything. She hadn't even gotten her clothes out of her closet, oh good God!

Springing from her bed, she dashed into the shower, taking a quick peek in the mirror. Her hair, what the hell was her hair doing? Not today, no NOT TODAY! With a violent twist, she turned on the hot water and retreated to her closet. What to wear, what to wear...

***

Elron James lay on a bench in the subway, sleeping beneath a covering of newspapers and an old rug he found up in the Bronx about two weeks ago. People passed him without a thought and being too exhausted to remain awake, he slept blissfully until the train thundered into the station and a wave of morning rush hour passengers began the savage dance between those who wanted to escape the train and those who wanted to board. In truth it wasn't the noise that woke him, but the unbounded negative energy that the exchange between the two groups produced. Elron was always very sensitive to the anger in others, had fought against the hatred he could feel and see every day of his life. As he sat, yelling disparaging remarks at the causers of the disturbance, a police officer wandered up to him and suggested that he would be more gainfully employed in moving away than in continuing to yell.

Elron hated the cops, hated all authority. No one listened, no one could see what he saw, see the hatred, feel the hatred, taste the hatred that he felt. He had complained but they ignored him, degraded him. Why? Did they think he wanted to live in the subway? They make you live underground, they destroy your life with their tests and spying and then they degrade you, treat you like a piece of garbage, but Elron knew the truth. They wanted him out of the way, wanted his secrets dead, buried beneath the teaming streets above. Elron smiled certain that their cameras were watching him. He'd get even, he would have his revenge.

***

Candace dried herself quickly, threw on her panties and bra and retreated back to the bathroom to work on her hair. She looked in the mirror at her long, black locks and groaned. Normally her hair was her pride and joy; a long, shimmering, cascading curtain of silk that reached almost to the small of her back. Unfortunately, today she peered in the mirror at a long, knotty mess that needed to look spectacular in, oh my God, fifteen minutes! Hands and brush worked seamlessly, unrelentingly to bring the hair under control, untangling, straightening, styling.

Eight minutes! She had eight minutes to choose an outfit, oh God, not today, NOT today! Throwing open her closet door she stared, trying to focus on the dresses hanging neatly across the space. None of them would do, not one of them. She was a petite, well proportioned girl and she needed to look spectacular and nothing spoke to her. Pulling out random hangers she eyed the contents of each and discarded them in rapid succession.

"Too mousey, slutty, way too slutty, too corporate, not corporate enough, ugly, really ugly, too dark, too springy, too wintery, you'll look like an elf, noooo way, too slinky, too proper..."

Finally a blue dress swayed before her eyes, "Could work... could definitely work!"

***

Elron sat on the subway seat, no one in the subway car willing to sit near him. Many would say that they wanted to be far away from the odor of his unwashed body, others would comment on the nasty image created by his torn and battered clothing. Elron himself, however, was sure that they stayed back because they were government agents, here to keep an eye on him and ordered not to get too close. They knew, he mumbled to himself, knew about the karate he had taken in second grade, knew that he remembered it. They knew he could be a dangerous man, so they kept their distance.

"Damn right," he spat. "Damn right!"

His mother had sent him to that school to gain poise. She was always sending him to stuff, "learn to do this, learn to do that", she'd say. He remembered it all, like when she sent him to chess school. They had no hot water, but he knew how to play chess! He was good too, would have won the championship if that white boy hadn't cheated.

"Stole my trophy," he grumbled to no one particular. "Beat anyone at chess!"

The people in the subway car didn't even look up. New Yorkers don't look up at crazy; don't seek to find what is always before them. Keep your head down and walk around it, that's all. That's all you can do...

***

Candace examined herself in the mirror, blue dress tight around the hips and bust, cinched at the waist with a black belt. Handbag matches shoes, shoes match handbag and belt, jewelry accents dress and eyes. Everything was at the ready, it was time to go. Briefcase! Where the hell was her briefcase? Can't have a meeting without a briefcase, her whole life was in that briefcase; computer, cell phone, tablet, samples, recommendations, everything. By the door, waiting for her like an obedient dog sat the briefcase. She picked it up and slid out her front door, turning to lock it, keys in hand.

"What's the hurry this morning," asked a woman's voice behind her.

"Big meeting Mrs. Mangione," stated Candace. "Running late..."

"I don't care what you say," said the other woman, "I'm picking up a new alarm clock for you today. You're gonna kill yourself one day running late."

"Thanks, Mrs. Mangione," replied Candace as she raced for the stairs. "See you tonight."

"Be careful," yelled the woman, turning to close her door, "for God's sake, be careful..."

***

Elron jerked awake as the train stuttered to a halt. He had been dreaming, dreaming of when he was ten and they had gone to his cousin's farm in South Carolina. It was then that he started to notice that he was different; he wasn't like them at all. They were happy and simple and slow moving. He remembered his cousin, Ray, taking him to a lake and jumping in, telling him to jump in too.

The water was so cold, he had to swim a lot just to get warmed up again and then when you got out, you got hot so fast, you jumped back in. Stupid way to live life, jumping into water that was too cold just to get out into air that was too hot... he was so tired from all that jumping. Ray told him they had to leave soon and then called him over, said he wanted to talk to him. Ray pulled him into the water and pulled off his shorts, kept telling him how much he liked him, kept asking him if it felt good. Something wrong with Ray, that's what they all said, later, much later, but not that day. There was no one there to say something was wrong with Ray, no one...

***

Candace raced down the stairs of the subway station searching for her Metrocard. Suddenly it sprang as if by magic from her purse. With a well practiced swipe she was through the gate and seeking the second set of stairs. There was that guy she saw every morning, cute, corporate, wearing a dark suit. He obviously appreciated the blue dress, mental note; don't forget he likes the blue dress. One day she'd bump into him, start a conversation, but not today, no time today. Focus, Candace, focus, you've got a meeting in, dear Lord NO, four minutes! No, no, don't panic, need to catch the train in four minutes, take a deep breath, oh God. He's still watching you, good, remember the blue dress, the blue dress could be the winner...

***

French fries, all over the floor, french fries...

"Don't even come from France," snapped Elron. "Think we don't know? Think we don't know?"

The train tumbled to a halt and the dance at the doors began again. Elron stood up and immediately a path opened to the platform. Damn right they moved for him, he knew karate, don't mess with me. Stumbling onto the platform he eyed the station, didn't remember it, what the hell station was this? He looked for the name of the station, found nothing. He had heard about stations that had no names, they were used by government agents to disperse the chemicals throughout the system. He looked around quickly, saw the train pull out, the roar dimming in the distance and suddenly, he was alone on the platform. They didn't know! They didn't know they had left him here, left him in a secured facility. Got to get out of sight, had to get out of range of the cameras, that was the thing. Shuffling to a post at the far end of the station, he crouched down, slowly peering out from behind the pillar. No one there...They didn't know. What to do, what to do? He could stop them; he could bring the whole dirty business to a screeching halt, but how? Find the chemicals, find the chemical store room and destroy it, that's what he had to do. He looked up at a big poster, a woman with long black hair standing before a man with a mask on. Must be some sort of code, he had seen the poster before, had never really noticed it.

"Phantom of the Opera," he read softly. What the hell did that mean? Must be code, must be...

***

Holding onto the bar with one hand, Candace reviewed her notes with the other. Had to be prepared, had to be ready. She checked her bag at her feet, hated to put it on the floor, but she had to review the...

She jumped slightly. Turning she saw two men standing behind her and one holding the bar to her left, all looking away from her. Who had pinched her ass? She eyed them all with evil intent and went back to her notes. Well, at least she was grope worthy; perhaps that was a good sign. What did that do for a guy, she wondered, what was the thrill in that? Men were such pigs. She bet the guy in the dark suit would never do something like that; he looked so handsome and so well mannered...focus, Candace. She checked her watch, seventeen minutes. She would make it if there were no major delays. God, please don't let there be any major delays...

***

Elron sat crouched behind the pillar, it all made sense now. He had seen that damn poster in every train station he had ever been in, had seen it for years. It was a signal for the government agents to drop the chemicals at that location. Reading the poster more carefully, he found out that the poster represented a bogus play. He had never heard of anyone going to see that play, never had heard of that play and yet, there it was, posters for years and years, it could only mean one thing. The address of the theater is where they kept the chemicals, it was the distribution point. Good Lord, he had figured it out, he knew where they kept the chemicals. How to get to it, how could he get there? He eyed the tracks, of course, the train. There had to be a train that went to that area. The agents always used the trains and were always carrying briefcases. That's how they distributed the chemicals, it had to be. He would wait for the next train in and then mingle with the others and go to that theater, go to the place where the false play was playing and knock out the whole operation.

He took a moment to remember his karate moves, he would need them. Looking around he saw nothing he could use as a weapon. No, his body would be his only weapon, but he knew he was up to the task. He peeked out again, a train was coming, a train heading down the right track, right now...

***

Candace peered up at the train map, if she switched trains at this station she would be able to catch the express and save some time. Closing her Ipad, she slipped it back into her briefcase and shuffled towards the door. She jumped again, turned but could not identify the culprit. Twice in one trip, maybe it was a good sign. No, no it was not a good sign; all it showed was that the city was full of perverts! Shaking her head, she followed the crowd off the train and onto the platform. Looking up at the sign she saw that her connection was right behind them. Finally, something was going her way this morning.

Turning, she caught a glimpse of the cute guy standing at the far end of the platform. He looked up and broke into a surprised smile. Well, well, today might not be all bad after all. Did he work near here? No, no he was waiting for the connection as well. He meandered closer, closing the distance between them until they were about a car length apart. Interesting...

***

Elron stared at her, unable to believe his eyes. It was the girl from the poster, the girl with the long black hair, not more than ten feet from him. She had to be one of the leaders, perhaps the mastermind of the whole plot and there she was, ten feet from him. She had tried to disguise herself, wore a blue dress, but her hair had given her away. What to do? Should he follow her? He could track her, track her like an Indian, just follow her and see where she led him. No, no that wouldn't do, she would take him back to the headquarters of the operation. Oh God, she was holding a briefcase! She had the stuff here, right here, right now! He could not let her make that delivery, he had to stop her, it was the only way. If he took out the head person, then the whole organization would crumble. What to do, what to do...

***

He was closer, they would definitely be on the same car, she just knew it. She glanced at her watch as she heard the train approaching. What would she say? It would have to be something classic, something cool. She would be telling the story of their meeting for years; to her girlfriends, her family, to her children. Oh my God, her children? She looked over and he smiled again and she felt her heart racing as the train drew nearer. The gust of wind that preceded the train washed over her and her long, beautiful hair drifted out behind her.

She heard a yell, could not make out the words and then suddenly, she was in the air, flying forward in the air. It was an oddly peaceful feeling, a momentary stillness as she floated outwards; hovering above the tracks and then an incredible impact and all went black.

"NO MORE CHEMICALS," screamed Elron as the man in the blue suit threw him to the ground. "NO MORE CHEMICALS! YOU MADE YOUR LAST DELIVERY, YOU AWFUL BITCH!" He was yelling and crying as the spectators began to kick him and punch him. He had brought down the whole organization, he had done it.

***

Elron looked up from the hospital bed as the news commentator spoke lies the government wanted transmitted to the people. Suddenly, to his surprise, his picture appeared, his and the picture of the woman from the Phantom of the Opera. He would have turned up the volume, but he couldn't reach the remote with his arms shackled to the bed. He smiled, the people of the subway would see what he had done, would realize it was he who had saved them. They would arrive soon to set him free. He was their hero, their one true hero.

The cop sitting outside the door peeked in and then began to look over the paper in his hands as an attractive young nurse wandered by. Stealing a quick glance at the bed inside, she shuddered.

"Animal," she muttered. "Killed that beautiful young girl..."

"He'll never stand trial," replied the cop. "He's stark raving mad. Thinks he's the Phantom of the Opera or something..."

"Poor girl," stated the nurse, "poor thing."
Cold Storage

"Used to be the cold storage unit for the meat packing plant," stated Ed. "I know it's freezing down here..."

"Ungodly cold," agreed Jim. "This is the place you want to have a party, a condemned meat packing plant?"

Ed smiled, his wiry frame looking lazy and relaxed as he sauntered around the massive basement.

"It'll be so cool, man and besides it wasn't condemned, they just went out of business. We'll set up a bar here, stereo over there, I'll borrow Tom's speakers..."

"You gonna invite Tom?" asked Jim uneasily. Tom was Ed's older brother and a bigger douche bag had never lived.

"Don't be stupid," replied Ed. "Tom's away this weekend, R.O.T.C. baby!"

Jim cracked a reluctant smile, "It could be pretty cool, but what if the cops find out? We'll be trespassing..."

"Chill out, Dude," laughed Ed. "There's no neighbors, whose gonna know there's a party going on in an abandoned meat warehouse?"

Jim considered it.

"Who you gonna invite?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Only the best people, man. The guys from the football team, of course and the cheerleaders, varsity and junior..." Ed eyed him slyly, "Maybe I can even get a few of the gymnasts to show, say, like Sheri Wolff..."

Jim felt the blood rushing to his face, "Yeah, right. You don't even know her. Besides, she'd never come to a place like this, man."

"Don't be too sure," replied Ed. "But then again, who cares, right? They'll be plenty of chicks here."

"It could work," replied Jim, desperate to change the subject. "God, it's cold down here though..."

"Then we'll have to keep the babes warm," smiled Ed. "All part of the plan, son, all part of the plan."

Could he really get Sheri Wolff to come, wondered Jim. Glancing around the room, he shuddered involuntarily. The place gave him the creeps, but if Sheri Wolff showed, there would be heat enough to make even this place warm.

"We've got to make sure there are no leaks," said Ed seriously. "If word gets out, this place will look like Studio 54, man. Every loser will be trying to get in and I don't have anyone to spare for bouncer duty."

"Bathrooms!" snapped Jim suddenly. He looked at Ed with an urgent stare, "No girls are coming if there isn't a bathroom dude."

"Shit," laughed Ed, "literally. I don't know if there are bathrooms, we'd better check."

Ed wandered back to the electrical box and threw a few switches. Out of the darkness at the back of the room appeared a doorway with a hallway beyond it. Pulling a flashlight from his sweatshirt pocket, he moved to the doorway, Jim close behind. Clicking on the flashlight, he inspected the hallway from the door. Finding a switch, he turned it on and watched the lights flicker to life.

Moving down the hall, he pointed, "Men's room..."

Entering the room they were surprised to find it older in style, but not in bad shape. While it appeared a bit dusty, it seemed functional.

"A bit dirty, but not bad," commented Jim.

"Try the water," instructed Ed.

Jim turned the large knobbed sink faucet. After a hesitation, some rusty water thundered into the sink followed by an abundance of clear water

"Should check the can," he suggested.

Ed went and opened a stall door and kicked the toilet handle. The toilet flushed normally. Exiting the men's room they found a lady's room across the hall in much the same condition.

"Throw in some paper towels, some shit paper and a couple of air fresheners and they'll think they're at the Waldorf," laughed Ed.

"This could be amazing," agreed Jim.

Ed smiled, "Wait and see, bro, wait and see..."

Making their way back towards the staircase, neither boy noticed the slight wisps of green mist that floated near the ceiling, dissipating in a swirl as they walked past.

***

Jim parked his Gremlin a block form the old parking lot and walked quickly across the abandoned space towards the warehouse side door. Suddenly a whispered voice beckoned him from the dark.

"Skywalker, is that you?"

Jim turned in the direction of the voice, "Vince?"

"No, man, it's Lowell." Lowell Nivers, the football team's middle linebacker loomed up out of the darkness, his large form ominous in the moonlit parking lot.

"I'm glad to see you, Skywalker," he said softly. "Got the message there'd be a party, but where the hell is the friggin' door to this place?"

"Chill dude," replied Jim. "Follow me. Ed's only got the side door unlocked, didn't want to take a chance. The main entrance is by the road and the cops sometimes come down that street on patrol."

"This place creeps me out," confessed Lowell.

"It's pretty cool inside," stated Jim as they gained the entrance. Slipping in the door, they descended some stairs, the sound of music becoming louder the lower they went.

"I hope Ed don't play any of that Bee Gee's shit," grumbled Lowell.

"It's a dance party, dude," stated Jim. "Besides, there's nothing better then watching some honies dance."

"Amen to that, brother," laughed Lowell, "but disco still blows..."

They opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and were almost overwhelmed by the volume of the music. The party was in full swing, music blaring, bar crowded, dance floor filled with girls and guys all trying to show off their latest moves. Across from the door, a thin, white guy with an enormous afro was examining records and placing them near his twin turntables. Ed swung into view with a pretty blonde on his arm.

"Finally!" he screamed over the music.

Jim pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels from inside his coat, "Had to pick this up!"

Taking the bottle, Ed gave the girl a squeeze, "Fantastic, dude. Come on over to the bar, Train's doing the honors tonight."

Jim looked over and saw their school's star running back, Fred, "Train" Thomas serving up drinks. As they drew closer, some of those present noticed Jim and began yelling out to him, "Hey, Skywalker..." "It's Skywalker, man..." "Hey, Luke!"

Someone touched Jim's arm as he was yelling out to Train for a beer. Turning, he felt his knees go weak; standing besides him was Sheri Wolff.

To Jim, Sheri Wolff was the most beautiful girl in the world. Light brown hair, feathered back in a full Farah Fawcett style cascaded down to her shoulders, beautiful blue eyes, slightly turned up nose, perfect lips; the list just went on and on. He glanced down and noted that she was wearing a red tube top and a pair of skin tight white polyester pants above a pair of white heels. Looking back up at her face, she smiled at him expectantly.

"Why do they call you Skywalker?" she asked him with a smile.

"He looks like Mark Hamill," yelled Ed over the music, rescuing his friend from his awe induced muteness.

"He's cuter than Mark Hamill," replied Sheri slyly.

"And he's got a bigger light saber," yelled Ed.

Jim turned a dark red as Sheri, called Ed a pig and then returned her gaze to him.

"Want to dance?" she asked.

Jim nodded, still unable to speak. Sheri Wolff had asked him to dance; he thought his heart would stop. Taking his hand, Sheri led him towards the dance floor. Jim noted that polyester had no greater friend than Sheri Wolff's backside; the sight of her walking in front of him was one he would treasure for the rest of his life.

Gaining the dance floor, she turned towards him and began to dance. Jim forced himself to concentrate, mimicking her moves and staying close without crowding her. She was so graceful and beautiful and sexy it was all he could do to remember that he wasn't suppose to stare and that he was supposed to move as well. The music was too loud to speak, a fact Jim was grateful for since he was too in awe to think of anything to say to her. After a while, a thought finally entered his head. Leaning closer, he shouted to her as loudly as he could.

"Would you like a drink?"

She smiled and nodded, taking his hand as he led her back towards the bar. Turning towards her, he yelled again, "What would you like?"

"A beer," she smiled.

Sherri Wolff drank beer, who knew that goddesses drank beer. Turning, he saw Train eyeing him with a big smile.

"Two beers."

Train reached down into a garbage can and fished out two bottles, handing them to Jim.

"Want cups?"

Jim nodded and then retreated with Sheri to the far side of the bar where he opened and poured the beers. Handing one to her, they clinked plastic cups and he watched her take a sip. Even the way she drank was sexy.

Looking at him, she laughed, "I have a confession to make."

Jim looked at her quizzically. God, please don't let this be a joke.

"Ed told me that you were interested," she continued.

Jim scowled and glanced over her shoulder, waiting to see Ed laughing at him, but Sheri reached up and touched his shoulder to regain his attention.

"I'm glad he did," she stated. "I'm glad he told me."

"You are?" asked Jim.

"I've noticed you, too," she smiled.

"You've noticed me?" he asked, unable to contain his shock.

She laughed, "Yeah, I've noticed you. Everywhere I go, it's "Skywalker this" and "Skywalker that", you're sort of hard not to notice."

"Oh that," he laughed, finally relaxing a bit, stunned to think that Sheri Wolff had noticed him. "I don't see it myself but Ed said I looked like him and then started calling me Skywalker and it kind of stuck. I suppose I should be happy that he didn't start calling me Chewbacca."

She laughed. It was a magical sound and he smiled; he had made the girl of his dreams laugh. Was there ever a better feeling in the entire world than knowing he could make her laugh?

Suddenly, the music stopped and the room was thrown into complete darkness. The sudden silence caught everyone by surprise and shouted voices suddenly echoes to complete silence. A loud whisper cut the silence, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. It was Ed's voice.

"Be cool, everyone, be cool. That's Duncan, I have him keeping watch upstairs, I told him to cut the power if the cops came, so be quiet, be cool..."

Jim felt Sheri put her arm around his waist, obviously uneasy in the darkness. Gently, he slowly reached his arms around her and pulled her closer.

"It's cold down here," she whispered. "I don't like this..."

"It's okay," he replied, not believing his own words. "They'll throw the lights back on in a minute."

She snuggled a bit closer, "I don't like this Jim."

"Its okay, no one's gonna hurt you," he replied, trying to make out anything in the pitch darkness.

Suddenly, the lights came blaring back on, blinding them all. Jim looked about the room and saw many couples holding on to each other all around the room.

Lowell had his arms around a tiny cheerleader from the junior squad. Looking around, he grinned, "Shit man, shut out the lights again!"

Everyone began to laugh as the music started to play again.

Looking down, he saw Sheri smiling up at him expectantly.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he lied, "I guess I should let you go."

"I'm not complaining," she smiled.

His heart felt as if it would beat its way through his chest; Sheri Wolff didn't mind that he was holding her. If his heart didn't fail him, this would go down as the greatest night of his life.

***

Sheri and Jim had cozied up to each other at a point on the far end of the hall, away from prying ears where they could speak without having to shout themselves hoarse. Jim could not believe how down to earth his goddess was, how easy to talk to (once he had found his voice) and laugh with. He had finally worked up the courage to ask her out on a real date when once again the lights went out. Instantly the room grew silent as they waited for the lights to return.

A hand touched his and pulled him gently, leading him closer to the wall. There had been a little indentation in the wall, a slight depression that cast a shadow when the lights were on and he felt as if they were headed towards that location. Reaching out tentatively, he held his other hand before him, hoping not to walk into the wall, but just as he sensed it; he felt Sheri slow and the wall brush against his fingers.

He felt her let go of his hand and in the next instant, her hand tentatively touch his chest. Reaching out carefully, he put his arms around her and felt her moving towards him. He felt her soft lips brush his, searching and unsure and then they kissed for certain, an electric glow pulsating slowly down his face and neck to warm his body in the growing cold. He wanted it to last forever and at the same time, he wanted to run and tell everyone he knew he was kissing Sheri Wolff. They were so enraptured that neither of them felt the temperature in the room begin to plummet, neither heard the shout the first time. When it happened again, they broke their kiss and looked over in the direction of the dance floor.

Suddenly there was noise and uncertainty in the darkness, the sound of stumbling and the excited yelps of people, unsure whether or not to speak. Finally a girl's voice called out, loud and frightened.

"Why is it so cold? What the hell is that?"

Jim focused, unsure of what he was seeing. Peering into the darkness he could just make out a form, a misty green form that seemed to hover above where he figured the center of the dance floor to be. The cold seemed to grow in its intensity with each passing second, but he pushed the thought out of his mind as he watched the glow. How it was being illuminated, he could not say, there were no lights, no electricity, but yet, it seemed to be glowing and its shape changing and shifting in the darkness.

"What is it?" whispered Sheri, her voice coming from a place just beneath his chin.

"I'm not sure," he whispered back. Why the hell had Duncan shut out the lights? Why wasn't he turning them back on?

A sounded echoed in the room as the mist continued to twist into fantastic forms, a sound like something heavy slamming into the metal door at the bottom of the stairs. Cries of panic, quickly hushed came from all corners of the room.

"Jim, I want to go home," said Sheri firmly.

"I think that's a good idea," he replied, unable to take his eyes off of the growing shape in the middle of the room. Wrapping his arm around her waist and keeping her closer to the wall side, he began to move slowly towards where he remembered the door being. He bumped into other people who were beginning to have the same idea and soon he could hear the sound of someone pulling frantically on the door.

"Step back, step back everybody!"

It was Ed's voice, commanding and in charge.

Jim felt the tension in him relax slightly as someone grasped the door and gave it a tug. Outside of the door, a dim light shown on the stairway, perhaps five or six steps from the bottom. Jim's eyes drifted towards the light momentarily until he heard Sheri gasp. Instinctively he looked down towards the base of the door.

There was something crumpled there, something without definition, a shape, eerie and ominous, like a rumpled blanket. Ed, visible in the dim light, leaned over the shape and then suddenly lurched backwards into the room, the sight tearing the bravado from him.

"Oh my God, oh my God," he rasped, panic rushing his words and clogging his thoughts.

"What the fu..." began Lowell before the girl he was with let out an ear piercing scream.

Jim strained to see what it was, to make out the shape and suddenly it became clear, suddenly it made sense. It was Duncan, their look out Duncan, crumpled in a ball at the foot of the stairs, crumpled and mangled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

He heard Sheri scream, but the sound was wrong, the sound should have been next to him into his right ear. The sound was to his right but it was being sent behind him, not towards the ghastly vision of Duncan, but at something behind them.

Twisting Jim peered over his shoulder and saw the mist or more correctly, what had been the mist in the center of the floor. The mist had taken shape, had gained a form and now it dangled above the center of the floor, dangled in the form of a man hung on a meat hook, his arms and legs twitching, his face contorted and beaten, his body dangling from the hook that had been inserted into his body.

"Good God," whispered Jim as Sheri screamed again.

The crowd hesitated, unsure of which horror to run from first. Some ran towards the door, the only means of escape, but the door suddenly, violently slammed closed of its own volition. Grabbing Sheri, Jim attempted to circle back in the direction from which they had come, back towards the nook in the wall, but as he looked back at the mist, he saw another figure, several feet to the left of the figure in the center of the room forming ahead of them, hanging in the same manner, twisting and twitching.

Sheri pulled at his arm and they began to join the flood of people, stumbling, cursing, hysterical people surging towards the hall that contained the bathrooms. Jim kept looked back as they ran and kept seeing more and more mist, more and more bodies forming, twitching, grotesque bodies hung on hooks, materializing on hooks and hovering above the dance floor.

He felt himself step on someone, heard people crying out in panic and pain, but he just kept pushing in the direction they were fleeing, squeezing Sheri's hand. Without thinking they jammed their way into the hallway near the bathrooms, people gasping, crying and screaming.

"The door's locked!" screamed a girl at the end of the hall furthest from the dance floor.

"Open it, open it!"

"It's locked! It's locked!"

Jim and Sheri were near the doorway that opened from the hallway into the massive room they had just fled. Turning back towards the room, Jim could see the bodies suddenly begin to fall to the floor, dropping from their hooks and crashing onto the floor. He could make out the features of the faces, the swollen, bloated, battered faces of each person made of mist. Each one slowly rose off the floor, moaning a piteous noise, bodies hunched in agony. They stood where they had hit the floor for some time and then, slowly they turned one by one towards the hallway opening.

Jim turned back, looking into the darkness, screaming, "Open that damn door!"

He was fighting his panic, his fear, but he had to turn back, had to see what they were doing. They had begun to come closer now, walking in a sickening shuffle towards them. He felt Sheri pull her hand out of his as she began to push forward towards the area of the locked door. For his part, Jim could do nothing but stare. In the light provided by the figures, he could see them, slashing at people, ripping them with their hooks and throwing them onto the floor. A flash of greenish light, a scream, an arc of blood and tattered flesh and then another and another. How could it be, they were mist, they were only mist. The conviction grew within him, they could not hurt him, how could they, their hooks weren't real; they were only made of mist...

He heard a girl behind him scream as the first figure gained the door. Jim stared into its face, unable to look away. It glowed with an unnatural greenish light but the features were that of a man. He was in his late thirties and his face had been badly beaten. His lifeless eyes stared out at Jim and then he raised up the hook upon which he had hung. It is mist, thought Jim, I know it is only mist so it can't...

He had never felt such pain, had never felt anything like it before. It felt like cold steel plunging into his body, impaling him where he stood and then ripping its way back towards the entrance wound. He screamed and screamed again, screaming as the figure raised the hook again, screaming as it struck his skull and then he screamed no more.

Sheri had worked her way closer to the door, hysterical, crying and pleading. Her back was towards the figures as they entered the hallway, emptying it, the slashing of their hooks dropping bodies, causing them to fall and twist, filling the air with screams of agony and blood. The screams echoed in the confined space, the terror palpable. Despite her frantic efforts, Sheri's turn had been only slightly delayed. She never saw the hook raised, never saw it slash downwards. The pain was unimaginable, the pain beyond endurance. It lasted but a short time. Her white pants quickly turned red, her shoes, pointed skyward, covered in gore as her body was dragged back towards the growing pile of bodies at the center of the dance floor...

***

The ambulance driver sat on the bumper of his vehicle, trying desperately to catch his breath and not throw up. The police officers stood together, staring out in different directions, careful to avoid eye contact with each other as they swiped at tears that clung to the corners of their eyes.

The inspector, a thin man with sparse hair and a scraggily mustache stood besides the vehicle desperately trying to maintain his composure.

"Are you all right, son?" he asked, anxious to break the silence.

The ambulance driver looked up at him, "I've never seen anything like that. I've worked as an EMT for ten years and I've never seen anything like that..."

"They must have panicked," said the inspector simply. "The lights must have gone out and the door locked and they panicked. They trampled each other, just crushed one another to death..."

The medical examiner, a heavyset man with thick glasses and a heavy brow stepped out into the sunlight and took a deep breath. Moving towards them, he nodded towards the firemen and EMTs who silently began to file into the building. Shaking his head, he found the inspector with the ambulance driver.

"All of them dead," he said softly. "I'm not sure, I did some air quality tests, seems the refrigerant from the old cold storage system let loose. Must have caused hallucinations and then when the lights went out, panic. Worst case of mass hysteria I've ever seen. They're all just crushed, piled in the middle of the floor..." He spat angrily, "What the hell were they thinking, holding a party in this place."

"It's so cold down there..." began the ambulance driver.

"At least it kept the bodies cold until we found them," replied the medical examiner, removing his blood stained gloves. "It's going to take a lot of work to identify them. We'll need dental records, I don't know if we'll be able to get a positive identification for all of them."

"Why would they have a party here?" asked the inspector.

The ambulance driver looked around the parking lot, "Didn't you ever have parties in secluded places when you were a kid, away from prying eyes?"

"We'd sneak down to the barn or over to an abandoned farm," replied the inspector. "A place like this, with its history..."

"What history?" asked the ambulance man, standing and taking a deep breath to try and clear his head.

"He's too young to remember," said the medical examiner. "This was the Johnson Meat Packing plant at one time. After the plant closed down, it was purchased by a family concern from New York."

"Except this family wasn't one with a Mama and Papa," interrupted the inspector. "It was an organized crime family; one of New York's biggest and busiest. They used to bring people who had "disappointed" them down here. They'd string them up on meat hooks and torture them until they spoke or died. They found over seventy bodies buried here..."

"And another thirty or so in the cold storage unit downstairs," added the medical examiner. "I had just started working then. It took us a week to thaw out those bodies. We found them hanging from the ceiling, stiff as boards."

The inspector looked as the first of the bodies was brought into the light of day. Wandering over, he looked down at what was left of someone on a stretcher. Peering beneath the blanket at what was left, he turned away to regain his composure. Might have been a girl at one time... no way to tell... might have been...

### Falling

What the hell was that smell? It smelled like that guy from this morning, the one on the subway who probably hadn't bathed in a year. How did those people even get on the subway? If you didn't have money for a bar of soap, where the hell did you get money for a metro card?

Why did this all have to happen today? First there was the fragrant one on the subway and then the missed connection so that he had to take an alternate train and shove his way in like a sardine. After that, all he had wanted was his morning coffee but even that hadn't gone well. Not only was the coffee bitter but they forgotten to put sugar in it and instead of a bran muffin, they had given him a corn muffin. He would have gone back and told them off if he hadn't been in such a hurry.

It never failed, whenever anything important needed to be done, New York City did its best to ruin his plans. He had prepared all of his paperwork and delivered it last night so that he could have a half hour to put his plan into action this morning, but now he was running ten minutes late. He took a deep breath and ordered himself to focus. Keep your eye on the prize, Derrick; keep your eye on the prize.

He had been watching her since he had first seen her six months ago. He remembered the first day that he had seen her as if it were yesterday; he had run down two flights of stairs with the intention of bawling out Gerry yet again for his shoddy work. How could a guy work his way up to a general manager position in an accounting company and still be unable to do simple math? He remembered being furious, just furious and then stepping into Gerry's office and seeing her standing there talking to Gerry.

Suddenly Gerry and his inability to do math, high finance accounting, career, pretty much everything he had worked for meant nothing, the whole world pretty much stopped. From that day forward he had to struggle to concentrate on anything than today. He worked on his plan for six months; it had to be perfect, perfect like her.

Her name was Erin and she was Gerry's new assistant and she was as bright and intelligent as Gerry was dull and lazy. The bright side to the entire arrangement was that Gerry, being dumb as a stump, gave him ample opportunity to visit their work area. He was constantly coming down the stairs ready to fire Gerry and there she would be, beautiful, intelligent, sexy and sweet Erin. Erin, a beautiful name, a musical name... he laughed to himself, "a musical name". He could not think of a term that was less like him, less how he perceived the world under normal circumstances than "a musical name" and yet Erin made him think it, beautiful Erin, tall, slim, perfect Erin. She would turn to ask him a question, her blue eyes sparkling, her long, straight brown hair shimmering and he would melt. He would start to light into Gerry and she would pop her head in the door and suddenly Gerry's latest mistake wasn't so bad. Suddenly he could find solutions to the stupid situations that Gerry's carelessness had placed them in.

Erin made him think harder, broader, more kindly than anyone else ever had. He was sure that she knew how special he felt she was already. He had spoken to everyone about her as discretely as he could, but he was sure that some of it had gotten back to her. He noticed her shy smile every time she caught him looking at her, which was becoming more frequent. Today had to work, it just had to.

Moving rapidly through the park outside of the building, he pulled out his cell phone and called the florist. The florist assured him for the third time that morning that the order would be delivered at 8:30 am, that she would walk in and find the flower man waiting at her desk just as he had promised. He hung up and reread the card in his mind for the thousandth time, had he said too much, had he said enough? He was no poet that he knew, he wasn't good with words. Numbers, figures, charts, he was your man, no doubt about it but words always eluded him. He struggled when it came time to make presentations, struggled to put his enormous knowledge into simple terms. He had remembered some advice a teacher had given him once, "KISS, Keep it simple stupid." Had he been too simple in the card, was it too direct?

He shook his head as he entered the building and cut across the enormous lobby, streaming through security to the elevator. It was done, you have to let it go, he counseled himself. The card said what it said; it thanked her for making his life better and asked her if they might have dinner. It was a lot to put onto a little card, it was a lot to expose of himself, but it was out there now, nothing to do but wait and see what her response would be.

He checked his watch, 8:07am, less than twenty five minutes. He was almost never nervous, but he felt nerves overtaking him as he entered the elevator. In twenty five minutes he'd know what his future held, he'd know...

"Derrick!"

The voice snapped him out of his reveries, "Derrick, I'm standing here talking to you and you're totally ignoring me."

He looked down into the calm brown eyes of his friend, Reggie, the head of the IT department. "Derrick, I've got that report you've been asking for, why not pick it up now, it's on my desk."

Derrick checked his watch, he could pick up the report, have a short chat with his friend and still be at his desk in time, "Sure, no problem."

Reggie patted him on the back as the elevator opened onto Reggie's floor, "Where are you at? Missed your coffee this morning?"

Derrick gave him a tight smile, deciding against telling the coffee story as they head towards Reggie's office on the far side of the building.

"Just a lot on my mind..."

"Well take it down a notch," laughed Reggie, searching for the key to his office, "it's only Tuesday, you've got a whole week to get through."

"You know me," smiled Derrick, taking the report from his friend, "got to keep moving."

"Do you have a minute?" asked Reggie suddenly. Derrick glanced at the clock on the wall of Reggie's office; there was still a little time.

"Yeah, sure, what's up?"

"It's about Tina and me," replied Reggie.

Derrick closed the door, uncomfortable about the sound in his friend's voice. "What is it?"

"Well," drawled Reggie, sinking into a chair and gesturing Derrick towards one, "she's driving me crazy lately. She's so secretive, so angry all the time."

"Tina?" asked Derrick, surprised. "Are the kids okay?"

"No, man, the kids are fine," replied Reggie softly. "She started this part time job about two months ago, you remember..."

"Oh yeah, she's a legal assistant..."

"Part time secretary," corrected Reggie. "She was really happy there for like the first four, five weeks, and then suddenly, things began to change..."

"What do you mean change?" asked Derrick.

Reggie dropped his voice, "She came home late a couple of times, got stuck on a project or something and then her attitude started to change. She started getting snappy with me and the boys. Last night I suggested that maybe it was too much, you know, three kids and a job and a house and stuff and she just blew up at me, told me I was trying to stifle her." Reggie leaned forward, his voice filled with pain, "I'm beginning to think she's having an affair, Derrick. I don't know what to do..."

"Tina?" whispered Derrick. "No man, no, there's got to be another explanation, I can't believe that, not Tina. Maybe she's just stressed or maybe someone at work is bothering her, did you think of that?"

"She used to talk about the job, but she doesn't anymore," said Reggie. "Things have gotten weird, hostile. I mean, things have gone from good to frigid in the bedroom and I can't seem to look at her without getting her angry..."

"You don't think she's going through some..." how to say it, "woman's issues?"

"She's twenty nine, man," laughed Reggie. "All the parts are still under warranty."

"What are you going to do?" asked Derrick, unable to come up with any idea of his own.

"I don't know," replied Reggie. "I was thinking maybe I would drop the kids at my Mom's this weekend and try to take her away someplace romantic. It's been forever since we went away, just her and me, but I have no idea where to take her."

"Have you ever done the mansion tours up near Hyde Park?" asked Derrick. "There's some great B and B's up there and Tina likes antiquing, that might be nice..."

Reggie stared at him suspiciously, "How do you know about Hyde Park? What do you know about romantic weekends and antiquing?"

Derrick stammered, "I've been on romantic getaways, I haven't been alone forever you know..."

Reggie laughed at his friend's discomfort, "Antiquing? I didn't even know you knew that word. Don't tell me my old friend is slowing down? What will people say, the King of the Club scene is into antiquing, an era has truly ended..."

"It's the last time I try to help you out," snapped Derrick.

"Take it easy, buddy," said Reggie softly. "I'm just teasing. I don't need anyone else turning against me..."

Derrick calmed down, "I'm sorry. Look, no one is against you, I'm sure it's nothing. Just talk to her. Take her away; get her away from those awful children of yours..."

"Hey!" laughed Reggie.

"I'm just trying to help," teased Derrick, rising out of the chair. "Look, man, if you need me, I'm here, okay?"

Reggie stood up and hugged him, "Thanks Derrick, I appreciate it."

"It's going to be nothing," said Derrick. "Mark my words."

He moved across the office space as quickly as he dared, it was already past 8:30am, dammit! He softened, Reggie needed him, and he had done a good thing. Six months ago he would have told him to talk to him after work, he entered the elevator and smiled, it was Erin's influence, he just knew it was.

He took the elevator to his floor and made his way to his office, opening the door and throwing Reggie's report on the desk. He dropped his briefcase on a chair and stared out at the view for a moment... she had to have it by now. If the florist wasn't a lying sack of shit, she had to have the flowers by now. How would she respond? What would she say? What would he say back? He had rehearsed all sorts of speeches, had tried everything from aloof to passionate and they all sounded like nonsense. Should he call downstairs and speak to Gerry? Did Gerry know he sent her flowers? He took a deep breath; you're tying yourself into knots, calm down.

What if she really didn't like him? What if she found the whole idea revolting? Some women didn't date people they worked with; he respected that, but not now, not today. Technically, they did work together in the same division, but in reality, they were in two different departments, it wasn't like they really worked together. He sat at his desk and looked out the window a moment. He was sure the damn florist had lied, was sure she hadn't received the flowers. He could think of no means of retribution that was fitting, how does one make a florist's life a living hell? They're surrounded by flowers all day; it would be like trying to make Willie Wonka miserable.

His phone rang. He jumped about a foot out of his chair and, taking a deep breath, picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Derrick?"

He tried hard to maintain his composure, "Yes, this is Derrick."

"Derrick, this is Erin, I just got your beautiful flowers..."

"Did you like them?" he asked too quickly.

"They're gorgeous," she replied. "I just read your note; would it be all right if I came up to your office for a chat?"

"Of course," he laughed, "I'd love that, please, come up."

"I'll be up in a few minutes," she said and hung up.

He couldn't believe his heart could race this fast while he was in a seated position. It was pounding against his ribs like a jack hammer, he was breathing like he had just run a marathon. Calm down, you don't want to die before she gets here. He started to run the conversation through his mind, "I just read your note, would it be all right if I came up to your office for a chat?" A chat? Was that good or bad? Chat? Was she being flirty or was she angry? Had he embarrassed her? Oh God, what if he had embarrassed her? What if she was angry with him, what if the flowers were gorgeous but his overture to her had been clumsy and badly worded? Why had he sent a card? He should have spoken to her, in a public place, this way no one could have heard him, now she had a written record. Oh, God, oh God what did chat mean?

The knock at his office door almost caused him to scream. He checked his forehead, he was sweating. Taking a deep breath, he called out as calmly as he could manage, "Come in."

The door swung open, she was wearing a blue business suit with a white, satin blouse and as she entered, the sunlight illuminated her hair and made it shimmer and shine. It was all slow motion now, all happening in slow motion. She looked at him with those eyes, those incredible blue eyes and considered him for a moment and then it happened; she smiled. In that instant he knew, he knew they would marry and have kids and a house and a big sloppy dog, he knew that they would fight and make up and see each other in embarrassing positions. He knew they would make love, passionate love and that they would cry together and laugh together and grow old together. His whole world, past, present and future radiated from that smile, everything he had ever wanted or would ever want stood before him. She opened her mouth to speak and then she was gone.

There was no noise, that was perhaps the oddest thing, everything happened in an eerie stillness. It was silent, it all happened in silence, there was no sound; perhaps human hearing could not process a sound like that, he would never know. He saw the fire, the huge, all engulfing ball of flame hurling towards her back. It happened instantly, she never reacted, never turned, never spoke, the flame engulfed her as she stood there smiling, the word he longed to hear forming on her lips. It swallowed her, engulfed her, leaving nothing of her, nothing. She was there and then simply, she wasn't, she was gone.

In his grief and disbelief, he felt the force of it, felt the force of the air rushing towards him, lifting him, hurling him through the windows just as the flame embraced him and swallowed him. The flames struck him with the force of a river, drowning him in the intense heat. How long he was submerged, who could say? An hour, a minute, an eternity, all and none, who could say? For a moment there was excruciating pain and then, nothing, no pain; no pain when his body was shred by the glass, no pain as the fire consumed his clothing and his skin, no pain as parts of the building and furnishings pelted him, embedding themselves in what was left of his body, leaving him a falling cinder. He stared up at the ball of flame as he fell from it, watched as it belched skyward and then disappeared for a moment into a black ball of smoke before reappearing in the orange tongues that licked the side of the building. Looking up, he could see the two buildings, one mortally wounded, one blithely unaware of its fate, looming above him, growing taller with each moment.

Paper floated above and around him like eagles, soaring majestically, twisting in the wind, arcing, swaying, riding the wind currents. Twisting in the air, turning he glanced the ground reaching up towards him, moving rapidly to embrace him. He saw the tiny figures below growing larger, the non-distinct faces peering up in wonder and horror. He had no control over his body, no feeling in what was left of him; there was nothing but motion and an unholy stillness.

He mourned the truth then, she would have said yes, would have said yes to dinner and then to a life together. Oddly, it was his only regret, perhaps because it was the only thing that had ever truly mattered. He twisted again and peered at the sky, the beautiful blue sky being smudged by dirty, black smoke. He knew she was that smoke, it held her and all they might have been, it held everything he had ever wanted and he watched it linger before it began its journey upwards. He twisted, his perspective distorted, saw the world falling towards him, the world moving at incredible speed as he floated stationary in the silence, waiting for the world that without her no longer mattered and about which he could no longer seem to care.

Suddenly, he stopped. Now came the oddest sensation; after he had stopped, he slowly began to fall again, to fall up, cascading gently skyward, falling towards the smoke and the blue sky beyond it. He found himself falling towards her, falling towards their promise. He fell skywards until he found her. She was still smiling as he took her hand. He knew he would never fall again.

### 9/11 Litany

### by Mac Zazski

### My angels sang a hymn, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### Lost amongst the din, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### As the buildings laid life down, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### Amongst the wind's harsh sound, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### Above the panicked screams, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### Above the broken dreams, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### Above the choking smoke, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### By lies, My Name invoked, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### Above your loved one's tears, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### Above official's fears, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### Above the shattered world, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### My arms to you, unfurled, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### And Peace, My gift, I gave, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### And comfort to the saved, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### And blessings to those lost, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### Unburdened of their Cross, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### To children, not yet born, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### My love to each, that morn, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### To the scar stung ground, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### Above that awful sound, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### My love for you abound, as you climbed your way to heaven,

### And my angels sang a hymn, as you came to Me in heaven.
Hunted Like Animals

Martina Kraus lay panting in the narrow crawl space, the vicious winter wind cutting past the wooden walls behind her and causing her to shiver. The sweat that drenched her body felt as if it were turning to ice as the wind howled relentlessly against the thin wall. Martina took a breath and tried to hold it but was unable to do so. She had run faster than she had ever run, run to out run the guards and their dogs and the bullets that had been sent after her. She had never known flight like this, the mindless, thoughtless, panic filled flight of the animal, the sheer terror of trying to protect one's life at any cost.

She heard the door downstairs, heard the slow creak of its opening and then footsteps. She heard the soldiers, one by one, entering the building, their feet caressing the wooden planks of the floors downstairs as they leisurely made a search of the house. She strained to hear but could not make out the sound of dogs anywhere. If they kept the dogs outside she had a chance.

Leaning her head against the outside wall, she focused on the sounds below, forcing herself to breathe as little as possible. If only she could stop breathing all together until she knew they were gone. A new thought entered her mind and she inhaled slowly, trying to detect if she emitted an odor. She had not bathed in days, weeks, might her scent be strong enough for a man to detect? Leaning back in the tiny crawl space, she pressed herself against the freezing outer wall and listened.

A footstep on the stairs and then the slow, deliberate march of feet upon the steps, the sounds growing closer, stronger, more distinct with each passing second... They were in the room, in the room outside the false panel, inside the room just beyond the crawl space. She could offer no defense against them, she had no weapon, nothing with which to assist herself if they located the panel. The panel would slide open and she would be there, standing in a space barely large enough to hold her even in her emaciated state. They would reach for her, grab her, have her and she could do nothing to stop them. She had no weapons, not even a stick to defend herself against them. What good would a stick do against guns and dogs and strong, well fed men who would lash out with clubs and boots and hatred? Better to have no weapons, better to have nothing, perhaps they would only beat her a little if they caught her...

She would be sent to a concentration camp, that was for sure, a camp to be worked to death or starved to death or gassed or shot. She did not think they would kill her here, no; they liked to take fugitives and parade them through the streets. The Gestapo liked to make a spectacle, liked to show how efficient they were to the people. Yes, we caught her, this Jew, this parasite and now you have nothing to fear. You can return to your lives without fear of contamination, without fear of a non-Aryan amongst you...

Martina wet her lips as she heard someone tap upon the panel. There was a curious shuffling of feet, as if someone else had moved closer to inspect what the knocking had produced. There was more knocking, did they know? Did they suspect? She tried to stop her breathing, tried to hold her breath and prayed they did not hear her heart beating through her chest. Two voices, then three, all muted, all just beyond the panel, all standing less than a foot from her. Martina felt the sweat beginning to pour down her body despite the freezing temperature. Her hands convulsed at hers sides, her nerves barely able to keep them from slapping against the wood that surrounded her like a coffin. Slowly the voices stopped. No, no they had not stopped, they were still speaking, but they were moving slowly across the floor, moving slowly away from her. Martina blinked rapidly, was it a trick? Did they want to see if she would come out once they were gone? Slowly the shuffling of feet towards the door continued and then... a click! Someone had shut off the light! Was it a trick? Yes? No?

The sound of feet carelessly tramping on the landing outside the room brought her almost inexpressible joy. They were leaving! Yes leaving! By tonight, she would be out and away, out of Berlin, out into the country. She would never stop running until she found a place where she would never have to run again.

She brought her hand to her mouth and bit on her knuckles, trying to suppress her joy, tears rolling down her checks. Then she heard it, a second click. Was it the light switch? No, something else...

The crack of the gun going off had barely reached her as the bullet rammed through the wall and struck her hard in the chest. Her body slammed against the frozen, wooden, outside wall again and again as the bullets tore the panel in front of her too pieces. At the last the firing ceased and the room light was switched on again. A tramp of feet brought three soldiers to the panel. The largest was a handsome man with light blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. His smile was dimpled and mischievous and he nodded to his companions, who instantly brought their rifles up over their heads and hammered the skewered panels with the butts of the guns. The panel splinted and then fell to the floor revealing the battered corpse of the young girl behind it.

"Jurgen, you are amazing," laughed one of the soldiers, a handsome, dark haired man. "How did you know..."

"Really John," Jurgen responded good naturedly. "When you hunt animals, you have to think like an animal. If you were hunting a squirrel in your home, where would you expect it to hide?"

John laughed, "In the attic or in the walls."

"Well this place has no attic, does it? No, so that leaves the walls."

"But how did you know it was this wall?"

Jurgen shrugged, "I have to keep some secrets to myself, don't I? Get a work detail in here to clean up this mess. Herr Schimmer tells me that he believes he has a nest of Jews in his neighborhood that needs cleaning out."

"I almost feel sorry for them with you on the job," replied John, his admiration uncontained.

"Never feel sorry for the animals you hunt," snapped Jurgen. "You lose your edge. Remember that!"

***

Michael Cohen stood in center aisle of the cramped propeller plane, eyeing his twenty troopers for signs of fatigue. It had been a long, complicated trip and now that they were within hours of their goal, he did not want anything to hamper their chance at success. Fatigue was the enemy, he knew, the component that put the error in the "human error" one read about in reports more often than any other factor. Spending a week high on adrenaline, knowing that the mission for which one had trained for so many years was finally to be enacted drove some men beyond the limit; fatigue, exhaustion and then mistakes, costly mistakes.

Michael checked each man's eyes, no; they were ready, tense, excited. Fatigue would come later. He cleared his throat and each man's head snapped towards him, all eyes focused upon their commander.

"You know the plan, you know what to do. We will be on the ground in an hour. Our contacts will meet us with transportation and then, we must move carefully. Remember, there will be no assistance beyond what we ourselves can do for one another. Our contacts have arranged transportation and a limited diversion, but beyond that, they can do no more. It is our job."

"Once we are in the compound, you know your assignments. I expect each man to follow his orders to the letter; there is no room for deviation. If you deviate, you put the man next to you at risk and I will not have ANY of my men put at risk unnecessarily, do you understand?"

"SIR, YES SIR!" roared back the soldiers.

Michael considered it. Yes, they were high on adrenaline and that could be worse than fatigue. He paused a moment.

"Each of you must remember that we are hunting a dangerous criminal. Our job is to see him brought to justice, not to act as his executioner, so remember, unless I give the order, he is to be taken alive. ALIVE."

Michael turned and marched to the front of the plane. He had his orders and he would obey them, but he prayed that he would not be put to the test. In his heart he knew, he knew he would give the order without a seconds remorse.

***

The bouncing of the plane brought Jurgen back to his senses. Shaking his head slowly, he opened his eyes and peered down the cramped, dimly lit cabin. He looked down at his hands, gnarled and spotted, thick purple veins protruding from thin, bronzed skin. He was old now, so much older than he wanted to be. He tried to stretch his arms, but his age and the cuffs at his wrists restricted his movement. The soldier next to him bumped into him, swaying in rhythm to the movement of the plane's motion, sleeping an exhausted sleep.

Jurgen smiled and leaned back in his seat, it had been a long day. It had started out as most of the days since his "retirement" had begun, a leisurely breakfast on his veranda overlooking his coffee groves.

He should have known that something was amiss, he had slept soundly the night before; he had not slept soundly, peacefully, in years. Since the Fuehrer's death, he had had the unsettling habit of dreaming of his triumphs. He would awaken and then fall into a depression followed by fury. If he had done more, perhaps if he had shared more of his techniques with his friends, might things have gone differently?

He was having his second cup of coffee and reading the German language paper, reading the personal column to see if there were any messages and listening to the Spanish language radio announcer droning on about the weather report when he heard the first shot. It came from his left and from the front of his house.

Forcing his elderly legs to move, he wrenched himself from his chair and drove himself quickly into the house. He was headed for his bedroom, for the safe room that had been built behind the closet when he saw the first soldier. He was surprised at how young he looked, his face thin, his dark hair curly beneath his helmet. The man had no idea he was there, if had been armed, he would have been able to add to his total right then and there. He watched the soldier, paratrooper, thought Jurgen as he dropped into a crouch and shuffled in behind his sofa. The shooting was becoming more pronounced, more distinct and more constant. He could hear his guards being driven back towards the other side of the house, further and further away from him. He had to remain out of the enemies hands until his men could counter-attack.

Suddenly a heavy hand forced him to the floor, causing him to kneel. Twisting to face his attacker he saw another soldier dressed like the first, but heavier and older, with some sort of command insignia on his shoulder. In his right hand he held a gun, in his left a white, damp, cloth. Jurgen lurched to his right, the soldier surprised by the speed with which he moved, but the surprise bought him only a momentary reprieve. Moving towards the door, he felt an arm wrap around his waist and then the cloth covering his mouth. He held his breath for as long as possible, but it was no use. One brief inhale and sleep overtook him.

He had awakened in the back of a van which the heat of the day had turned into an oven. He was lying on the floor, cuffed and bound, surrounded by several soldiers. Peering out the rear window, he saw other vans following in their dusty wake. Bounding down the gravel and dirt road, Jurgen knew they were headed towards the airport.

"Who are you and why do you kidnap an innocent man?" he wailed.

"We have come to see that justice is served, that those lives you took so long ago, Jurgen Alfhanz, are avenged!" snapped the man who had chloroformed him.

"I know no Jurgen Alfhanz," he replied defiantly. "I am an Argentine citizen, my name is John Reynolds and you have no right to touch me!"

"You are Jurgen Alfhanz and you are responsible for the deaths of thousands," replied Michael angrily. "You cannot fool us with your false papers and fabricated history. Justice may take time, but it will have its day."

"Kidnapping a man from his native place; that is justice?" snapped Jurgen.

"More justice than you ever allowed any of your victims," replied Michael.

"Let me silence him now," snapped one of the younger soldiers.

Michael hesitated, "No, no. Do that and he wins. The world will see what he is; the world will know what he has done."

Jurgen watched the back window expectantly as they approached the airport; sure that his security team would rescue him, but nothing happened. As the plane bounced down the crumbling runway, he resigned himself to his fate. A good soldier always assessed his situation honestly, he thought. I am at the mercy of my enemies.

He ate the proffered evening meal with good humor and took a nap. The jolting of the plane woke him and now he found himself thinking. He had been an alpha predator, capable of finding any man, woman or child. Every difficult case, every baffling disappearance had been given to him and he had always found the subhuman, had always hunted them to their extinction. After the war, with the fires still raging, he had joined a group of officers and had managed to find his way out of the flames of their lost crusade to Argentina. He had helped others, had rescued who he could and had kept a low profile.

Looking about him he scoffed. He had hunted animals like an animal, had tracked and brought down his game with cool calculation, cunning and strength. These men were not hunters, were to him as an ant is to God. A hunter killed his prey, but these sub-humans could not even do that. They had waited until he was too old to resist and then had sent girl scouts to tie him up and lead him away. Justice, he laughed, the only justice was glory.

***

The robed Justice stared out at Jurgen Alfhanz from beneath his black gown and prepared to pronounce the verdict of the court. Jurgen Alfhanz sat indifferently in the dock, ignoring the justice and spectators and the world in general. It had been a farce from start to finish, a show trial to satisfy their need for "justice" before they killed him. The Justice asked him if he had anything to say before the court pronounced sentence.

Jurgen rose defiantly and glared about the courtroom.

"I was a soldier, charged with a mission by my government, a fact that you wish to kill me for because I fulfilled my orders. You sent soldiers to hunt me, even as I hunted the enemies of my government, it is no different. Like me they stalked their prey, like me they laid their traps and made their plans, but here is the difference. My government was not hypocritical like their government. My government did not bow before the weak and proclaim the need to satisfy an imaginary god, a god whom you call justice! My government saw a problem, ordered a solution and fulfilled its mission to protect its citizens. Their government sent them to capture me, twenty heavily armed soldiers to capture an old man, an old man who knows the truth, an old man they still fear. You risked their lives to serve a lie. Now you will kill me as I killed those who were the enemies of my people and you will say it was done for justice and justice alone, but it is a lie. You are no different than we were, you kill your enemies because they are your enemies and for no other reason. You are too weak to say the truth; you will kill me because you hate me, just as I killed you because I hate you. You will always be the weaker."

***

The unit sat eating their lunch in the mess hall. They had been congratulated by the Prime Minister and had been acclaimed by the media. Still, several of the troop sat, eating lunch quietly, deeply troubled.

Michael entered the room, food tray in hand and took a seat amongst the two men who sat silently at the end of the hall. He did not attempt small talk; he said nothing, knowing it was best that they came to him.

Finally, one of the young soldiers looked up and spoke quietly to his commander, his voice slow and whispering, "Tell me commander, was he right? Are we no different than they were? We hunted him like an animal just as he hunted us."

Michael sat holding his coffee cup thoughtfully. Looking at the soldier, he replied, "There is a difference. They hunted us because they thought we had no humanity, we hunt them because their actions denied their humanity. The methods of the hunt, the rituals may be similar, but the result is far different. They ended up with a stack of corpses..."

"And us?" asked the young soldier.

The commander considered it, "We end up contemplating the needless loss of life, both hunted and hunter. We seek to nourish the conscience, they sought to kill it. An animal hunts because it is hungry and it is part of the cycle of life. When a man seeks out a man, he does it to either gain knowledge or render justice. An animal hunts without a conscience; there is no need for one. A man who hunts needs even more of a conscience or he becomes something worse than an animal."

Learned

The galloping horse caused a large cloud of dust that Edward tried his best to ignore as the rider reigned in his mount and brought the massive animal to a halt. The rider, Sebastian Edwards III, was the son of a prominent Virginia tobacco grower and the most elegant man in Richmond. Tall and handsome, with shoulder length brown hair that fell in curls, he sat confidently in his saddle, his beige suit showcasing an admirable set of shoulders that tapered down to a compact waist. Removing his plumed hat, he swept it low to Edward, calling out to him in a congenial manner.

"Well Edward, what do you think of her, hey?"

Edward was tall and thin, dressed in white pants and shirt, black shoes and a dark coat that caused him to sweat profusely in the merciless southern sun. His dark skin glistened and his sad eyes looked up at Master Sebastian with a numb expression. "Beautiful hoss, Master Sebastian, beautiful, but don't you think it's a might hot to be ridin' it so hard?"

Sebastian considered it and then smoothly dismounted the massive animal, patting it affectionately on the neck as he moved towards Edward. Stroking his expertly manicured mustache, Sebastian spoke brusquely.

"Perhaps you are right, Edward, perhaps. Very well, enough riding for today, it is a bit warm. Go and see if Percy has any iced tea and if so, bring me a large tumbler of it. Quick now, quick!"

Edward stumbled through the heat towards the mansion, sweat pouring down his face. Perhaps Percy would have some water in the kitchen, he'd give his very soul for some water. The field hands watched Edward out of the corner of their eyes, thankful that he was Master Sebastian's valet and not them. Better to work in the heat and sweat than have to deal with that man, they muttered as he stumbled past.

Gaining the kitchen, Edward called out, "Percy, Percy, Master Sebastian wants some iced tea!"

Percy, a thin and somber woman with sad, black eyes swept slowly into the kitchen. She had had seven children before her husband had died and had watched each sold south, never to be seen again. The other slaves deferred to Percy in all matters, her wisdom born of the most intense suffering of any of them. She eyed Edward and her features softened slightly.

"Don't fret, Edward, I've got some here. How 'bout for you?"

Edward shuffled uncertainly, "I'd just about die for a drink of water."

Percy smiled, a joyless, pained expression.

"Here, put this tea in a glass and I'll get you some water."

Edward had put the tea in a glass with a sprig of mint and hastily consumed the glass of water Percy offered him.

"Be brave, Edward," she said softly, taking the glass from his hand.

Edward gave a frightened start.

Lowering her voice, Percy eyed him meaningfully, "Be brave, Edward. You're all that's between us and him. Be brave, for all of us."

Edward looked down and nodded, "Best to get this to Master Sebastian."

Placing the tea on a tray, he set off in search of his master, who stood addressing his mother on the veranda. Melanie Edwards, Sebastian's mother, was a proud, substantial woman with dark hair, light eyes and a cruel mouth. Melanie did not suffer fools gladly, nor most anyone else for that matter and from her expression one could see that she was not suffering her son very well at the moment.

Edward sidled up to Sebastian, who took the glass from his tray with no acknowledgement, his entire attention focused on his unhappy mother.

"Damned stupid, Sebastian, that's all I can say. You're too impulsive, just too impulsive, it always has been your problem and will be the death of you! You don't think, you just don't think! Two hundred dollars wasted, just thrown in the gutter and why? Because he scraped your boots..."

"It was done on purpose," replied Sebastian defensively. "I will not be made a fool of by one of my own slaves..."

"He was my slave, Sebastian, not yours," corrected Melanie. "A big, fine field hand and you beat him to death. Your father would be appalled by the waste, he hated waste..."

"I told him to remove the mud from my boots and he took a hoe to them, a HOE!" Sebastian bristled, "Pure insolence, that's what it was..."

"Why did you ask a field hand to clean your boots?" asked Melanie. "You have Edward for that, so why ask him to do it?"

"The mud came from his field," replied Sebastian reasonably. "Edward was in the house, you certainly didn't want me walking through the house in muddy boots..."

"Two hundred dollars, Sebastian," clucked Melanie. "I paid two hundred dollars for him and you beat him dead. A waste, an absolute waste of money, plus the cost of the boots, let's not forget that! Really Sebastian, you will be the death of me."

Sebastian laughed carelessly, "Did you see my fine new horse? It runs like the wind, oh it is a beautiful creature..."

"Speaking of beautiful creatures," purred Melanie. "A letter arrived for you today."

Sebastian was instantly alert.

"A letter? From where? Let's have it."

His mother reached down into the folds of her sleeve and pulled forth a small, white envelope.

"From the lettering, I would say a lady wrote it," she said casually.

Sebastian snatched the letter from her and tore it open greedily. Peering at the short note, he twirled his mustache rakishly and let out a whoop of joy.

"She has come to her senses, mother," he cried. "Evangeline has come to her senses, listen to this; "My Dearest, Won't you visit me at my uncle's house? I long to see you and hold again the cause of my perfect happiness. Do not delay my love, Yours, Evangeline" I knew it mother, I knew she could not stay mad. I will make that girl mine!"

"How will you respond, Sebastian?"

Looking at her, he smiled, "Why the only way I can. Edward, pack our things, we are going to Maryland!"

Melanie frowned, "I don't like it Sebastian. This girl plays with your affections. Why not invite her here?"

"Nonsense, mother," replied Sebastian with a laugh. "The knight does not ask his lady fair to journey to him, it is he who must make the quest. Edward, pack our things for a fortnight and be quick about it."

Edward bolted towards the back of the house. Entering the kitchen he confronted Percy who stared at him expectantly.

"We're going to Maryland, I have to pack the Master," he said quickly as he hurried up the back stairs towards his master's bedroom.

"Trunk's in the attic," said Percy softly. "Do you need help fetchin' it?"

"No, I'm okay gettin' it," replied Edward.

Percy watched him disappear up the stairs and offered a silent prayer for Edward's safety. Master Sebastian was never a good traveler.

***

The trip to Hagerstown had been long and painful for Edward. Master Sebastian was an unreasonable man normally, but even more dangerous and unpredictable when bored and drunk, which he was the majority of the time when traveling. Many were the nights that had ended in senseless beatings, but Edward always managed to escape his master's wrath enough to appear the next day, somber, respectful and alive. Finally they had reached Maryland and Hagerstown and realizing that his interview with his lady love was eminent, Sebastian had remained sober and began to practice his manners.

After obtaining lodging in the grandest hotel available, Sebastian rented a splendid mare from the livery stable across from the railroad station. With Edward trotting behind in the dust, he made his was out of town in search of the address from which Evangeline had sent her letter. It was only about a half hour later that Sebastian drew up in front of a large stone mansion surrounded by ornate iron gates.

"This looks to be the place," stated Sebastian happily. "My precious girl will soon by mine, Edward and then you will have a master and a mistress to care for. Now should I ride up on my horse or should I dismount? The proper entrance is critical in these matters."

"If I might say so, Master Sebastian," said Edward softly, "perhaps its best you let me take the hoss to the stables. If the lady sees you and wants to take yo' hand, you be too far away if you were perched up there on top of this hoss."

Sebastian considered it, "You might have something there, Edward. Very well, but don't take it to the stables quite yet. Wait here, we'll see if she's home. If she greets me on the porch, take the animal to the stables and go 'round back to the kitchen in case I need you."

Sebastian stepped upon the front porch and caught his reflection in the windows of the front door. Smoothing his hair, he stepped boldly forward and knocked. After a moment, a prim, elderly woman stepped to the door, opening it slowly.

"Can I help you?"

"My name is Sebastian Edwards the third," replied the dashing young man. "I am here to call upon Miss Evangeline."

The woman eyed him curiously.

"Miss Evangeline is with her sister, Miss Emma, in the parlor. Would you mind waiting here? I will fetch her."

A moment later, Sebastian heard an uncertain step approaching the door. Evangeline was even more beautiful than he remembered her, her dark hair falling in waves about her face, her brown eyes soft and warm, her figure lithe and inviting.

"Sebastian," she said quietly, uncertainly. "What are you doing here?"

"I came in answer to your summons," replied Sebastian, sweeping her a low bow. "When a lady such as yourself says that she requires a gentleman to present himself, that gentleman would be a fool if he did not move heaven and earth to see that her wish is granted. Of course, Richmond to Hagerstown isn't exactly heaven and earth, but I can attest to you that it was a substantial journey in the heat."

"But Sebastian, I didn't summon you," she replied. "I thought I had been most clear about how things stood at our last meeting."

"But this note," replied Sebastian, producing the missive that had brought him to her.

Evangeline took the letter tentatively from his hand and read it. "Sebastian, how did you come by this?"

"Come, come, my darling," replied Sebastian good naturedly. "It is natural to have second thoughts. We both must admit that ours has been a tumulous relationship, but I know with you by my side, I can be a better man."

"This letter was not sent to you," she replied, her temper barely controlled.

At that moment, Evangeline's sister, Emma, appeared at the door. She was shorter than her sister, but with the same dark haired, brilliant eyed beauty.

"Evangeline, is everything all right?" Emma asked quietly, eyeing the dashing stranger who stood on the porch.

"Emma, this is Mister Sebastian Edwards from Richmond, Virginia. You recall me telling you about him when I wrote to you last summer from Aunt Rita's home."

Sebastian swept Emma a courtly bow, "Charmed, ma'am."

Emma smiled, unsure of what she had interrupted.

"Charmed..." Turning to Evangeline, she continued, "Perhaps you would like to invite Mister Edwards in for some tea..."

Evangeline seemed uncertain, but then, "Of course, where are my manners. Won't you come in, Sebastian."

After watching his master disappear into the house, Edward took the horse to the stables and made his way to the rear entrance, knocking softly on the door. Receiving no response, Edward opened the door and slowly, tentatively, entered the kitchen. The kitchen was a large, open room with a fireplace to the left and a large table to the right. In front of the fire place, a thin, Irish woman stooped, working diligently over a pot. Turning to the right, beyond the table, Edward saw a stool in the corner and perched upon it a long limbed, dark skinned boy of eleven. The boy sat with his legs drawn up, his heels resting upon the stool seat. His chin rested upon his arms which rested upon his knees and he looked at Edward with growing recognition. Slowly lowering himself to the floor, the boy stared in fascination at the man who stood at the door, the sunlight streaming behind him, hiding the features of his face.

Edward choked back tears and said softly, "Hello, boy."

The young boy ran the last two steps and wrapped his arms around Edward, letting out a low wail as Edward hugged him tightly.

"What the hell is all this then?" said a sharp, high pitched voice near the fireplace.

Edward looked up, holding the boy protectively and peered at the Irish cook who stood glowering at them, hands on hips.

"My name is Edward," he said softly. "My master, Sebastian Edwards the third is in your parlor visiting with your mistress, Miss Evangeline. He told me to wait here in case he had need of me."

The woman's features softened ever so slightly.

"What's this?" she asked again, pointing to the boy.

"This here's my son," said Edward. "Master Sebastian gave him as a gift to Miss Evangeline when they was keeping company."

The woman considered it.

"Set yourself down," she crabbed. "Have you eaten?"

"Not yet today ma'am," replied Edward mournfully.

"Boy, get me a plate and then fetch us some water," she barked at Edward's son. "Get going."

"Do what the missus says, boy," said Edward softly.

The boy reluctantly let go and moved to obey as Edward made his way to the table and sat down. The Irish woman continued to glower at him as she took the plate from the boy and began to put some bread and meat on it from the larder. Handing it to Edward, she found him a fork and then sat opposite him.

"He's a good boy," she stated, "quiet and respectful. Miss Evangeline gave him to me to train, he spends his day with me."

"Thank you for taking care of him, missus," replied Edward softly, eating slowly.

"Don't thank me," she replied sternly. "I'm doing my job, that's all. Now eat and keep your ears open. I've heard about your master and I don't think he likes calling twice."

"No, missus," replied Edward.

"You'll have work to do," stated the woman, drawing closer. "Keep your mouth shut and listen to me and everything will turn out by the grace of God."

After bringing Edward his glass of water, the boy resumed his perch upon the stool while the cook spoke, her sharp tones muted. Out of the corner of his eye, Edward watched his boy, working hard to concentrate on what the cook was saying. As he finished his meal, they all heard the unmistakable sounds of a carriage drawing up outside of the house. A knock at the door brought the cook to the alert.

Moving to the door of the kitchen that opened out onto the passage way leading to the main house, she listened intently. Signalling Edward to follow her, she moved stealthily down the hallway, stopping in a niche beneath the main stairway. Motioning Edward to be silent, she strained her ears to listen.

Edward could not make out the words being said in the parlor, could only ascertain the tones of the voices speaking. The volume suddenly grew and it became apparent that two men were engaged in a violent disagreement. Suddenly the doors of the parlor burst open and the inhabitants tumbled out into the hallway. The Irish woman flung her arm out and behind her, forcing Edward back into the darkness of the niche. The two men stood, roaring at each other in the middle of the hall, Miss Evangeline and Miss Emma, each clinging to a drawing room door, begged the two men to stop.

"You're a dog, sir," yelled one of the men, a tall, blue eyed man with short cut, dark hair. His clean shaven face was purple with rage as he railed at the other. "Coming all this way to force your affections upon my fiancé..."

"I was summoned by your fiancé," replied Sebastian heatedly. "It is obvious to everyone that she prefers the attentions of a real man to the simpering half promises of your mother's fairest daughter!"

The dark haired man stepped forward and slapped Sebastian hard across the face with a pair of gloves that had been held at his waist by his tunic belt.

"I demand satisfaction, sir," he spat. "I will meet you on the field of honor where the streak of yellow that runs down your back will shine bright and unmistakeable."

"Name your weapons, sir," replied Sebastian.

"My seconds will call on you this evening," replied the other man. "Do not attempt to slink back down to that hole in Richmond from which you sprang for I shall have my satisfaction if I have to chase you to the ends of the earth."

"You will have no need to look for me," replied Sebastian. Turning to Evangeline and Emma, he offered a low, courtly bow. "Ladies."

Edward slipped back into the kitchen, the Irish woman fast on his heels.

"Go now," she ordered, "get going or it will go poorly for you."

Sliding out the door, Edward stared back at his son, there was no time.

"You do whatever the missus says boy," he called out. "Remember, whatever she says."

Running to the stable, he found Sebastian ranting at the stable boy. Upon seeing Edward, Sebastian flew into a fresh fury. Slapping Edward repeatedly for making him wait, he mounted the horse and spurred it down the drive, Edward limping clumsily behind in the dust.

***

The field was shielded from the road by a large stand of trees, its green grass waving gently in the morning breeze. The six men stood in the center of the field, the two opponents opposite each other, the four seconds standing in pairs between them. On the end of the field furthest from the road Edward stood holding the reigns of his master's horse. He could see Master Sebastian, his white shirt gleaming in the light of the rising sun as he picked a pistol from the box proffered by the seconds. He saw the other man take the second gun and balance it in his hand before bringing it to an upright position. The seconds placed the two men back to back and signaled for them to begin walking. Edward watched as the two men covered about half the length of the field before halting and then turning to face each other.

Edward had seen Master Sebastian duel before and he knew that his master would offer no quarter. Besides being an excellent shot, Sebastian took great pleasure in killing. At a signal from the seconds, he saw both men level their weapons and the eruption of smoke. A moment later, the crack of the pistol shots reached his ears. He watched the two men in the growing light and saw the one furthest from him stumble backwards and then pitch to the ground. The fallen man's seconds began to run towards him while his opponent stood motionless.

Suddenly, several men burst through the tree line, their group of about ten separating, one party heading towards the striken man, the other headed towards the opponent who remained motionless. One of the new comers looked up to see if there was anyone else who had witnessed the event. Looking up to the far end of the field, he saw a horse, but nothing more.

***

Evangeline and Emma sat, crying in the parlor. Their mother, Miss Edna sat composing a note at the writing table, dashing off a telegram to her husband demanding that he return home immediately.

"Evangeline," she began, motioning the boy to take the letter, "it is not your fault. Men will fight for women, it is the way of things." Turning to the boy she said softly, "Take this to the telegraph office. See that it is sent to Mister Jenkins, the address is on it. Hurry now and stay there and wait for the reply."

"But I did not send him that note, mother," sobbed Evangeline. "I sent nothing to Sebastian. I wanted nothing more to do with him."

"Then you should be happy that he was the one killed," replied Miss Edna reasonably.

"But they've arrested Roger," began Evangeline.

"Judge Morsten said that he would be fined, nothing more," said Emma as she wiped her tears. "I just can't believe that the fine young man who stood here just yesterday is dead."

"It is a shame," agreed Miss Edna, "but I still do not understand, Evangeline. The letter that he presented seemed to be in your hand and it was on your stationary..."

"I did not send it," wailed Evangeline. "I've told you before, I broke off with Sebastian. Yes, Emma, he was a fine looking man, but he was cruel, a drunkard and completely irresponsible. Oh yes, I should not speak ill of the dead, but lies cannot bring him back or change what he was. I wrote that note, but I did not write it to Sebastian, I wrote it to Roger and I know that Roger received it because he arrived yesterday just after Sebastian did. That note he presented was a copy of the note I wrote!"

"Don't be ridiculous," said Emma, "how would someone copy your letter? It was even on your stationary?"

"I don't know, I don't know," wailed Evangeline, falling into her mother's arms. "I didn't send it, I tell you. I never sent Sebastian a note."

***

The boy took the message to the telegraph office and saw that it was sent to Evangeline's father as the mistress had directed. As he sat in the telegraph office, he saw the cook moving quickly up the street. Peering into the window, she motioned to him to follow her. He rose quickly and stepped out the door and into the street.

"Come here, boy," she snapped.

The boy moved to her with rapid strides.

"Follow me," she instructed, continuing down the street.

The boy rushed to keep up, the woman moving rapidly through the crowds. Turning down an alley way, they made their way towards a livery stable. The cook suddenly ducked back down a side street leading towards the rear of the building, the boy in hot pursuit. At the back of the livery stable stood a large wagon filled with various supplies with two large horses harnessed to it. A large man with a broad rimmed hat and a wide, open face fringed by a dark beard stood next to the wagon, his meaty hands holding a ledger book in one hand while he recorded figures with a pencil he held in the other.

The cook moved up to the man and nodded towards the boy. The man looked up, gave a slight smile and moved to the back of the wagon. With one hand, he grabbed a tarp that was tied around some furniture and flung it skywards. Beneath the tarp nestled between a bureau and a chair sat Edward, his hand hovering above his dark eyes as he squinted against the early morning light.

"Get up there," snapped the cook. The boy sprang onto the back of the wagon, into his father's arms as the cook handed them the bundle she was carrying. "Now you two keep quiet and don't move a muscle. I made some bread and there's some meat and cheese in there as well. You do whatever Jacob tells you to do and boy, don't let me ever hear about you doing anything you shouldn't because I will come and deal with you."

The boy nodded, tears in his eyes, mouthing the words, "Thank you," as the cook helped the big man pull the tarp back down and secure it to the boards on the side of the wagon.

"I can stay out shopping for another hour or so," stated the cook to Jacob. "After that they'll get suspicious. Above an hour, I can't guarantee you any time, so take advantage of it."

Jacob nodded, "Then we'd best be on our way."

Within minutes, the wagon jerked forward and swayed down the road towards the Pennsylvania border.

***

The Zook family bowed their heads as Jacob said the blessing over supper. Edward and the boy sat opposite each other at the end of the long table filled with children and listened to the blessing. When Jacob finished, the family ate, the conversation flowing along with the food and the good will.

After the meal, Edward and the boy followed Jacob out to the barn and up to the loft where a clean, comfortable room with two beds emerged from behind a wall of hay.

"This will be your room until Wednesday," said Jacob softly. "I'll take you at night to Miss Caruthers, she's up in York, she's the next stop."

"Thank you, Master Jacob," said Edward.

"The Lord is Master, Mister Edward," replied Jacob sagely. "No one but the Lord will be your master again. Miss Katherine, the Jenkin's cook, told me about your situation, I'm only glad that I could help. Tell me, Mister Edward, how did you manage to get away?"

Edward looked at the boy and nodded him towards the room, where the boy immediately retreated.

"I was married," began Edward, his sad eyes peering into the past in the growing dusk. "My missus was the cook at the Edward's estate in Richmond, a better woman never lived. When my boy was born, she raised him right. She had been a slave to a woman in Baltimore who died. My wife said she was more part of the family than a slave, but when her mistress died, there were debts and the family sold her south. What my master's family never knew was that my wife, she could read and write. She tried to teach me, but I could never pick it up, a letter here or there, but then I'd forget, but my boy, she learned him from the time he was a baby, learned him good."

Taking a deep breath, he continued, "Master Sebastian brought Miss Evangeline home one night and she was taken with my boy. I don't know why, but he wanted to impress her, so he give him to her. When Master Sebastian gave my boy to Miss Evangeline, it broke my wife's heart. She died before the boy even left to go north. Before my boy went north, I told him what to do, to bide his time and get free. I explained that he was close to the border and that if he listened, he'd hear about people like yo'self who would help him be free. Then the letter come and Master and I come to see Miss Evangeline. It wasn't till I got here that the cook told me what happened. Miss Evangeline give my boy the note to take to mail for Mister Roger, her fiance. My boy opened the note and seen what it said. He took it to the cook who told him to copy the note on another paper and send the copy to Master Sebastian. Then he sent out both copies of the message. When the master got the message, he started out at right away to see Miss Evangeline. When we got to her, her new beau showed up and him and Master Sebastian got into a terrible fight and Mister Roger challenged Master Sebastian to a duel."

Jacob bowed his head, "Tis a great sin to kill. What happened after the duel?"

Edward took a deep breath and wiped at the tears in his eyes, "Cook told me to come back to the house after the fight no matter what happened, so when the sheriff come, I ran back to town, back to Miss Evangeline's home. I tried hard to make sure that no one seen me. When I gets there, the cook took me to the stable and puts me on the wagon and told me to wait there, she'd go and get my boy."

Jacob nodded, "Very well, Mister Edward. You go to your boy now, if you need anything, you come and get me, but don't let anyone see you."

Edward nodded, "Thank you, Mas, I mean, Mister Jacob. Thank you and yours, God bless you."

Moving into the small room, Edward shut the door and took a seat on the bed opposite his son.

"You done good, boy," he said softly, as the boy moved next to him and put his arms around his waist. "We're gonna make yo' Mama proud. We're gonna be free."

Motherhouse

For almost a century the Motherhouse, an enormous, solemn, square, gray building had maintained a grumpy watch over the sleepy city of Halifax. Once housing hundreds of devoted souls, the gigantic building's occupants this night totaled but nine. Seven were seated for a final dinner in the huge dinning hall, made more enormous by the lack of people in attendance. The other two occupants of the building were employed in cooking and serving the meal. All, whether eating or serving, anxiously listening to the swirling snowstorm that continued howling outside.

The guests sat eyeing each other accusingly like the lone survivors of a mythic shipwreck. Brother Christopher, the lead delegate for the Passionist Community, had come to Halifax to complete the process of buying the ancient building and most of its surrounding land for his order. Next to him his assistant Brother Ditmas sat quietly, his greatest hope being to go unnoticed.

Though both men wore the black robes of the Passionist order emblazoned with the white heart and cross over their left breasts, the similarity in their appearances ended there. Brother Christopher appeared to be a recently retired surfer, his thinning blonde hair and suntanned skin emphasizing lively, dark eyes and a bright, flawless smile. Brother Ditmas, older, smaller and completely bald, wore a calm expression over a small white mustache and goatee.

Across the table sat the representatives of the Caritas Sisters. The sisters had once boasted of a world wide congregation numbering in the thousands, but their dwindling numbers had reached the point where they were being forced to sell their beloved Motherhouse.

To the Brother's left sat Sister Barbara, a still attractive woman of seventy, dressed in the short habit and black dress that had once been the common uniform of her order. Beside her, Sister Agnes, impish eyes undimmed by age, a large portion of her snow white hair showing beneath her habit in stark contrast to both the darkness of her habit and the hall surrounding them. At center of the table sat Sister Genevieve, the Head of the Congregation, stout and sixtyish, wearing her habit with an almost regal flair. Sitting stiffly beside her was the youngest of the group, Sister Marla. Wearing no habit, she wore her dark grey hair cut short. Her manner and the style of her dark blue pant suit did almost as much to identified her as a Sister as the others habits announced their affiliation. Recently elected Sister Genevieve's successor, Sister Marla would assume the office of Head of Congregation later in the year. Beside her, the owlish face of Sister Beth displayed a small mouth and rapidly blinking eyes behind enormous, clear rimmed glasses. While her manner marked her as a Sister, her white pantsuit worn over a fire engine red blouse rang a jarring note in the large, solemn hall.

Around the Sisters, a web of tension was apparent, despite the attempts of all present to deny it. There was anger and resentment, but perhaps most of all, there was an air of blame.

"I understand, Sister Genevieve, that the new building is quite nice," stated Brother Christopher.

"We are quite satisfied with the results," stated Sister Genevieve. "The new building is much smaller, of course, but it offers a state of the art facility for the comfort of our older Sisters."

"It contains a meditation room and an action room," offered Sister Beth, her eyes blinking rapidly.

"An action room?" inquired Brother Christopher.

"The room contains multiple phones and easily referenced guides so that when a situation arises, our Sisters can act quickly," stated Sister Marla briskly.

"A medical situation?" asked Brother Ditmas.

"No, a political situation," corrected Sister Marla. "It is my hope that the Sisters will get more involved politically. The room allows them to contact their representatives and voice their opinions."

"A separate meditation room you say," replied Brother Christopher. "We Brothers must do our meditation in the chapel or privately in our own rooms."

"The new building has no chapel," stated Sister Marla. "We decided against it. We have rejected the medieval prayer formulas most congregations embrace. The meditation room allows us a space in which to seek wholeness."

"So you no longer pray?" asked Brother Christopher.

"Some still do," stated Sister Beth with a sidelong glance at the older sisters. "Most of us believe that anything can be a prayer."

Brother Ditmas gave a quiet cough and reached for his water.

"Some of us old timers still get together and pray," stated Sister Agnes, placing a gentle hand on Sister Genevieve's and Sister Barbara's arms.

"We have the freedom to pray or meditate or correspond with God in any manner in which we wish," smiled Sister Beth.

Sister Marla gave a chuckle, "We've freed ourselves from the type of constrictions your order follows. We realize that no matter how you pray to God, she hears you."

Sister Beth and Sister Marla exchanged warm smiles and the conversation lulled.

"Perhaps it would be best if we took a moment to examine the papers," suggested Brother Christopher.

Sister Barbara handed Sister Genevieve a document, which she examined carefully. With great solemnity, she stated, "It appears to be in order, if there are no questions, I will sign the transfer papers."

Sister Beth cleared her throat, "Sister Genevieve, I think perhaps we might be wise to reconsider. I stayed with Mister Wellington and his very kind wife, June, last night and he said that he would consider increasing his already generous offer..."

"Sister Beth," interrupted Sister Agnes, "the sisters have voted. In my opinion, we must have the courage to do what the Sisters have agreed to do and stop grasping at straws."

"None of us are happy about giving up the Motherhouse," stated Sister Barbara evenly, "I was a novice here, as were we all, but as Agnes has pointed out, the sisters have voted."

Sister Marla cleared her throat, "As the Head of Congregation elect, I feel I would be shirking my obligation if I did not say that I believe Sister Beth was acting in our best interest by speaking with Mister Wellington once again..."

"Sisters," interrupted Sister Genevieve, "it is a difficult time for the whole congregation, but several votes have been taken. Frankly, I have no wish to see this land turned into a shopping mall; no matter how much Mister Wellington offers and the ballots have shown that the majority of sisters agree with that opinion. I believe that the Passionists will have great respect for the legacy contained within these walls and with the new building and Sister Marla soon to take over, I am sure our congregation will have many glorious years ahead."

The group fell silent as Sister Genevieve turned to the two Brothers. "I am sorry, Brothers, this is an emotional time for all of us. We have owned this property for over one hundred years..." She let the thought go unfinished, instead handing the paper to Brother Christopher. After he signed, she took back the paper, signing it firmly and with a flourish.

"It is done. The property, Brother Christopher, will be yours as of noon tomorrow. I am glad that you Brothers will be spending the night, the weather has turned very harsh outside."

Listening to the wind groaning through the corridors, Brother Christopher smiled, "Thank you for the hospitality, Sister Genevieve."

"It is the last night that hospitality is ours to extend here at the Motherhouse," replied Sister Genevieve, "I am glad that we were able to extend it to you and Brother Ditmas."

***

The servers had hurriedly made their way out into the snow and were already driving their car slowly down the hillside as the little group headed towards their rooms. Unlocking a security door, all of the sisters except Sister Agnes disappeared into the stairwell leading up to their rooms on the floor above.

"It really isn't necessary for you to show us the way..." began Brother Christopher.

"This place is so large, it's easy to get confused, especially with most of the lights out," replied Sister Agnes.

"I take it that Sister Beth is unhappy with the sale of the property," observed Ditmas quietly.

"I suppose is doesn't matter if you know now," replied Sister Agnes, "but she and several others actively campaigned against the sale of this place to your congregation. Mister Wellington's offer was higher..."

"Sister Genevieve was obviously not in agreement," stated Brother Christopher.

"We were young women here, Brother. This is more than a building and a piece of land to us, it is sacred ground. Money, of course, was a consideration but we had a greater responsibility. Our roots are here. This building," Sister Agnes sighed, casting her eyes out towards the darkness, "this place held the best of us." Pausing in front of their door she smiled, "I am glad that your congregation is taking the land. A sacred place should be prayed in and we know that your brothers and priests will always do that. Good evening, Brothers."

"Good evening and God bless you, Sister," replied Ditmas as she disappeared down the hall.

"It cannot be easy for them to give up so much," stated Brother Christopher as they entered the visitor's suite. "The Sisters have had a glorious history here."

"It is sad indeed," replied Ditmas. Brother Christopher waited for more, but his traveling companion said nothing.

"Evening prayers?" suggested Brother Christopher.

"Yes, let us pray, for our sake and for theirs," replied Ditmas.

***

The loud knocking jarred the two men awake at almost the same time.

"Who is it?"

"It's Sister Agnes, come quickly!"

Brother Ditmas quickly threw on his black robe, flinging open the door to the suite. Sister Agnes stood anxiously stuffing her white hair beneath her habit as Brother Christopher stormed out of the adjoining bedroom.

"Please, hurry," she called, moving rapidly away down the hall.

"What is the matter?" asked Ditmas.

"Sister Genevieve has been murdered."

Hurrying down the hallway, the three figures paused before the locked doorway leading to the second floor. With fumbling hands, Sister Agnes unlocked the door to the stairway, leading the two men to the floor above. Unlocking the door at the top of the stairs, she rushed down a dark corridor towards a well lit room where the other Sisters were gathered.

Sister Genevieve's room was small and bare, to the right, an empty writing table and chair, to the left, a bed. Above the bed, were two empty book shelves and on the bed, the lifeless body of Sister Genevieve.

"Someone smothered her," stated Sister Beth, eyes blinking rapidly, pointing towards a pillow that lay on the floor.

Brother Christopher shuddered against the draft winding through the corridors, "Who found her?"

"I did," stated Sister Barbara. "I knocked on the door and she didn't answer. When I opened the door I saw her lying on the bed with the pillow over her face. I tried to wake her and then realized..."

"Have you notified the police?" asked Ditmas.

"As head of the congregation, I ordered that the police be contacted," stated Sister Marla briskly.

"With the snowstorm, it will take them some time to get here," stated Sister Barbara.

"The sisters insisted that we notify you," continued Sister Marla.

Brother Christopher knelt beside the bed, "God have mercy on her soul."

"I'm sure she will," stated Sister Marla, "Sister Genevieve was a good woman."

"Are all of you staying on this floor?" asked Ditmas.

"Yes," replied Sister Beth, "when the leadership team meets, we always stay in the rooms on this floor. Normally Sister Genevieve, Sister Agnes and Sister Barbara have the floor to themselves."

"All of the doors were locked?" asked Brother Christopher.

"The first thing we did was to check all of the doors," replied Sister Marla. "Last year, at my insistence, we put electronic locks on the doors to keep unauthorized people from wandering from floor to floor. The doors register who opens them and when, I just checked the locks and no one has entered or exited the floor since Sister Agnes brought you to your room."

"So no one else other than you Sisters had access to this floor," replied Ditmas.

"Correct," replied Sister Marla.

Ditmas examined Sister Genevieve carefully, "There's no sign of a struggle, she was probably overcome in her sleep."

"Sister Genevieve was strong," agreed Sister Agnes, "if she was awake there would have been a battle."

"May I ask, what did all of you do after dinner this evening?" asked Brother Christopher.

"We all met in the common room at the end of the hall," stated Sister Beth. "We shared our experiences of the Motherhouse and then went to bed."

"Did any of you speak to Sister Genevieve after your meeting in the common room?" asked Ditmas.

Sister Barbara nodded, "Agnes and I came back here with her, the three of us decided to pray together. After we finished, Agnes and I left."

"Whose room is next door?" asked Ditmas.

"My room," stated Sister Agnes.

"Did you hear anything?" asked Ditmas.

Sister Agnes shook her head, "It's been a long day, Brother. I went out like a light. I didn't hear anything until Barbara screamed."

"Why did you come back?" Brother Christopher asked Sister Barbara.

"I wanted to know who was going to drive in the morning. I had sat down in my room and nodded off for what seemed like a few minutes, it must have been longer. When I woke up, I looked out my window and saw that the storm was getting worse. We have two cars here and I know that Sister Marla had planned to drive one and that Agnes was supposed to drive the other. I thought that perhaps Sister Beth should drive Agnes's car, being that she is younger. I wanted to consult Genevieve because she liked how Agnes drives..."

"I drive like an old lady," interrupted Sister Agnes. "Genevieve never liked to go too fast."

"When I saw her light on I thought she might be having trouble sleeping. Since we both were up, I thought I would keep her company," said Sister Barbara.

"Did Sister usually have trouble sleeping?" asked Brother Christopher.

"She was never a good sleeper," replied Sister Agnes, "with the move, she barely slept at all anymore."

"What about you, Sister Beth?" asked Brother Christopher.

"I went to my room and went straight to sleep; it's been an exhausting day."

"And you Sister Marla?" asked Ditmas.

"I too had a very long day; I came in from New York by train this morning. I went straight to sleep."

"What I don't understand is why anyone would want to kill her?" asked Brother Christopher.

Ditmas surveyed the room, "Is anything missing?"

The Sisters glanced about the room.

"No," stated Sister Marla, "everyone's things have been moved to the new building."

"Yet something is missing," stated Ditmas. "The signed bill of sale is not here."

Sister Barbara moved to the desk, "It was here when the three of us were praying. I saw her put it on the desk when she picked up her prayer book."

"Without the signed bill of sale, we will have to wait until the new head of the congregation takes office to complete the deal," stated Brother Christopher.

Ditmas looked at him calmly, "Without the signed document, the sale could be held up for months."

"Do you suppose that someone might have broken in and is hiding in one of the rooms?" shuddered Sister Barbara.

"If you will allow us to search the floor, we can soon find out," stated Brother Christopher.

While the other sisters gathered in the common room, the two Brothers and Sister Marla searched all ten rooms on the floor, including the rooms that each Sister occupied.

Finding nothing unusual they exited the last empty room at the far end of the corridor nearest the common room. Brother Christopher noticed an odd light in Brother Ditmas' eye.

"What is it, Brother?"

Ditmas frowned, "I am just wondering, Brother, if we merely looked at what we saw instead of actually seeing it."

"I don't understand," said Sister Marla.

"This is a sacred place, a place of prayer..." Stroking his chin, Brother Ditmas drifted back to Sister Genevieve's room, Sister Marla and Brother Christopher in tow. Upon entering, he stopped abruptly in the center of the room, "Brother Superior, I hate to impose, but your knees are younger, might you look under the bed?"

Brother Christopher dropped down and peered beneath the bed, "I see nothing, Brother."

"Nor do I," stated Ditmas, his glance sweeping the room, "and there in lies the problem. Would the two of you mind waiting here?"

Before either could reply, Brother Ditmas left, returning a moment later followed by Sister Agnes who was shrugging herself into a heavy coat. "Brother Christopher, Sister Marla, it would be of great help to me if Sister Agnes could wait with me for the police downstairs. Perhaps you two could guard Sister Genevieve's remains?"

"Certainly, Brother," replied Brother Christopher.

"Frankly, I think I am entitled to an explanation..." began Sister Marla.

"All will be explained shortly, Sister," interrupted Ditmas. "First, however we need the police." With that, he and Sister Agnes disappeared.

A half hour later Brother Christopher saw the flashing lights of two patrol cars struggling through the storm and then pulling into the parking lot. He could see Sister Agnes and Brother Ditmas making their way towards the snow laden cars, each carrying a broom. After a brief consultation, one of the officers took the broom from Sister Agnes and followed Ditmas. The others followed Sister Agnes into the building. More patrol cars joined the cars in the parking lot as Brother Christopher heard the door leading from the stairwell unlock and the sound of feet shuffling down the hall.

"This is Brother Christopher," said Sister Agnes to the three patrol men with her, "and Sister Marla."

"Has anyone touched the body?" asked a patrolman as he and his partner surveyed the scene.

"Not since I have seen it," Brother Christopher stated.

"No one has touched it," replied Sister Marla.

The rest of the Sisters emerged from the common room, congregating once more near the murdered woman's room. The ringing of the front bell surprised the group.

"Forgot to leave the door unlocked," said Sister Agnes as she hurried down the corridor towards the stairs. A moment later, she returned with several more patrolmen and a man in a rumpled suit.

"This gentleman is an inspector from the homicide division," stated Sister Agnes.

Short and squat, the man stepped from behind Sister Agnes. Nodding at the sisters blandly he announced, "I'm Inspector Eddington, special investigations unit, homicide. Is there someplace where we might talk?"

"The common room," stated Sister Marla, leading the group down the hall.

The better lighting revealed that Inspector Eddington appeared to have just been roused from bed. Looking at the gathering through sleepy eyes he began, "I'd say if what the bald gentleman told us is accurate, we'll have this thing wrapped up shortly."

"The bald gentleman?" asked Sister Barbara.

"Brother Dennis?" ventured Eddington, flipping through his notebook for confirmation.

"Ditmas," corrected Brother Christopher. "What did he say?"

"We're checking a few things out first," stated Eddington. "If you people don't mind waiting here, Officer Flemming will take your statements. Oh, Flemming, start with..." he consulted the note pad, "start with Sister Barbara."

Officer Flemming, after informing them of their rights, began the questioning. When he was done, he bade them wait in the common room while he checked with the Inspector down the hall.

About twenty minutes after Flemming had left them, Sister Agnes and Brother Ditmas reappeared. All of them sat, absorbed in their thoughts, until the Inspector returned.

Eyeing Ditmas, he asked, "Did you tell them?"

"No," replied Ditmas, "I did not think it was my place."

The Inspector nodded and cleared his throat, "Sister Agnes verified the evidence..."

"Evidence?" interrupted Sister Beth. "What evidence?"

"If you'll allow me to finish, Sister Agnes verified what we already knew since the murderer's drivers license was found in her room. I'm sure once the forensic unit finishes with their investigation they'll find a few other things as well." Producing a set of handcuffs, he turned to Sister Marla and stated, "You're under arrest for the murder of Sister Genevieve."

"How DARE you!" snapped Sister Beth. "How dare you accuse a Sister..."

"It's not an accusation, Sister," moaned Sister Agnes softly, "Brother Ditmas proved it."

"How?" snapped Sister Marla. "How did he prove I killed Sister Genevieve?"

The detective continued, "According to Sister Barbara, she, Sister Agnes and the deceased prayed together tonight after the five of you had ended the evening. Sister Barbara stated very clearly that at the time they entered her room, Sister Genevieve put down the property transfer document that was signed today and then picked up her prayer book. We've examined Sister Genevieve's room from top to bottom but there was no prayer book and there was no document to be found, which means that the killer, or an accomplice, took them. Taking the two articles presented a problem, however. The killer knew they couldn't keep them and they knew they couldn't hide them on this floor without them being found. They also knew that they could not leave the floor without the door locks recording their actions."

"Why would anyone kill Sister Genevieve to get the transfer document?" asked Sister Beth.

"Sister Marla knew that without the document, the sale could not take place," stated Ditmas softly. "When you brought word that Mister Wellington was willing to increase his offer for the property, Sister decided that she would renegotiate the sale with Mister Wellington for the greater amount."

"But the Sisters had already voted," stated Sister Barbara.

"With a new Head of the Congregation in place, a new vote could be called for and manipulated to achieve the desired outcome," replied Ditmas.

"I made no secret of my desire to take Mister Wellington's offer over yours," stated Sister Marla. "I preferred his offer, but that is no proof, Beth preferred his offer as well! You are just angry because some women have the business sense to take a better offer than what you can offer."

"You committed the murder," stated Inspector Eddington calmly.

Ditmas continued, "Sister Marla hid the document in Sister Genevieve's prayer book. If any of you had caught her leaving Sister Genevieve's room, she could always claim that Sister Genevieve had loaned her the book. Once she got to her room, her problem became how to get rid of the paper and the book."

Clearing his throat, Inspector Eddington took over, "Knowing she couldn't hide the document or the book in her room, Sister Marla got rid of them by throwing them out of her window. She knew the snow storm would conceal the evidence, but when we got here Brother Ditmas took us to the area below her bedroom windows. We brushed the snow away and found the prayer book with the document inside."

"Why just my window?" asked Sister Marla, "Why not below everyone's window?"

"Because your windowsill alone had speckles of water on it," replied Ditmas. "Evidence that you had opened the window and the snow had fallen inside."

"Anyone could have opened my window and thrown those things there," snapped Sister Marla.

"Then it would have to be one of your Sisters," replied the detective. "Each of you claimed to have gone to your room and fallen asleep. Are you claiming that someone else went into your room this evening after the five of you retired?"

"They must have..."

"In your statement, you said that you returned to your room, alone, and went to bed. If someone else had stepped into your room and opened the window, surely the noise of the old windows and the change in temperature would have awakened you." The Inspector moved closer to her, "We found no gloves, Sister, either in your room or in the snow. If you didn't wipe the book and the document off, your fingerprints will be there. You had the motive and the means, everything points to you. Do you want me to arrest all of you or do you wish to make a statement?"

With an angry grimace, Sister Marla began, "She wouldn't listen. I went to her after Agnes and Barbara left, I tried to reason with her, but she just wouldn't listen. She just sat there and refused to consider what I was saying. I knew once I was Head of the Congregation, everything would be different, I could make the Sisters see reason. I did it for the good of the Congregation." She looked up bitterly, "I went to my room and waited for her to fall asleep. Then I went back and did what I had to do. I took her prayer book and put the document in it and slipped back to my room. The way winters are here, it would take weeks for the snow to melt, I could retrieve the book another time..."

"We can finish this at the station," interrupted Eddington as he cuffed Sister Marla and took her away.

Brother Christopher touched Ditmas' arm, "How did you know?"

"It was the only thing that made sense," replied Ditmas softly. Shaking his head, he looked at the little group sadly, "Sister Genevieve wanted this to remain a place of prayer, but some no longer know the value of prayer."

"I would have never thought to look outside..." murmured Brother Christopher.

"It was the only logical place for the missing items," stated Brother Ditmas. Walking into the corridor, he shook his head, "Sister Marla's act shows the consequence of people throwing prayer out the window."

No One Listens

Edward Chambers awoke with a start and peered out of groggy eyes at his wife of sixty six years, Evelyn. Placing his hands on the armrests of his wheel chair he tried to recall what it was he wanted to do, but found himself unable to come up with an answer.

Evelyn looked up from the magazine she was reading and sighed. Edward had deteriorated so much in the last year she could scarcely believe he was the man she had married.

"Did we have lunch yet?" asked Edward, his eyes blinking independent of one another.

"We will soon," replied Evelyn. "Jennifer will be joining us with some friends."

"Friends?" asked Edward suspiciously. "I don't like her friends. Intellectual parasites and foreigners..."

"Edward," scolded Evelyn. "Be nice! These are Jennifer's friends; I want you to behave yourself."

"Fine granddaughter," he continued, "can't she come to lunch without friends?"

"Please, Edward, behave," she pleaded.

"Behave," he grumbled. "Behaving is what's wrong with this country. You know who behaved? The damn Russians under communism! Behave, posh!" He closed his eyes and his mind wandered to many things. He seemed unable to grasp just one memory, to hold just one idea. Damn Russians, no good for anything but vodka and those attractive female tennis players... Should be eating lunch, that's what we should be doing... eating lunch... with the Russians? What? Makes no sense, not at all... his thoughts continued to wander through strange intersections of memory and fancy until he felt something touch his head.

Opening his eyes he noticed that the room had suddenly become crowded with people. Looking up in confusion his gaze met the smiling face of his granddaughter, Jennifer. He smiled back at her; he liked Jennifer even though he secretly found her odd looking. Her dark hair was limp and her blue eyes too big for her head and her teeth were a brilliant white but too big for her mouth. That and she was painfully thin, which emphasized the fact that her head was entirely too big for her body. All in all, she looked like a lollipop or a golf club...

"A wood, not an iron," he stated.

"Were you dreaming about golf, grandpa?" she asked, her smile reminding him of Mister Ed.

"Wasn't dreaming," he replied grumpily, "when did all these people get here?"

"They've been here for a while, dear," interrupted Evelyn. "I didn't want to disturb your nap..."

"Wasn't napping," he replied, "just thinking, that's all. Always think better with my eyes closed."

Evelyn smiled indulgently, "Of course, dear. Let's wheel you into lunch."

"I'll do it," volunteered Jennifer.

"Be careful," cautioned Edward. "It is a distance to the dinning room and you're very skinny."

The strangers laughed at the remark. To hell with them, thought Edward, at least he was getting some lunch finally.

Edward noted that Evelyn sat to his left and Jennifer to his right and both did their best to keep him from speaking to any of the other four hundred people or so that Jennifer had invited over. Finally he gave up on trying to join in on the conversation and concentrated instead on his lunch. Cook had made his favorite, roast lamb chops, and he decided to hell with the guests and set about thoroughly enjoying his meal.

At the end of the meal, his granddaughter insisted on wheeling him out to the terrace overlooking the back gardens. He sat there with Evelyn and Jennifer and some strange man.

"Grandfather," said Jennifer purposefully, "this is Doctor Thomas Nadal."

Edward took the man's hand and eyed him suspiciously. "Very nice to meet you doctor. Don't mean to be rude, but I've already got too many damn doctors as it is..."

"No, dear," laughed Evelyn nervously. "Thomas doesn't want to examine you. He's Jennifer's friend."

Edward's features softened, "Jennifer, my dear, are you ill?"

"No, no, Grandpa," replied Jennifer hastily. "Thomas is my boyfriend."

Edward's eyes blinked independently of each other, "Boyfriend?'

"I wanted you to meet him, Grandfather," she stated softly, large teeth prominently displayed.

"Boyfriend?" he repeated.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, sir," stated Thomas, a cultured smiled flashing across his dark, handsome features.

"You're a doctor?" asked Edward, trying to sort out all of the new information.

"Yes sir."

He peered at him a moment more, "I say, aren't you colored?"

"Edward!" snapped Evelyn.

"It is all right," stated Thomas softly. Turning to Edward he smiled, "I am from India, sir."

Edward looked at Evelyn in annoyance, "What's the matter with you? If the boy's colored, he's colored, nothing wrong with that." Returning his gaze to Thomas he smiled, "I suppose your parents are Indian as well..."

"Yes," laughed Thomas. "They are both from India as well."

"And you're a doctor," continued Edward.

"Yes sir."

"A real doctor, not one of those doctors of business or sociology or some such nonsense..."

"No sir, I am a medical doctor," replied Thomas.

"And you like our Jennifer?" asked Edward, seeking clarification.

"Yes sir, very much."

Edward looked at Jennifer, "Do you like him?"

Jennifer smiled, great white slabs of teeth reflecting the sunlight, "Very much Grandfather."

"So that's it then," stated Edward to Evelyn. It all seemed very straightforward. Turning back to Thomas, he patted his hand, "Have you ever ridden an elephant?"

Thomas laughed, "No sir, never."

"I did," replied Edward happily. 'I was younger at the time, of course, wonderful experience, simply wonderful. Huge creature, gentle as a lamb..." A thought hit him. "Did you like the lamb at lunch?"

"Yes, sir, it was most delicious, thank you."

"You're allowed to eat lamb?" asked Edward.

"Yes sir."

"Some Indians aren't you know," replied Edward. "Think cows are sacred. Eat only vegetables...vegetarians. No way to live, eating vegetables all of the time..."

"My family is not Hindu, sir," said Thomas, "we are Christians."

Edward nodded, "Don't dislike vegetables, mind you, but not all the time... we're not rabbits after all."

"Grandfather," interrupted Jennifer, unable to contain herself any longer, "Thomas and I are going to be married."

"Married?" asked Edward with a start. "But I just met him? When are you getting married?"

"We were hoping to make it next summer," said Jennifer. "We would love to have the ceremony here, with your permission."

Edward blinked.

"I won't be able to help much," he stated apologetically. "Don't move well anymore..."

"They aren't asking you to arrange it, dear," stated Evelyn. "They have people who do that now; it's not like when we got married. You hire people now to arrange everything."

"But you want to use the house," stated Edward.

"With your permission, Grandfather," replied Jennifer.

Edward pointed over the lawn, "The ocean is right over that cliff, beyond the garden. You can hear it if you listen."

"They know that dear," said Evelyn patiently.

"It is a beautiful home, sir," stated Thomas.

"If you like it and want to use the house, then do it!" said Edward, bringing his hand down on the armrest for emphasis. To his surprise, Jennifer suddenly hugged him.

"Oh thank you, Grandpa, thank you!"

"Of course, my dear, of course," he chuckled, hugging her. Poor child looked like a golf club, anything he could do to make her happy...

***

Edward sat trying to appear interested in the conversation, but even when he was well he had no interest in the color of table napkins. Jennifer and Evelyn, for some reason, seemed to find it the most interesting subject in the history of interesting subjects, a fact that he could not fathom. He was delighted to see Thomas peek his head around the doorway and nod towards the two women.

"Are they asking you about napkins again, grandfather?" he asked, sauntering over and planting a kiss on the top of Jennifer's head.

"They seem to think that the color of napkins at this wedding will determine if you will be happy afterwards," stated Edward. "Never knew how important napkins were..."

"Would you like to join me in on the terrace, grandfather?" asked Thomas. "I promise I will not speak about napkins."

"Please, my boy, get me out of here," whispered Edward desperately.

Gliding behind the wheelchair, he smiled at the women and led Edward away to the terrace. Once on the terrace, he locked the wheelchair and returned inside for a moment, returning with a cocktail in each hand.

Handing one to Edward, he clinked glasses with him and offered a conspiratorial wink.

"Please don't say anything, grandfather," he said taking a sip. "You know you are not supposed to drink."

"Why not," crabbed Edward. "Do you really think that I can forget more than I already have? Damn doctors..." Looking up at Thomas, he smiled, "Present company excluded, of course."

Thomas laughed, "I thank you grandfather. Very soon we will no longer have to hear about napkins."

"It won't be too soon, I can tell you that, Thomas," smiled Edward. "It will be nice to have you in the family."

"I'm looking forward to it too," laughed Thomas.

The two men spent the rest of the afternoon, laughing and occasionally sharing a drink, bonding and becoming fond of one another.

***

After dinner, Evelyn took Edward out to the terrace and then down to the garden, where he watched the spring sun slowly setting over the ocean. Edward was a happy man, he had enjoyed his dinner, his odd looking granddaughter was marrying someone he truly liked and his wife had no idea that he had enjoyed several martinis. All in all it was a perfect day. Now, alone in the garden, enjoying the sunset, his mind wandered over the vast history of his life and he found that he could not think of one large regret. Oh, any man should have a regret here and there or he wasn't being honest with himself, but on the whole, Edward could not focus on a deep, lasting regret. He knew that he was failing, knew that soon, he would be saying goodbye to all of those he loved, but he knew he could do so peacefully, he had done his best and that was a comfort.

He must have dozed, because the next thing he remembered was his eyes blinking independent of each other and groggily looking up at the darkening skyline. The sky was a blue and purple and the sea an angry, foaming green. The ocean seemed closer and angrier. After a few moments he found himself focusing on two figures walking out by the cliff. They were young men, one casual and relaxed, the other hunched, tense and unhappy. Sitting in the dying light, he watched the two figures, unsure if they were speaking or just walking side by side. Suddenly, he saw the hunched figure lunge at the casual figure and shove it towards the edge of the cliff. The figure seemed to unwind against the purple sky, its arms thrust skywards, its feet struggling to stay in touch with the ground. The figure hesitated at the edge as if undecided on what to do and then, it was gone, lost over the side. Edward's mind took a moment to grasp what he had seen, to process the information as he watched the hunched figure sprint away from the edge of the cliff towards him.

"Help!" he yelled. "Help! Help me!" He screamed out as loud as he could, raising his voice as loudly as it's tired, wavering strains could muster.

It seemed like he had been yelling forever before anyone came to his aid. Evelyn descended upon him from behind, Jennifer close behind, the servants not far behind them.

"Edward, what is the matter?" said Evelyn breathlessly.

"He pushed him," yelled Edward excitedly, pointing towards the man approaching them. "He pushed him over the edge, I saw it!"

A young man Edward did not know staggered up to the group.

"It's Thomas," he said, out of breath, "he's fallen! We were walking by the cliff and he fell over the edge, call an ambulance!"

"Thomas!" screamed Jennifer, heading towards the cliff.

"He's lying," yelled Edward, "he pushed him, I saw it! I saw him push him!"

Evelyn ran after Jennifer, barking at the servants, "Take Edward inside, call an ambulance!"

Edward grabbed the young man's arm, "I saw you do it! I saw you kill him!"

The young man pulled his arm away, "He fell, I didn't touch him!"

The servants wheeled Edward away as he continued to accuse the young man over his shoulder, "I saw it! I saw it!"

***

Edward sat on the terrace in his dark suit and looked out towards the ocean. He had always liked the ocean but today he stared out at it and hated it in his heart. The young friend of his old age was gone, the mourners reminding him that Thomas was not here, would never be here again. He felt guilty being alive, he should have died long before his young friend, should have been a memory for him in his old age, but fate had reversed their roles.

No one had listened to him, no one had believed him. Even Evelyn had said that he had been dreaming, that what had happened was an accident, that Thomas had fallen and that he could not trust what he had seen. It was the most dehumanizing event of his life. Not only had he lost his young friend but he found out that no one listened to him anymore. He was humored, petted like a simpleton and ignored.

Looking out over the garden, he saw Jennifer and Thomas' killer speaking. His name was Justin and he had been her boyfriend in college, before she had met Thomas, before she had become engaged. Somehow Justin had gone from being his friend's killer to being his granddaughter's "rock". On the terrace, Edward sat outside of the group and watched as Jennifer's strange friends offered condolences. A few came by to make polite conversation, to speak slowly and loudly to him and to smile at one another before moving on to Evelyn or one of the others they deemed worthy of their consideration. A hand clasped his shoulder and he looked up to see his son, Edward Junior, looking down at him with sad eyes.

"Let's get you inside, Dad. It's getting a bit windy out here."

"There'll be a storm tonight," said Edward softly. "You can feel it coming in off of the ocean."

Edward Junior glanced up and saw his daughter and Justin, shaking his head, "I think you're right, Dad. Let's get you inside."

"Do you remember, Eddie, the first time I took you to play golf?" asked the old man as his son began to push him through the crowd.

"Yes, Dad, I do," replied his son. "I was twelve years old. You were very patient with me, I'm afraid I didn't play very well..."

"You played par on the second hole," replied Edward. His son slowed, surprised that his father remembered. "On the fourth hole, you hit the ball into the rough and were so despondent about finding it, do you remember?"

"Yes, I do," replied Edward Junior with a smile.

"I found the ball, if you remember," replied his father. "I found it because my eyesight has always been very good. My legs, well, they gave out a while back and my hearing isn't what it was, but my eyes, Eddie, my eyes are still as sharp as they ever were. My mind plays tricks on me, I know, sometimes Saturday is Tuesday and sometimes people who have died haven't, but I know what I see, Eddie, I know what I see."

Edward Junior brought his father into the main hall and across to the doorway of what had once been his father's library, but was now his bedroom. He knew his father would begin again about seeing Thomas murdered and he braced himself to try and reason with the old man. To his surprise, his father said nothing more.

Entering the bedroom, Edward undid his tie and loosened his clothing as Edward Junior assisted him in undressing and getting into bed. Leaning against the pillows, he looked at his son with a solemn expression. "Will Malcolm be with me tonight?"

"Yes, Dad, tonight is Malcolm's night."

"He gets here about eleven, doesn't he?" asked Edward, eyes blinking independently of one another.

"Yes, Dad, but if you need anything before that, all you need to do is ring..."

Edward shook his head, "I'll be fine, Eddie, don't you worry about that. I won't bother anyone, it has been a long day and I'm tired."

Edward Junior had never felt particularly close to his father, but suddenly, he felt a bond with him, an unspoken relationship stronger than he had ever known with him. Leaning over, he kissed his father on the head and quietly exited the room.

After the door was shut, Edward opened his eyes and peered out at the growing darkness. He did not have a lot of time and there was much to do and no strength to do it with. Still, he was determined not to fail. He owed it to Thomas, his young friend and he owed it to his granddaughter, whether she looked like a golf club or not.

***

When he was building his fortune and his family and his future, the hardest thing for Edward had been to sleep. He would go days without sleep, worrying, thinking, planning. Now, in his old age, the only thing his mind seemed to crave was the sweet sanctity of slumber. He dashed off to the angel of sleep at every opportunity, denied himself food, information and companionship just to spend another moment with the comrade of his declining years. As he sat in bed, he could no longer fool himself into thinking that the importance of anything was worth losing sleep over. He had learned from his long life that today's dire emergency was tomorrow's forgotten memory, but tonight, he was using all of his strength, all of his will to fight his friend, to deny himself what he craved so dearly.

The clock had taken a long time to reach ten o'clock, but even at its leisurely pace, Edward had barely had time to prepare himself. At ten o'clock, he rang the bell and the maid entered respectfully. She was in charge of his needs until Malcolm came at eleven, she would call Evelyn if there was anything suspect in Edward's request, so he had to be careful, very careful.

She was a young girl, new to the country, whose heavily accented English was halting but respectful. Arriving at his bedside, she looked down at him through long eyelashes and smiled pleasantly.

"You are up, Mister Edward?"

"Miranda..."

"Lena," she corrected.

"Lena," he smiled, treading carefully, "such a pretty name for such a lovely girl. Lena, my dear, would you be able to deliver a note for me?"

She looked at him, confused, "A note, Mister Edward? To who?"

"There is a man who is with my granddaughter, Jennifer, you know Jennifer?"

Lena's expression became sad, "Poor Jennifer..."

"Yes," nodded Edward, "poor Jennifer. We buried her boyfriend today..."

"Si," she replied, "poor Jennifer..."

"Poor Jennifer," he agreed. "There is a young man who has been with her all day, his name is Justin. Do you know Justin?"

"Si," she stated, her smile returning, "Mister Justin. Used to be her boyfriend, no?"

"Si," he replied, "yes, used to be her boyfriend, you know the one. Would you please give him this note, my dear?"

Lena took the note and looked at it quizzically.

"Give it to Justin, please," said Edward, trying desperately not to show how anxious that he was that she comply with his request.

"Si, Mister Edward, give the note to Mister Justin. I do it now."

"Excellent, my dear," smiled Edward, his eyes blinking happily. "You go and give that to Mister Justin."

Lena turned and approached the door, where she stopped.

"You need anything else Mister Edward?"

"No, dear, no," smiled Edward. "Just give that note to Mister Justin and don't let anyone see you do it, please."

"Si, Mister Edward," she smiled, "I do it for you."

With that, she was gone. Edward knew that this would be the most difficult part, the most painful part. He would have to stay awake, forcing himself to remain conscious. Why did he crave sleep so much? This was the most important thing he would probably ever have to do and his body wanted nothing more than to drift off to a happy oblivion. He watched the windows, the dim moonlight making ghostly outlines of the trees outside. If the window was open, it would be so much easier, the room suddenly stuffy, seductively warm. Perhaps he would call her back, get her to open the window...No, better not to do that. She might report him as being restless to someone and then the plan would be gone. He might never get another chance, who knew how long he could go on? He was not even sure he could remain awake. Please, give me the strength, just until eleven, after eleven, nothing could be done. Malcolm would be here and it would be too dangerous.

He watched the clock, ten minutes, then fifteen. Where had she gone to deliver that damn message? Perhaps the maid had not made herself clear and he had taken the paper and stuffed it in his pocket, perhaps...

A knock at the door! Edward froze, his tongue glued to the roof of a suddenly dry mouth. Was it him? Clearing his throat, he took a deep breath.

"Come in."

The door swung open slowly and Justin peered in, stepping in quickly before closing the door softly behind him. He glanced about the room, slowly sauntering towards the bed.

"I got your message," he stated flatly.

"I saw what you did," replied Edward. "I saw you kill Thomas. You pushed him off of that cliff and now I have proof of it. The security camera we installed last year caught it, caught what you did..."

"The security camera caught nothing," replied Justin. "The police checked the security camera..."

"The police checked the security camera in the garden," interrupted Edward. "The police did not check the camera out by the tennis courts. Why would they, it is on the opposite side, but the thing of it is that the wind blew the camera off of where it was supposed to be focused. It proves you pushed him."

"If you have proof, why ask to see me?" smiled Justin.

"Curiosity," replied Edward. "Thomas was a good man; I can't believe he had an enemy who wanted to kill him, so why did you do it? Why take the risk to kill a nice man like Thomas?"

Justin smiled, drawing closer, "I wanted to marry Jennifer. I am going to marry Jennifer. Between you and her father, she stands to inherit a pretty penny, wouldn't you say?"

"Close to one hundred million dollars from me alone," conceded Edward.

"Oh, it won't be easy," laughed Justin. "She'll have to get past all of her grief, but I think I can handle that. I can be patient, she is decent company and while not classically beautiful, I can stomach her, even if she does look like a bobble head doll."

"Golf club," corrected Edward. "She's got big teeth too."

"That doesn't bother me," stated Justin with a smile.

"Really?" asked Edward, eyes blinking independent of one another, "I'd imagine it would be something of a fright in the clinch. Still, that's not what we're here to discuss. You're not going to marry Jennifer, I have the tape and I'm calling the police."

"You won't be calling anyone," stated Justin. "I'm not going to have a dotty old man ruin my plans. Your family will wake up tomorrow to find out that you passed away during the night. You've been acting oddly lately anyway; they'll think nothing of finding you dead."

Swiftly pulling a pillow from behind Edward's head he knelt on the bed and shoved it tightly over his face. To his surprise, there was no resistance, no defense at all. He felt the old man shift slightly towards him and then heard an enormous explosion...

***

Edward Junior sat with his mother on the terrace as she wept, holding Jennifer's hand as she sobbed softly. Mister Elwood, their attorney, strode out onto the terrace, his expensive Italian suit glistening in the sun. Perching his glasses on his broad forehead, he eyed Edward Junior, obviously uncomfortable about speaking in front of the two women.

"Will you excuse us?" asked Edward Junior.

The two women nodded as the men reentered the house.

"It was an accident," stated Mister Elwood. "The police aren't going to pursue it. The boy's family is understandably upset, but they have no case, we'll let things settle down a few days and see what they decide to do. For a few hundred thousand, we can make them disappear..."

"What about my father?" asked Edward Junior.

Mister Elwood grimaced, "No one seems to know how he got the strength to get the gun out of the cabinet, he probably did it after you left him in the bedroom, but who can say? It might have been under his pillows though the maid said she never saw it when she was making up. The police have questioned him, he's confused and disoriented. The boy probably got confused, went into the room by mistake and your father became frightened and reached for the gun. It's the only plausible explanation..."

"What about the note?" asked Edward Junior quietly.

Mister Elwood looked at him with dead eyes, "What note?"

"The note I gave..."

Mister Elwood raised an eyebrow, "I said, what note?"

Edward Junior took a deep breath and nodded.

"The doctor arrived a short time ago; I gave him permission to sedate your father. He's resting comfortably. I suggest that it might be best that he be sedated as much as possible."

"I've hired round the clock care for him," stated Edward Junior. "He won't be left alone again and we'll make sure he takes his medication."

Mister Elwood smiled, a joyless, lifeless thing. "Good, very good... Then there is nothing left to do. Terrible tragedy, but these things happen, even in the best of families. I'll be in touch." The men shook hands and Edward Junior watch the lawyer as he exited the room.

Edward Junior wandered over to the bedroom. The police were packing things up and the nurse sat next to the bed, quietly reading a book. He looked down at his father, who smiled up at him, his eyes glassy.

Edward saw his son peering down at him. He had done it; he had avenged his young friend and protected his family. He felt his friend sleep wrapping his long arms around him, beckoning him to join him. Yes, they would drug him now, he would spend what was left of his life sleeping or struggling not to sleep. It didn't matter, he thought, slipping away towards the unconscious realm, no one listened to him anymore anyway...
Slow on the Draw

The town of Owl Creek stood in silence as the two men stood facing each other down the short, main street. The heat had risen to over one hundred degrees and the wind had died to the faintest of whispers as the two men peered through the haze of the glaring sun at one another. The old man standing in front of Jenkins Stables was of medium build, his gray mustache emphasizing the bronzed skin of his face much as his black suit emphasized the beige and brown of everything else around him. He wore his gun belt awkwardly, his colt revolver looking enormous as it dangled on his hip. His plain black hat threw his deep set eyes into a shade, leaving the impression that he was wearing a mask. His starched white shirt and collar seemed to force him into an upright position as he viewed his quarry at the other end of the street.

His eyes peered at a much younger man, nattily attired in a light gray coat and hat, black pants, a black vest with golden flowers sewn on it and a frilly white shirt. He wore a beautiful gun at his hip with the ease of someone to whom the weapon had become an extension of his body. His dark hair was neatly combed and his dark mustache trimmed only a few minutes earlier by the town barber.

Looking down the street the younger man saw the wind kick some fine sand lazily towards his opponent. His lips could not suppress a smile, even as he spoke.

"I'll not draw first old man," he called out amiably. "If you wish to be killed, you'll have to make the first move."

"I'm going to kill you," replied the old man simply. "You killed my boy and I'm going to kill you."

A short, fat man stood on the wooden platform outside of Jenkins Stables that served as a sidewalk in Owl Creek. He looked at the well dressed younger man for a moment and then back to the old man with desperate eyes.

"There's no shame in walking away, Jacob," he pleaded. "There's no shame. He'll kill you, he's the fastest draw I've ever seen, he'll kill you for sure."

The old man looked at him somberly, "He killed my boy, Ted. Shot him dead like a dog. I'm going to kill that man. Remember, you can be slow on the draw, you just gotta hit yer target."

"Jacob, don't..." pleaded the fat man.

Turning back toward the younger man, the old man licked his lips, feeling the sun and the heat and the dust on them. It was time; as quickly as he was able to, he reached for his gun, his hand grasping the handle tightly. The gun never left its holster. In a flash, the younger man unholstered his gun and fired.

The bullet struck the older man in the chest, the force of it carelessly throwing him backwards onto the street. He hit the street hard, the impact driving up a cloud of dust which quickly settled on and about him. The fat man waddled out to him as fast as he could manage while the younger man strode purposefully up the street until he stood over his fallen opponent.

The old man's white shirt bore an ever increasing mushroom of red in its center. His hat lay near his head in the dust, his hands flung out to his sides. He stared up at the young man, a trickle of blood oozing out of the corner of his mouth. The young man looked down, his smile undiminished.

"You drew first, old man," he stated, "they all saw it. You were just too slow."

"Don't have to be fast," coughed the old man, "just as long as you hit yer target."

Slowly, the old man smiled at him and then, the life left his eyes.

The fat man looked to the younger man, who shrugged back at him.

"You know I didn't challenge him, Ted," he stated reasonably. Turning to the crowd, he continued loudly, "You know I didn't challenge him, all of you. He came looking for me, promised to kill me if I didn't face him. He drew first, you all saw it. A man's allowed to protect himself, ain't he?"

"You killed his boy," stated Ted unemotionally.

"His boy got in the way of a bullet," replied the younger man.

"He was trying to break up a fight," replied Ted.

"He shouldn't have stuck his nose in my business," replied the younger man. "If he had minded his own business, none of this would have happened. He stepped in front of me while I was defending myself, it was his fault, everyone saw it."

Ted stood and glared at the younger man, "Yeah, everyone saw it, including his Pa." Turning to some of the men in the crowd, he called them by name, "Fred, Chester, Bill, help me to get Jacob to the docs. We need to get him ready for burial."

The three men flowed forward from the crowd and helped Ted pick up their fallen friend. Slowly, solemnly, they carried him towards the doctor's office near the other end of the street.

The younger man turned and headed towards the saloon, determined not to lose any more time today. A tall, well dressed black man fell into step next to him.

"Mister Thomas," said the black man, "you goin' to play cards?"

The man turned towards him, "Yes, Trayble, man's got to make a living."

Trayble lowered his voice, "You think that's wise, Mister Thomas? People pretty riled up 'bout that old man."

Thomas waved a dismissive hand towards him, "Let'em be. The old man asked me to kill him, so I obliged him. Would it be better if he had killed me?"

"Not for me, Mister Thomas," stated the Trayble.

Thomas laughed, "No, I suppose not. Very well, Trayble, I did you and I a favor and by tomorrow, they'll realize it too. Come on, I've got a livin' to make."

***

Jessup Rangle was an ugly man; short, squat and bald with a face like a warty gourd. The town of Owl Creek's only lawyer, he always seemed to be dressed in a faded brown suit, his hat a battered ten gallon made of cheap black felt. His dull gray eyes peered out of his lumpy face with a sinister curiosity.

Walking into the town saloon, his cold glance swept over the general population until his eyes fell on Thomas Pritcher. Lumbering to the table where Pritcher was dealing his latest game of cards, he stared at him quietly for a moment. Trayble leaned over and tapped his boss lightly on the shoulder to bring his attention to the ugly lump of a man standing on the other side of the table.

"Can I help you, Jessup?"

"Mister Pritcher, might I have a moment of your time," rumbled Rangle, "I have a legal matter to discuss with you."

Pritcher smiled at his fellow players, "Gentlemen, deal me out this hand. Apparently I have to go and discuss a legal matter."

Rising, he took his chips, handing them to Trayble before following Rangle to a table on the far side of the bar. The two men sat down across from each other.

"Mister Pritcher, I am here to speak to you today about the last will and testament of Mister Jacob Luscomb."

Pritcher smiled and motioned to the bartender to bring him a drink, "Who the hell is Jacob Luscomb?"

Rangle leaned back in his chair, his ugly features scrunching in thought, "Mister Luscomb was the man you killed a week ago in the street."

Pritcher handed the bartender a coin and took a sip of his drink.

"I know nothing about the old man's will..."

"Mister Pritcher," stated Rangle, "that is why I am here, to familiarize you with the contents of the document."

"Mister Rangle, with all due respect, what the hell do I care about his will for?" asked Pritcher.

"Because, sir, you are his sole beneficiary," stated Rangle plainly. "It seems Mister Luscomb left everything he had to you."

Thomas started to bring his drink to his lips, stopped and put it down again, "What? What do you mean he left everything to me? I didn't even know him, why would he..."

"Mister Pritcher, I do not ask my clients why they do what they do," stated Rangle, reaching inside his batter suit jacket to retrieve a document. "I had a Mister Elias Flood who left everything to his next door neighbor because he hated his own wife and children and I once had to file the will of a Mister Edward Noxbury who left everything to an aunt of his who had died thirty years before. I cannot tell you why Mister Luscomb made you his heir, Mister Pritcher, I can only see to it that his wishes are carried out to the best of my ability."

Opening the document, he set it out before Pritcher, "Now, Mister Luscomb has stated that you are to inherit his ranch and all of his holdings, which includes several hundred head of cattle, horses, mules, four dogs and a large inventory of equipment. All of it is yours, Mister Pritcher. Also, you are to inherit his savings which amounts to three hundred and forty seven dollars and fifty eight cents, which is on deposit for you at the bank under an account that I took the liberty of opening in your name. See Mister Stevenson at the bank and he will hand over the savings account book for your use. If you would do me the honor of signing this document, showing that you received the transference of all funds and property, I will be on my way."

Thomas shook his head and laughed, "The old man was crazy. All I have to do is sign and everything is mine?"

"Lock, stock and the proverbial barrel," replied Rangle.

Thomas signed his name with a flourish and then returned the document to Rangle.

"You will be receiving a copy of this document of course," stated Rangle. "May I wish you the very best of luck, Mister Pritcher and congratulations on your inheritance."

"Where is this ranch?" asked Pritcher as the lawyer rose to leave.

"It is about four miles outside of town," said Rangle. "Ask anyone, they can show it to you."

Trayble came over to his boss, curiosity apparent on his face.

"We've inherited a ranch," laughed Thomas. "The old man I shot last week left us all his belongings."

Trayble shook his head doubtfully, "You been given a dead man's ranch, Mister Thomas? I think you should sell it, I don't like the sound of that..."

"Nonsense," laughed Thomas, sipping his drink. "You know Trayble; I've been talking about settling down. I own a herd of cattle and have money in the bank to boot. I think we just found where we are going to put up our feet and live the good life at last." Raising his glass, he laughed all the harder, "To Mister Luscomb, slow on the draw but generous to a fault."

***

The Luscomb Ranch was a little over three miles outside of town on a straight path, north-northwest of Owl Creek's main street. The ranch house was a large stone and log building, comfortably furnished and well stocked. Beside it stood a stone barn and a fenced in corral and beyond that over two hundred flat acres of land dotted with several hundred head of happy cattle.

"I'm scared, Mister Thomas," said Trayble quietly. "What if he set up some sort of trap in the house? He knowed he couldn't a killed you out there on that street, what if this is his way of killin' you?"

Thomas nodded, "I was thinking about that, Trayble. When we get there, you go in, check out the house. I'll remain outside and cover you; he might have had a deal with his hands, if he didn't come back, ambush whoever comes out to the house. We'll be careful, Trayble, we're smarter than Mister Luscomb, don't you fret."

Upon cantering up to take possession of the house, both Trayble and Thomas noticed a long house beyond the barn where lights burned brightly in the regularly spaced windows. A figure emerged from the house and slowly proceeded towards them, silhouetted against the coming twilight. As he approached, both men could see that the stranger was a big man, over six feet tall, muscular and lean. A deep voice called out to them while he was still a distance away.

"Mister Pritcher?"

Pritcher remained in the saddle, his hand near his gun, ready.

"Yes?"

"Mister Pritcher, I'm Steve Rollins, I'm the ranch manager, sir."

As the man drew closer, his facial features began to emerge. Clean shaven with dusty brown hair, he held a well stained hat in his hands. His clothes were worn but clean and he looked eagerly at the two men. "Mister Rangle said that you might be coming out to the ranch soon. Welcome, sir."

"Thank you, Mister Rollins," replied Pritcher. "This is my valet, Trayble."

"Nice to meet you," replied Rollins with a nod. "When Mister Luscomb passed, the cook came to live in the bunk house, didn't like to be alone in the house at night, sir. If you'd like, I can get him out here to rustle you up some grub..."

"That's quite alright, Mister Rollins, we've eaten."

"We tried to keep the place clean, sir," stated Rollins. "The last day he was here, Mister Luscomb gave strict instructions that in the event of him not comin' back, we were to make sure everything was as clean and ready as could be."

Pritcher and Trayble exchanged glances. Slowly, Trayble descended from his horse and moved towards the front door.

"It's unlocked, Mister Trayble," stated Rollins cordially. "Wood is in the fire place, there's more on the back porch if you need it. Been getting a little cold out here at night, as hot as it is during the day sometimes you need a fire."

Trayble cautiously entered the front door. In a moment a light could be seen through the windows and then several other sources of light began to appear throughout the house.

"So, Mister Luscomb said to have the place ready for the new owner?" asked Thomas.

"Not exactly like that, sir," replied Rollins awkwardly. "He said to make sure everything was clean and in order. We didn't know if there was gonna be a new owner, didn't know anything about his intentions, you understand. He just acted so strange that last day..."

"Strange how?" asked Thomas, instantly on his guard.

"Well, sir," began Rollins thoughtfully, "he came out to the bunkhouse and paid all of us two months' salary. Said we was to stay here until the end of the two months if he didn't come back. Said if he didn't come back, we'd know what to do after the two months was up. I spoke to the boys, sir; to a man they want to stay if you'll have us."

"What else did Mister Luscomb say?" asked Thomas, watching the number of lights grow throughout the house.

"He kept saying he felt bad about doin' it, but let it be on his head. I don't know what he meant about that, sir, don't reckon anyone else does either, but he kept sayin' it over and over, let it be on his head. Don't know, he just came over before he rode into town, shook my hand, said thank you and left. It was the last I seen of him till the funeral."

Trayble stepped back out onto the porch, "Everything seems to be okay, Mister Thomas; fine lookin' place."

"Mister Luscomb liked to keep the place just so," stated Rollins. "Bit fussy when it came to the house, said he liked to keep it like his wife used to keep it for him and the boy."

Thomas stiffened and then lowered himself from the saddle. Walking onto the porch, he looked at Rollins, who stared back at him good-naturedly.

"I will speak with you and the others tomorrow morning, Mister Rollins," stated Thomas. "Thank you for your help."

"Anytime, Mister Pritcher," replied Rollins. Nodding to Trayble, he smiled, "Nice to meet you, speak with you both tomorrow. If you need anything tonight, just holler, me or cook will come runnin'."

The two men watched Rollins saunter back to the bunkhouse in the growing darkness.

"So the house is nice?"

"Real nice, Mister Thomas, come look."

Thomas stepped into the house, his eyes adjusting to the flickering candle light. He entered into a large room, a combination kitchen and dining area. A large stone fireplace took up the entire wall to their right, a table with six chairs set in front of the door, the candle light reflecting off of its polished surface. There were two doorways to their left. Following Trayble, Thomas entered the first one, a large bedroom with a dresser and closet, a big bed and a chair, all neatly made and clean. Entering the second doorway, he saw the mirror image of the first room with one exception, a ladder leading to the attic. Trayble climbed the ladder and hunched over to fit into the space above.

"It's a might tight up here, Mister Thomas, but it's another bedroom. I'm guessin' the cook lived up here, cain't say for sure..."

Come on down," stated Thomas, walking back towards the kitchen. Seating himself at the table, he glanced about the room, his eyes coming to rest on a trap door near the fireplace.

Pointing to it, he asked Trayble, "You check that out?"

"No, sir, Mister Thomas, didn't see it until you showed it to me just now," replied Trayble.

Walking over to the trap door, he grabbed the ring that acted as its handle and pulled on it, the door flying upward and away from him on its hinge. Taking a candle off the table, Thomas joined him, descending a set of stairs into a small basement. Barrels filled with different supplies, their contents marked by painted signs, stood neatly stacked neared the far wall. Crates, also marked, showed different signs. Sacks of potatoes, sugar and corn stood on the opposite wall along with a rack with several rifles and some ammunition.

"Man could eat like a king for a year with all this," stated Trayble.

"Don't like the looks of it, Trayble," stated Thomas. "That old man was determined to kill me; he might have poisoned this food."

Trayble's eyes went wide, "Do you really think so, Mister Thomas?"

"It's possible," stated Thomas. "Tomorrow, you're gonna go into town and get us some new stock, we'll feed the hands with what's in here."

"What if they die?" asked Trayble anxiously.

"What if they do?" replied Thomas, moving towards the stairs. "I didn't kill them, the old man did."

***

It had been a month since Trayble and Thomas had taken over the Luscomb Ranch and Trayble was beginning to get nervous. He had spent his first week in the house tearing everything apart and putting it back together, Thomas convinced that the old man had set up a booby trap of some sort for them. He made Trayble give all the food in the cellar to the ranch hands, who ate it with no ill effect.

A week or so later, his boss almost shot Mister Rangle. The lawyer had come out to see how they were getting along and to have him sign some papers regarding some money that Mister Luscomb had left in another bank in Texas and which was part of the estate. When he stepped onto the front porch, Thomas had thrown open the door, gun drawn.

"Mister Pritcher, what is the meaning of this?" asked Rangle.

Pritcher had merely smiled, "Shouldn't sneak up on a man like that, Mister Rangle, it's a good way to end up dead."

His boss had gotten so jittery that Trayble had begun sleeping with his gun in his hand, something he normally did only on the trail. He had been with Thomas for years; it was the first time he had ever seriously considered leaving.

In the bunkhouse, Rollins was becoming more uneasy with the current situation as well. He liked Trayble, but he found Thomas extremely unsettling. He was the only one other than Trayble allowed to come up to the house and every time he went there to report on what the men had accomplished, he had to repeat the story of Mister Luscomb's last day. He and Trayble would exchange glances at times as Mister Pritcher's actions became more and more erratic.

Once, while fetching some water, he found himself at the well with Trayble. They had exchanged pleasantries when Thomas came flying out of the house, accusing them of speaking ill of him. It had taken them both some time to calm him down and when they finally did, he stalked off, his face dark and angry. Once the cattle drive was over, he would look for work elsewhere. As the weeks gathered and the new owner became more irrational, most of the boys began to feel the same way.

Thomas sat in the kitchen, cleaning and loading his gun, walking about the house, certain that he and Trayble had missed something. He was sleeping on the floor, afraid the bed was booby trapped and he was beginning to get suspicious of Trayble. What were he and that ranch hand talking about? Why was he always so nervous lately? Staring at the fireplace, he sauntered over to the mantle and peered at the clean slate below the unused logs. He bent to examine the slate more closely, noting that one of the pieces seemed loose.

"Trayble," he called out.

Trayble appeared at the back door, "Yes, Mister Thomas?"

"Get some cement," he crabbed. This stone is..." he stopped. Peering down, he saw that the stone was covering something. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his gun and bent lower, lifting the stone up. Below the stone was a metal lock box.

"Trayble, get over here," he hissed. Trayble was at his side in an instant. "Pull that box out and be careful not to drop it."

Trayble removed the stone and ever so gently pulled the box out of its hiding place and placed it on the table. Picking up the stone, he saw that there was a key fastened to the bottom of it with wax. "Mister Thomas, look!"

Thomas removed the key from the stone and handed it to Trayble, "Open it."

Trayble trembled from head to foot, "What if it's a bomb, Mister Thomas?"

"Be careful," replied Thomas, edging towards the door and nudging Trayble towards the box with his gun.

Trayble swallowed hard and unlocked the box. He jumped at the click of the key as it turned in the lock and lid lifted slightly. Sweating, he slowly pulled the top open, revealing a piece of paper and seven gold nuggets, each about the size of a robin's egg. Thomas drew up next to him, taking the sheet of paper and opening it. The paper was a letter, written in a large, flowing hand and signed by the late Mister Luscomb.

Let it be on my head if this gold is never found. I know that it would bring prosperity to our small town, but I must avenge my son. If I survive, the whole town will benefit from the wealth that we find, but if I should fail, let no man grow wealthy while my son lies in his grave, for this would have been his inheritance. To the poor and destitute I say, let it be on my head that you suffered in this life. May the Lord forgive me in the next.

Jacob Luscomb

Thomas read the note and the examined the gold pieces.

"That's a fortune boss," stated Trayble.

"Go and get Rollins," he replied, "and don't you say a word about this to anyone or you'll join Mister Luscomb and his son."

Trayble nodded and ran out to fetch Rollins. When they returned, the box was gone and Thomas stood, gun drawn, eyeing Rollins.

"Mister Rollins, I have a few questions for you," he stated, his gun hand never wavering. "I want a straight answer, you understand me?"

"Of course, Mister Pritcher," replied Rollins, shooting a glance at Trayble. "Anything you want to know."

"Did Mister Luscomb ever talk to you about doing some prospectin'," asked Thomas.

"Prospectin', why no, Mister Pritcher, I'm sure he didn't. He did tell me about some mining he used to do 'round Silver Creek. He said he was looking for copper, that some fella used to work for him said that there was copper round here. He used to go to a cave just over the ridge headed towards town. It's on the rise just over other side of the ridge, covered with brush. Behind the brush is the entrance, doesn't look like much till you get inside..."

"Did he ever say he found somethin'," asked Thomas impatiently.

Rollins thought about it, "No sir never did. He did do somethin' strange though, when his son died..."

"Out with it," snapped Thomas, pointing the gun angrily.

"Easy with that, Mister Pritcher, I'll tell ya, I'll tell ya the whole thing. See, when his boy died, he was crazy out of his mind. After he buried his boy, he kept tellin' us that he shoulda buried him in the old cave, said it was his inheritance, but we didn't understand what he was talkin' 'bout. Made no sense..."

"When was the last time he spoke about the cave?" growled Thomas.

"Day before you shot him," replied Rollins, eyeing the gun uneasily. "All he said was he shoulda buried the boy there, didn't make no kind of sense..."

"Get out," snarled Thomas. "That's all I need to know."

Gingerly, Rollins backed out the door, his eyes trained on the gun. Thomas and Trayble could hear the sound of him running back towards the bunkhouse once he was out of sight.

"Saddle our horses, Trayble," ordered Thomas. "I'll get a lantern; you bring a pick and a shovel."

***

Trayble dismounted his horse, uneasy about leaving his back to Thomas but unable to find an excuse not to do so. The mound in front of them was covered with brush and a few small bushes, but as he pressed forward he could see the opening of the cave.

"Just like he said, Mister Thomas," he stated. "Opening's there, kinda low..."

Thomas dismounted and took the lantern that lay connected to his saddle horn. Opening its metal door, he struck a match and lit the wick, smiling as the light grew brighter.

"Get yer tools," he said. "Let's see what old man Jacobs was up to in there."

Trayble pulled the shovel and pick from the bag he had put behind his saddle and followed Thomas through the brush and into the cave opening. The opening was about three feet tall and the two men had to bend low to enter. About four feet in, the floor began dropping way from them, moving on a steady descent deeper into the earth. As the floor dropped away, the men were able to stand taller until the ceiling towered over them. The descending path was well worn and as they went further, the ceiling dropped closer to them on the other side of what had been an enormous chamber. Continuing forward, they saw a corridor that continued away from the chamber, about the height of a man and wide enough for two men to walk through together. Thomas reached out and directed Trayble's gaze to the wall.

"Man made," he stated. "This must have been the copper mine Rollins was talkin' about."

"I don't see no other openin'," agreed Trayble. "Maybe we should get us some rope, Mister Thomas. Be safer if we had us some rope, we don't know the way..."

"It looks pretty straight to me," stated Thomas, shining the lantern as far as he could down the corridor. "If it branches off, we'll go back and get some. Let's see what's inside."

Thomas moved steadily into the tunnel for about 300 yards until they came to a wall.

"End of the line," said Trayble softly. Turning, he caught a glimpse of something on the wall. "Mister Thomas, flash that light here."

Thomas turned the lantern and to his surprise, noticed Trayble scratching at something in the dirt, trying to dislodge it.

"What is it?" he asked anxiously.

Trayble eagerly extended his hand towards his boss. In the center of his palm lay a rock about the size of his thumb. It provided an eerie reflection of the lamp light. Blowing on the dirt on the rock, the glimmer it produced became stronger.

"Gold," whispered Trayble. "Honest to goodness gold, Mister Thomas. Look at the size of that nugget!"

Thomas picked the nugget gingerly out of Trayble's hand and eyed it more closely.

"This is it, Trayble, this has to be it," he whispered. "This was his son's inheritance, this is what he meant!"

Looking over Trayble's shoulder, he pointed, "Where did you get it from?"

Trayble turned excitedly, "Why right here..."

The gun shot echoed loudly in the tunnel. With the aid of the lantern, Thomas watched Trayble's body slowly descend to the floor until it came to rest in a heap in front of the spot where he had been pointing. Too bad; Trayble had been a loyal and reliable valet, but he wasn't sharing this with anyone. From Luscomb's note he knew that no one in town knew anything about this. Rollins might be suspicious, he would have to get him here and let him join Trayble and then the secret of the gold would die with him.

With the pick and the shovel, he dug a shallow grave in the middle of the tunnel floor. Before dropping Trayble into the hole, he checked his pockets, taking the money he found and the gun Trayble always wore. He would drop the gun somewhere on the road into town, no sense taking a chance with it. He kicked Trayble into the hole and covered him with the dirt.

"Good-bye, my friend," he smiled. "Unlike the boy, at least you got to be buried near the gold..."

Moving back to the wall he began swinging the pick at the wall. He was making good progress, had gone almost four feet and had picked up six more nuggets before an uneasiness began to gnaw at him. The walls everywhere else in the cave were rock and hard pack, but this wall was soft dirt. Greed, however, gnawed at him more than caution. Six nuggets and who knew how much more was just another swing away? He was covered in sweat and grime but he kept swinging at the wall, pushing further. Finally stopping to catch his breath, he picked up the lantern and looked about the opening he had made. A reflection of a shadow on the ceiling made him aim the lantern higher. It was a piece of wood, a cut and squared piece of wood. Had this been a tunnel? If so, why had they refilled it? Nudging the piece of wood, he dislodged what appeared to be part of a sign that had hung on it. Picking up the piece that had fallen, he threw the pick to the side and picked up the lantern to read it more clearly.

Let it be on my head

"Let it be on my head?" he muttered. "That's what the old man said. What the hell does it mean?" Was this the spot where the old man had found his treasure? Was this his son's inheritance?

Placing the lantern on the floor, he raised the pick and began swinging at where the sign had been. Dirt began to fall in chunks to the floor and then sand began to cascade down in a slow steady stream. A golden tint was reflected in the sand, good God, it was the mother lode!

With one mighty swing, he struck the ceiling and stared at the river of sand that started to descend. His elation was cut short by a low, ominous rumble. Grabbing the lantern, he turned to run, but it was too late. The ceiling was already closing in on him, dropping and smothering him. As he breathed his last, Thomas thought that where ever Mister Luscomb was, he was probably smiling. The light of the lantern was swallowed and the end of the cave groaned and rumbled until the entire new passage and part of the old was buried under the falling ceiling. It had taken a long time, but Jacob Luscomb had finally hit his target.

### Stephanie

"I don't need to tell you how important this is, Jim," Captain Ward said to me as we walked down the corridor.

"Time's running out, I know," I responded. "If we push him, however, he'll never talk. Give me a little more time..."

"We don't have time, not if we're going to have any chance of finding the girl alive."

I nodded as we stopped at the interrogation room door. There was nothing more to say as he unlocked the door and I entered.

John Westing was a tall, well built man with an open, honest face and short black hair. He looked at me happily with large brown eyes and a shy smile. We had become friendly in the last two days and as I sat across from him, I patted his cuffed hands and turned on the tape recorder.

"How are you today, John?"

"Good," he replied softly. "They're treating me well, I can't complain."

"You miss Stephanie?" I asked.

His eyes glazed over, "She's so lovely doctor. So incredibly lovely..."

"You don't mind if we talk about Stephanie today, do you John?"

He snapped out of his adoration and eyed me suspiciously.

"I'm not going to tell you anything..."

"I was just curious as to how you met her is all," I said calmly. "You know, you've spoken so much about her, but I don't know how you two met..."

He relaxed and smiled, "Oh, that. We met at the supermarket..."

"Oh," I said casually, "I didn't know that. How long ago did you two meet?"

He considered it a moment, "About a year now, I guess. I believe it was about a year ago. I went in to get some eggs and milk, you know how it is, you always need eggs and milk... I just went on line to check out, I wasn't expecting anything, you know?"

"You were just buying food," I replied. "Just a normal type of every day activity..."

"Exactly," he said, gesturing with his hands in agreement, "exactly. I mean, I was just the next guy on line, that's all, just standing there and waiting to be checked out and all of a sudden, I looked up and there she was..."

"Stephanie was the check out girl?" I asked.

He nodded, his eyes clouding at the memory, "There she was. I'd never seen anyone like her in my life, she was just beautiful, doctor, just beautiful, so lovely. I must have seemed like such an idiot, I got all tongue tied, I'm sure she thought there was something wrong with me, the way I acted, but I just couldn't stop staring at her."

"Do you remember what she was wearing?" I asked.

"It was a white pullover top and black leggings, they fit her like a second skin. Have you seen, her doctor? She's got a beautiful body, just beautiful and her face..."

"A very attractive girl..."

"Attractive," he snorted. "She's beyond attractive, doctor, she's more than just attractive. She's sexy and sophisticated and lovely, it's the only word that really fits her you know, just lovely..."

"So is that when you started speaking to her?" I asked.

"Oh good God no," he laughed. "For the first maybe fifty times I saw her I couldn't utter a word, I mean, I just stood there in awe... What do you say to a goddess, doc? You just don't say something; I mean you just don't speak to her like, "hi, how are you doing?" or something like that. It took me a long, long time to work up the nerve to say something."

"Other people spoke to her..."

"Morons," he spat, "idiots with no eyes. They didn't even see her, didn't even notice what was standing right in front of them. People are so blind, they can't see, they don't even look... I said that to Stephanie just the other day, I told her, people didn't appreciate you! People would walk past you and they didn't see you, but I saw you. I saw you every time I walked up to you on that line, even on the days when I was busy, I always noticed you, I told her, I did!"

"What did she say when you said that?" I asked.

He looked away, so I changed my tactics.

"You were busy, you said," I stated, leaning back to give him some room. "Busy with your job?"

"No," he replied, "no, my job, what did that matter? I mean, I needed to work to buy things for Stephanie, but I'm not career oriented. That's what the asshole at human resources told me, "You're not career oriented". No kidding! I have someone like Stephanie and you think I'm worried about making copies for a bunch of idiots? I mean, in twenty years, who cares what those fliers we make read, a week after the event they're all in the garbage. Career my ass, I hate my job, hated it, but I need it, I need to buy things for Stephanie."

"What did you buy her?" I asked.

He laughed and said nothing.

"Jewelry?" I chided. "Clothes? Lingerie?"

He shook his head and I saw his eyes grow dark, "No, doctor, no, nothing like that."

"So what did you say to her, the first time, I mean, when you finally worked up the courage to speak with her?"

He thought for a moment, "Thank you." He noted the surprise on my face, "Yep, thank you. Can you believe it? She's incredibly polite to every customer, "Have a nice day" she'd say to every one of them and finally I worked up the courage to say, "Thank you". That was a day, I can tell you that, I said "Thank you" and you know what she did, right there in front of everyone? She smiled at me." He slapped his hand on the table top, "Smiled at me, right in front of everyone. I knew then, right then, we'd be together. I mean, I know I had some issues to work through, you can't be with someone you can't talk too, I watch enough television to know that people need to be able to communicate, but it was hard, you know. I mean, she just overwhelmed me. I told her about it, I told her everything, you've got to be able to tell people that stuff even if it's kind of embarrassing, but you'll never get anywhere if you don't."

"So you two really hit it off..."

"Oh yeah, from that day on, we had a bond. I would wait for her after work, I'd go in and buy something and walk through her line and then wait for her outside in my van. She'd come out and walk past me to the end of the parking lot and make a right, she always makes a right. I always found that strange, she never went anywhere but to her house, never went to a friend's house or even to a store, always made a right and walked the four blocks to her house. That's her thing though, going to her house. She's always asking about when she can go there and I keep telling her that was just a house, you're home now, you know, but she doesn't get it. She will in time, she will..."

"What about Phil?"

John's face contorted in rage, "To hell with Phil! What about him? You think he loved her? Do you? He made her work, made her go to work at that shit grocery store where guys ogled her or ignored her! He wasn't her boyfriend, he wasn't good for her! She was only living with him to save money, she didn't care for him, didn't love him! Don't talk to me about Phil, I could tell you some stories about Phil, buddy boy... You think I'm the bad guy here? I take care of her; she doesn't have to work with me! No nine to five grind, not like with Phil!"

"Have you talked to her about Phil?"

He peered at me as if I were the biggest idiot who ever lived, "Do you think I waste my time with a goddess talking about a non-entity like Phil? When we're together we talk about us, we don't waste time talking about Phil!"

I nodded, shifting slightly in my seat, "So when did you figure it out?"

He stared at me, "Figure what out?"

"How to get her to come to the van? I mean, when did you realize you could get her to do that?"

He smiled, pleased to let me in on his secret.

"It started with a mistake if you can believe it. I went to the store and picked up a few things and I got so lost in the moment, you know, just lost looking at her and taking her all in, that I forgot one of my packages. So I get to my van and I'm loading my stuff in and I hear this voice, like an angel calling from heaven and speaking just to me, and it says, "Excuse me, sir, you forgot your package" and I turn around and it's her. She's standing there, just standing there with my package like it's the most natural thing in the world, like speaking to me is just the most natural thing in the world for her to do, you know what I mean? So I take it from her, you know and I'm playing it cool and I say, "Thank you" and you know what she says? "No problem". Can you believe it, "no problem", that's so Steph, it really is, "no problem"..."

"You call her Steph sometimes," I said.

"Sometimes," he nodded smugly. "You know, when you're close to someone, you get pet names for each other, it just kind of evolves..."

"Does she have a nick name for you?"

He bristled, "She'll call me John, sometimes, you know. What can you do with John, I mean; it's not like Stephanie where you can shorten it. I mean she could call me Jack, but I don't like that, I don't get that. I mean, Steph is short for Stephanie, Jack is the same length as John, I don't even get how it's a nickname for John, but she's cool about it...She calls me John, that's all, just John."

"So you knew she'd come out with your package," I said softly. "Was she surprised when you asked her to join you?"

"No, not at all, she was cool about it."

I thought of the surveillance footage, of the struggle that had ensued... I put it out of my mind.

"So she got in on her own?"

He looked at me, a merry twinkle in his eyes, "Of course. What do you think the cops are telling the truth? I didn't force her, that's bullshit; I wouldn't force Stephanie to do anything, what a crock of shit. Where did they get that from, that piece of shit Phil?"

"What did you two talk about once you were in the van?" I asked.

"Personal stuff," he replied quietly. "If you must know, I told her how I felt about her and what I thought our future together would be like... stuff like that."

"How did she feel about it, about what you said?"

"I guess she was kind of flattered," he smiled. "She said she had no idea I felt about her the way I do, but that's such a Stephanie thing too. I mean, she's always looking out for everyone else; she never looks out for herself. You know, you can count on her like that, she's like that, always caring about other people."

"So you decided to look out for her," I said. "That's a nice thing, John. That's a very unselfish thing..."

"Damn right," he replied, "I mean, I'm not bragging about it or anything because it's what she deserves, but do you think it's easy thinking about someone else every minute of every day? Let me tell you, some people would get distracted, some people would let their thoughts wander, but not me, buddy, not me. Every day, every minute of every day, Stephanie is in here," he said pointing to his head, "and in here." He said, pointing to his heart.

"You really want to take care of her, don't you?"

"Damn straight. Damn straight on that!" His smile grew, "No one can take care of Stephanie like I can, no one!"

I looked down at his cuffed hands, "But you have a problem, John, a serious problem. Stephanie, she's not here and you can't take care of her from here..."

"I take care of Stephanie, no one else."

"Do you feed her?"

"Of course I feed her," he snapped. "What do you think; I'm going to let her starve?"

"It's been three days, John," I urged softly. "Did you leave Stephanie with food?"

He turned away.

"Three days John, without food, without water...that's not taking care of Stephanie. You gave her food and water when you were with her. Gave her clothes to wear..."

"She didn't need clothes," he stated. "I didn't give her clothes, what for? She wasn't leaving..."

"But you fed her John," I replied. "You yourself said that you guys hung out and ate pizza the other night. She needs to eat John, needs to drink. She needs you to take care of her John; you haven't been taking care of her..."

"Well whose fault is that, huh?" he snapped, wheeling on me. "Whose fault is that? The frigging cops, that's who! Those bastards in blue, they're trying to keep me from Stephanie, they want to keep us apart, doc, but I'm not letting them. They can't keep me in here forever and once I'm out, Steph and I will be together again."

"But what if she doesn't make it, John?" I asked quietly, calmly. "Even a goddess needs to eat, to drink. John, you've got to help her, you've got to help Stephanie or you'll never see her again."

"That's what you want me to believe," he whined, "I don't believe you..."

"John, food and water, we all need food and water John. When you were with Stephanie, didn't you feed her every day? Give her something to drink, every day?"

"Of course I did, what do you think I am?" he screeched.

"John, listen to me; Stephanie needs you, she needs her John to help her. You can't do it because you're in here. I'm your friend John, don't you think of me as your friend?"

"Yeah, I do," he replied.

"Is Stephanie your friend?" I asked.

"My one and only," he replied. "When we made love, it was like we were one person. She was shy at first, you know, kept pushing me away, kept trying not to, but I made her understand we needed to be one. We are one, doc..."

"You can't let yourself starve John, you can't," I said. "That's what you're doing if you let Stephanie starve. Look, John, I'm a doctor, right?"

"Yeah," he said suspiciously.

"You know about doctor/patient privilege, right?"

"Yeah, I know..."

"Well if you don't trust me as a friend, trust me as a doctor." Reaching over, I shut off the tape recorder, "Tell me where Stephanie is, tell me how I can get some food and water to her. I'll take it there and make sure she's okay and then I'll come back and let you know that all is well. Like you said, they can't hold you forever..."

"You won't tell the cops," he said, "doctor/patient confidentiality."

I nodded, "I'm a professional John, I took an oath to care for people. I will care for Stephanie until you can, but you have to tell me where she is."

He looked away, struggling with it, "All right then, okay." He leaned closer, "In my basement, under the oil tank, there's a switch. It looks like it controls the oil flow, but it opens a panel leading to a stairway behind the burner. The cops will never find it, but if you turn it, it will slide open. Stephanie is in the room down there. Now don't feed her too much, doc, she's got a perfect body, don't mess it up."

"All right, John, all right. I'll get her a sandwich and a coke and make sure she eats that and no more."

"Then come back to me, doc and let me know how she is."

"You got it John, you got it."

***

I stooped beneath the police tape surrounding the house and made my way to the back yard, letting myself into the dilapidated building that had served as John Westing's home since his childhood. The house was dark and dirty, my flashlight piercing the darkness of the kitchen and providing a beacon that led to the cellar door. Opening the door, I went down the stairs to the cellar, a jumbled, dirty cobweb covered hole. Crawling beneath the burner I found the switch John had described and turned it. In the darkness I heard something, like concrete sliding against concrete and then silence. As I got up, I saw a narrow doorway leading into a black, empty looking space. The stairs were narrow and dank and I descended with a sense of foreboding. A small wooden door stood at the bottom of the stairs. I sought a light switch but none was to be found, but the door gave way instantly to my touch.

Inside was a small room and as I entered, I pressed against the wall, finding an old fashioned button type light switch. I pressed the button and a single bulb sputtered to life. In the corner lay a queen sized bed with an iron head and foot board and upon the bed the figure of a girl. She was naked and her arms were tied together over her head and then to the headboard. Her feet were tied at the ankle by separate ropes, each tied to a corner of the foot board. Tentatively, I leaned over and touched her arm, it was cold. A moment later, she started, whipping her head around to face me. She peered up at me, unable to distinguish my face because the light was behind me. As I knelt at her side, she stared at me, her eyes adjusting. She was shivering, cold and frightened and she began to cry. Gingerly I loosened the rope holding her hands to the headboard and gently pulled her arms down to rest in her lap as I sat her up. I took a blanket from the bag I was holding and wrapped it around her as she wept. I held her for a long time, rubbing her arms and legs to get her circulation going and then just holding her to try and make her warm.

***

I thought of John Westing today at the memorial service for Stephanie. Phil brought him up as we spoke at the church, poor Phil, he's taking it hard. While in prison, John lost all touch with reality and has been committed to an institute for the criminally insane. His break with reality came the afternoon of that fateful day. I had taken the police to the place where Stephanie had been kept, but they found only some of her clothing and a few strands of her hair, nothing else. John could not believe that he had let her die, swore that he had left her there and then had a total psychotic break. We all know that he will never stand trial and mentally, he will never return.

As for Stephanie, she is in a better place; she is safe now. I feed her and keep her safe and warm. She resisted me at first but she has come to understand that we need to be one, she used to be shy about it, it was such a Steph thing, but she's much more accommodating now. It's like how she used to ask about going to her house, but she hasn't asked about that in a very long time. I think she finally gets it; she's home now, the only home she will know ever again. John was right about one thing, she is lovely, so very lovely...
The Baddest Bad Ass

My name is Artemus Williams and if you mess with me, I will kill you. No, joke, I don't play, I will stick you or I will shoot you or I will put an ice pick in your eye, I don't give a shit, so don't mess with me. Period.

My Mama is always on my ass about getting an education, making something of myself, well I am something; I am me, the baddest bad ass there is. I don't need no education to be a bad ass, I don't need to make something of myself, what she thinks is something ain't nothing to me. Forget school, I don't need to listen to no teachers talking crap about no people who died a hundred years ago and why they're so great. Damn it, I'm great now, don't need to know about those dead people. Why are they considered great? They didn't do nothing that's got to do with me, they didn't help me or think about me or say anything about me, so why should I think or say or consider anything about them? To hell with them!

I wasn't always this smart, I didn't know what was going on, I was just your typical stupid little kid until Uncle Reggie wised me up. Uncle Reggie is Mama's older brother and he's a big man in our neighborhood. When you see Uncle Reggie, you'd better show respect or you'll end up with a bullet in your ass or a knife in your back. Uncle Reggie don't play, he's bad and everyone knows it.

Life is tough in our neighborhood; no one's got money or nice stuff. If you've got money or nice stuff, you don't live here. Take Taron, Uncle Reggie's friend. Taron had a sweet ride, black with tinted windows and everything you could have on a car, mad wheels and a stupid sound system. The whole neighborhood shook when Taron drove by in that car. The police hated that car, don't like to see anyone in this neighborhood get anything nice, so they used to follow Taron around, keep an eye on everything he did. Finally, Taron was doing a deal, no big thing and the cops caught him. We ain't seen Taron or that car since then, both of them gone.

For a while Uncle Reggie had to lay kind of low because Taron was one of his boys and the stuff they found on Taron had come from Uncle Reggie, but Taron kept it real, he didn't say shit to the cops. He got five years, but they won't break him and a few weeks later, Uncle Reggie was out there, running the streets like nothing happened.

Uncle Reggie takes me sometimes when Mama is stuck at work or has to work a late shift and we go out to the corner and conduct business. I've learned so much but I'm not a fool, I know I got a lot more to learn. Uncle Reggie says that if you want to know anything, stop going to school and look around you and he's right. Ain't no school going to get me out of the projects, ain't no teacher telling me about dead presidents and shit that's going to get me out of here. If I want to leave, I got to do it the only way I can and that's by gaining respect. People can't disrespect you, Uncle Reggie tells me that all the time. If they steal your car or take your money, that's whack and you got to do whatever, you know, it depends on the circumstances but the most important thing is you can't let anyone disrespect you. Turn the other cheek don't work here, ain't no place to turn a cheek where I'm from.

Still, you've got to accommodate friends if possible, take Lucas. Now Lucas grew up with Uncle Reggie, they were tight, they were boys, but Lucas, well, he has to do what he has to do and so does Uncle Reggie. Right now they're working opposite corners and sometimes, they take each other's customers, but that ain't on purpose, that is what it is and you can't get all freaked about it. Lucas doesn't disrespect Uncle Reggie and Uncle Reggie doesn't disrespect Lucas, everything else is just business and that's just cool. See, I'm a bit too young to understand the nuances of it, but Uncle Reggie tells me that in time, I'll understand and you ain't going to learn that in a damn classroom.

Uncle Reggie left school when he was twelve and I'm going to leave school when I'm twelve. I go now because Mama gets so damn mad when I don't, but I hate it there. The teacher and the kids there, they don't know me, don't know what I'm about. They're always talking about shit no one cares about, history and math and science. What the hell does that stuff have to do with the real world? Cops don't care if you know history, math or science; girls don't give a shit either. Uncle Reggie don't know history, math or science and he's got money and girls and cars. You think he got that because of school? School don't prepare you for the real world, doesn't help you on the streets, to hell with school, who needs it.

Mama says keep your nose clean, get good grades and when you grow up, you can be anything you want. I don't see anyone in this neighborhood being anything they want, don't see anyone being anything but angry and poor and pissed off. Uncle Reggie's friend David went to school, so what? He got a degree and went to college and you know what? He's stuck in some crumby job in the city, stuck in an apartment with his wife and kids and works all the time. He and Uncle Reggie stopped talking because what can you say? You want that shit, you can keep it, it's not for Uncle Reggie and it sure as hell ain't for me. What do I want to move to the city for? What do I want to be stuck in a job all day for? That's just like going to school and I hate that, so why do I want a job where I have to go everyday and sit at a desk, just like school? I try to tell Mama that, but she don't understand. She keeps saying I don't understand, which is backwards, cause she don't understand. She works harder than anyone I know, she's always busting her ass and what has it gotten her? Nothing. She pays for the apartment and food and some clothes and what's left? We don't have a car, we don't have any nice jewelry, we don't have nothing but a bus pass and problems. I don't need a bus pass cause I ain't going nowhere and I don't need school because school don't solve your problems.

Like Uncle Reggie says, there's only one way out of here and that's to keep it real and be strong. I'm strong, I will always be strong. Uncle Reggie says that one day, if I keep up keeping up, we'll be partners. He says that he can't trust no one, but he can trust me and we'll be partners one day and I'll know everything he does and we'll watch each other's backs. Damn straight, ain't no one going to get the drop on us, he'll be watching out for me and I'll be watching out for him and anyone who messes with us will end up dead cause we don't play. Uncle Reggie don't play and I sure as shit don't play and you had better not play with us, that's all I can say.

***

"Can I see him now?" asked the young woman, tears in her eyes.

The doctor took her gently by the arm and led her back to her seat in the emergency room. He was a tall white man with silver hair and tired blue eyes. His face was long and dour and his thin lips looked dry and pale.

"Is there anyone here with you, Miss Williams?"

Shauna shook her head, "My friend is on the way and my mother..."

The doctor licked his lips nervously. He had other patients, he couldn't delay though he hated it when no one else was there.

"Your son...we removed the bullets, Miss Williams. The damage was rather severe..." he tried to explain it, explain it in terms she could understand, could comprehend now between the tears. He knew the question was coming, knew it could not be avoided.

"Is there any hope doctor?"

He sighed inwardly. Taking a deep breath, he continued, "It is my medical opinion that your son will remain in a vegetative state for the remainder of his life. If his current condition were to improve, which is extremely doubtful, he might be able to breathe on his own, but he will never be able to interact with you and he will be paralyzed. I am extremely sorry, Miss Williams."

The young mother collapsed in his arms and he held her as she sobbed and moaned her grief into his chest. Finally she managed to regain her composure and eased back into her chair.

"He was with my brother," she babbled, "I only left him with Reggie for a few minutes, I had to go shopping... had to get milk and eggs... Reggie said he could hang out with him, just hang out on the corner...What about my brother, doctor, what about Reggie?"

The doctor closed his eyes. Opening them, he looked down at his hands, "I'm sorry, Miss Williams, they did everything they could, but he died before he reached the hospital. There were just too many wounds, too many bullets...He was hit at least twenty times...whoever was in the car must have had an automatic weapon."

Shauna nodded mutely, barely able to comprehend the doctor's words.

"Can I see my boy now?"

The doctor nodded, "Yes. He's got quite a few tubes and wires attached to him, you won't be able to touch him for a while, but if you want to see him..."

"Yes, doctor, please."

Rising, the doctor took her hand and led her down a long, white hallway. Nurses and doctors streamed passed them, trying to ignore her grief, trying not to make eye contact. At the end of the corridor, two large doors swung inwards. The room was quiet except for the gentle beeping of monitors and machines. A nurse's station stood in the middle with cubicles partitioned off by curtains surrounding it. The doctor led her gently to the third curtain on their right and pulled back the curtain slowly.

There amidst the tubes and wires, barely visible, lay her son. His head was heavily bandaged, his face distorted and twisted by the violence that the bullets had done to his skull. Trembling, Shauna shuffled to the side of the bed and took his limp hand, gently squeezing his fingers and staring at the distorted face.

"I'm here baby, I'm here," she whispered between sobs.

The doctor cleared his throat.

"He can't answer you, he probably can't hear you, we're not sure. He has very low level brain function, it might improve in time," he cleared his throat, "it's highly doubtful, however. I'm sorry, Miss Williams."

Shauna stared into the distorted face, her heart tearing. All she wanted was to hear his voice again, to laugh with him again, to talk to him again. What was he feeling, what was he thinking? Oh God in Heaven, he's only eight years old, why did this happen? Damn you, Reggie, damn you... She stared down at him through the tears and saw his lips moving ever so slightly around the tube that was helping him breath. What was her boy saying? Artemus, what are you thinking?

My name is Artemus Williams and if you mess with me, I will kill you. No, joke, I don't play, I will stick you or I will shoot you or I will put an ice pick in your eye, I don't give a shit, so don't mess with me. Period.

The Ghost Tour

"Look Justin, I'm sorry it's such late notice, but I need you here and I need you now," stated Sam.

Justin moaned, "A seven o'clock tour? Damn it, Sam, I had plans tonight..."

"Robbie called in sick, what am I supposed to do? You can put your plans back an hour, you can still meet your friends..."

"Okay, okay," crabbed Justin. "Let me make a few phone calls, I'm on my way."

Justin stared at the phone, bile rising in his throat. Robbie was an asshole, always calling in sick, besides; he knew he had plans tonight, damn loser. Justin spat and dialed his cell phone as he reviewed his guide notes. He had been giving tours of Green-Wood Cemetery for about six months now, but he had never given the Halloween tour before. He knew it would take him on the Sylvan Waters side of the cemetery, but he had never given a tour on that side before. Damn Robbie!

"Hello."

The female voice that had offered him the greeting sounded angry already.

"Anna, hey, it's Justin..."

"You're canceling, aren't you?" The voice on the other end was flat and growing angrier.

"No, I'm delaying," began Justin, "I got called into work..."

"Oh stop the crap..."

"No, honestly, Sam just called..."

"You know what, Justin? I'm sick of your shit, we've been planning to go to Emma's Halloween party for two weeks now and I knew you'd pull some shit to get out of it."

She was being her usual, understanding self, he fumed. If it weren't for the fact that she was a freak in bed...

"I'm not trying to get out of it," replied Justin, trying to maintain his composure, "I have to work. I'm only going to be an hour late..."

"Up yours," snapped Anna. "You never liked Emma..." hard to argue that, what's to like about a four hundred pound, man hating lesbian, "I'm telling you Justin, if you don't pick me up in half an hour, don't bother coming."

Checking his watch, he laughed, "I couldn't be there in..."

"Then find yourself a new girlfriend asshole." The line went dead.

Justin stared at the phone in mute rage before finally ringing off and putting his phone back in his pocket. Who the hell needed Anna anyway, miserable bitch. If he wasn't on call 24/7 she was complaining, arguing. They had never gotten along anyway, screw it. Stalking out the door, he grabbed his coat and headed out into the growing darkness. Head down, he stalked his way towards the bus stop growing angrier with every step. All of his friends would be out at Emma's party and he would be stuck leading some losers around a cemetery on Halloween night. At least the Halloween tour was shorter. Damn it, Robbie was going to pay for this.

***

During the day, Green-Wood Cemetery is a beautiful park that just happens to be filled with graves. At night, with the darkness fading over the sky, the cemetery's long and winding walkways, statues and monuments took on a more sinister appearance. Mausoleums seem to glow with an inner light, trees, graceful and majestic in daylight, twist and crouch in the moon's gentle glow. The statuary, so beautiful and detailed in the daylight grows large and ominous, cold and indistinct at night. What had been a glorious stone angel a few hours before had grown into a dark phantasm crouching above the dead as the light retreated from the sky.

Entering the main brownstone gate, a towering edifice separating the living world from the world within, Justin stopped to pick up a list of the people he would be leading on this evening's ghost tour. Moving to his right, passed the crematorium and down a dimly light walkway, he spotted a group of eight people eyeing him with expectant faces.

"Good evening, everyone," smiled Justin as he approached. "Are you here for the Halloween tour?"

The group mumbled a general affirmation. Justin peered down at the paper and in the growing darkness read out the names.

"Mister Burdell?"

A tall, well dressed man with a neatly trimmed beard stepped forward and bowed slightly, "Present."

"Miss Cunningham?"

"Mrs. Cunningham," replied a severe looking woman of about thirty. She seemed to be dressed as if to go to a costume party. By her proximity to the Mister Burdell, she assumed they were here as a couple.

"My apologies," replied Justin, "Mrs. Cunningham. Mister Edwards?"

A balding, fat man in a heavy sweater and dark blue jeans moved slightly forward, "Here."

"Mister Faber?

Another well dressed man stared at Justin kindly and then after a moment responded with a slight accent, "Present."

"Mister Gallo?"

A heavyset man in a dark suit shifting nervously from foot to foot took a step forward, "Yeah, I'm here."

"Miss Leslie?"

"Here."

Justin glanced up and smiled. Miss Leslie was a beautiful girl in her early twenties, wearing a long empire gown of white satin, a bolero jacket of black velvet covering her slender shoulders and descending until it barely reaching her lower ribcage. Her face was pale and heart shaped with a soft, pleasant mouth and large, lustrous eyes. Her blonde hair was parted in the middle with braids flowing from either side and joining in a cord that cascaded to the small of her back. Wisps of her hair framed her face, giving her an angelic look.

"Miss Leslie," he repeated, lost for a moment in the radiance of her eyes. Pulling himself together, he smiled and cleared his throat. With a cough, he refocused on his list, "Miss Leslie is here... Mister Thomas?"

"Yeah, are we getting started soon?" asked a heavy set man in a hooded sweatshirt. "It's getting kind of cold."

"Why don't you get some patience?" asked Mister Gallo menacingly.

"We'll be leaving shortly," stated Justin soothingly. "In fact, we have just one more, Mister Train?"

An elegantly dressed man in his early twenties presented himself, his dark eyes measuring Justin with good humor. His teeth sparkled beneath a neatly trimmed mustache, "Present."

"All right then, we're all here," smiled Justin. "Perhaps we should get started then. My name is Justin and I will be your tour guide for this Halloween walk through Green-Wood Cemetery. The cemetery gates you walked through on your way in were built in 1861 by the world renowned architects Richard Upton and Sons. You all are probably familiar with some of their work; they are the same firm that built the world famous Trinity Church in Manhattan and the Grace Church in Brooklyn Heights. Now, the front gates rise to a height of 106 feet and the bell that tops the gate still rings every time there is a funeral here at Green-Wood." To Justin's surprise, the bell began to slowly toll.

"Would there be a funeral this late?" asked Thomas nervously.

"They bring stiffs in here all the time," replied Gallo.

"Have you toured Green-Wood before, Mister Gallo?" asked Justin.

"No, I live nearby," replied the man, moving closer. "I hear the bell just about every day."

"Well, if you'll follow me," replied Justin, "I'll show you our crematorium."

"A crematorium, in a graveyard?" asked Burdell, his distaste evident.

"My church frowns upon the cremation of remains," commented Mrs. Cunningham haughtily.

"Up until the early twentieth century, the cremation of remains was looked upon with suspicion by many Christian sects, but it has become more popular and has gained wider acceptance," replied Justin.

"Do you think they are cremating someone now?" asked Miss Leslie, her quiet voice drifting towards Justin as wisps of smoke rose from the crematorium.

"No, I'm sure they are not" replied Justin reassuringly. "That smoke is from the chimney used to heat the building. The burning of remains is seldom done at night."

"Gives me the creeps," mumbled Mister Thomas.

"That is what you're here for, isn't it?" smiled Mister Faber.

"Seems efficient," stated Mister Train with a laugh. "Still, I'd rather be outside and cold than inside and warm!"

The group laughed and continued following Justin as he proceeded with the tour. A thickening mist seemed to swirl up around them, making the trees fade and then reform in the stark moonlight. To Justin's delight, Miss Leslie seemed to remain close to him, whether she was interested in the tour or nervous he was unable to say, but he was enjoying the situation. There was something about her, such a light loveliness, a fragile beauty, that he just wanted to protect her, to wrap her in his arms and tell her it would all be all right.

As the tour progressed, Justin noticed that five of the group, Faber, Gallo, Cunningham, Train and Burdell all seemed to know each other. Each seemed dressed for a costume party and they conversed amongst themselves with great ease and familiarity, though Mister Gallo appeared to be rather short tempered and easily offended. Chatting with the others, he found that Thomas, Edwards and Miss Leslie were taking the tour for a variety of reasons.

Thomas was supposed to be here with a friend who hadn't shown up. Edwards had always wanted to take the tour and had never had the chance to do so before now. He was leaving Brooklyn to go home to California, so he decided that this might be his last chance. Miss Leslie said that she thought it just seemed to be the right place to be on Halloween night, which made Justin reappraise his earlier thoughts about only losers taking the tour. Of the second group, she alone seemed dressed for a costume party.

The mist seemed to grow more densely and cling closer to the ground as they made their way deeper into the cemetery. Approaching their next stop, Justin began to speak dramatically.

"Here we are in front of the grave of one of the greatest mass murderers in history. Albert Anastasia murdered or ordered the murder of between four and five hundred people. He was the head of "Murder Incorporated". Five times he escaped the electric chair, each time; key witnesses set to testify against him mysteriously disappeared. In the underworld he was known as "the Lord High Executioner".

"Died in a barber chair," interrupted Gallo viciously. "Shave and a hair cut, BANG, BANG!" To everyone's surprise, he dissolved into a fit of laughter.

"Doesn't matter who you are, does it, Mister Gallo," remarked Mister Faber calmly, "a body isn't the nicest way to stop a bullet."

Gallo stopped laughing and eyed Faber with angry intent, the cold mist wrapping around his legs to his waist.

"Bullets seem so cowardly," remarked Mrs. Cunningham primly.

"I suppose knives are better?" asked Mister Train, a remark that seemed to make Mrs. Cunningham uncomfortable.

"Yes, she thinks stabbing is so much more refined," remarked Burdell.

"Isn't the Sylvan Waters near here?" asked Mister Faber suddenly. "I've seen the Valley Waters many times, that's a lake over in that direction, but I've never seen the Sylvan Waters."

"Yes," replied Justin, "just around the bend."

"I've heard the lake is quite beautiful in the moonlight," said Miss Leslie, a soft longing in her voice.

"It is a lovely spot," agreed Justin softly. After a pause, he began to move the group deeper into the cemetery.

Turning a bend in the road, the moonlight shone on a beautiful lake surrounded by tiers of monuments and mausoleums. Justin stopped to allow the visitors a chance to enjoy the view. Turning he began, "The Sylvan Water..."

"Tell me, Justin," began Burdell suddenly. "This is a cemetery and yet, there are people buried here who do not have monuments."

Justin considered it, "Yes, there are people here who do not have monuments. You must remember, this area has been used for burials since the revolutionary war, in fact, we have several revolutionary way soldiers buried here at Green-Wood..."

"But you would think that a wealthy man might have been expected to have received a monument," interrupted Burdell with annoyance.

"Well in some instances, family problems delay the purchasing of a monument..."

"Sometimes, Justin," interrupted Mister Faber, "there are other reasons for a lack of a monument. Does it really matter, however? Whether you have a stone or a mausoleum or nothing, it doesn't change your situation, does it?"

"I'd hate to be forgotten," stated Mister Train. "You live your whole life trying to help your fellow man and then no one knows where you were laid to rest? How do people come to pay their respects for your achievements? No, I agree with Burdell, here, I like a monument. The word itself, monument, expresses the desire to be memorialized."

"Dead's dead," stated Gallo. "Don't matter how fancy they dress it up, dead's dead."

"I agree with Gallo," stated Edwards, "In a thousand years who will know? I mean, I'd like my family to know where I am..."

"And what if you don't have a family?" interrupted Burdell.

"Who would put up the marker then?" asked Thomas.

"A grateful citizenry," replied Train amiably.

"Sometimes the citizenry is more grateful that you're gone than that you were here," pointed out Faber. "Still, it is a beautiful place, isn't it? Could you imagine going out on the lake on a nice night like this?"

"They used to have boats on the Sylvan Waters," said Justin. "Back in the 1800's..."

"It was fun on an afternoon day, I bet," interrupted Mister Train, "a welcome respite from the heat, I'm sure."

"With all of your friends and relatives around," Faber nodded.

"There are pictures of people on the lake and having picnics here in Green-Wood," smiled Justin as they moved towards the water.

"Picnics here? In the cemetery?" asked Miss Leslie.

"There was a much different attitude towards death at the time," explained Justin. "People came to visit their relatives as much as to mourn them. Oh yes, they would have picnics and spend the day near the water. This place was built as much for the living as for the dead. In the 1800's, peoples attitude was if death was around every corner, you might as well invite him in and at least be friendly about having him around."

"Dead is dead," stated Gallo sourly. "Doesn't matter how you look at it, you can believe you're going to some happy place but once you're gone, you're gone."

"Oh, I don't know, Mister Gallo," replied Train. "I mean to say, there is gone and then there is gone." The five friends chuckled but the joke was lost on Justin.

Checking his watch, Justin saw that it was time to get the group back towards the gate. It was almost eight o'clock and the tour should be concluding. As diplomatically as possible, he led them away from the waters and back towards the main gate. The mist seemed to be dispersing, rising higher off the ground and thinning out as they walked towards the gate.

To his pleasure, Justin found himself walking next to Miss Leslie, who continued to ask him about the history of the cemetery. As they approached their starting point, Justin turned to thank everyone for joining them on the tour. To his annoyance, he found Edwards and Thomas walking behind them and no one else.

"Where did they go?" he asked.

Thomas and Edwards turned around and looked at the empty pathway.

"They were with us up until that last curve," stated Edwards.

"Miss Cunningham was saying something about people jumping to conclusions," stated Thomas. "She was arguing with Mister Burdell..."

A thin man with thick, gray hair came walking towards them from the direction of the gate; it was Justin's boss Sam.

"Justin, did you get my message?"

"What message?"

Sam drew closer, "About the seven o'clock tour. It was pushed back an hour, the main part of the group couldn't make it until eight o'clock."

"They were all here," replied Justin, handing over the paper.

Sam examined it, "Didn't it strike you as strange that there were only three people on the tour?"

"Three people?" asked Leslie, "There were eight of us."

"I'm sorry to disagree with you miss, but there are only three names on this paper," stated Sam, handing the paper back to Justin.

Justin viewed the list, "There were eight names on this paper." Turning towards Edwards and Thomas he motioned with the paper, "There were eight people here tonight..."

"Yes," agreed Edwards. "I don't know where the others got to, but they were here a minute ago..."

"As I was saying, as we turned the corner there, Miss Cunningham was telling Mister Burdell that he shouldn't jump to conclusions..." began Thomas.

"Miss Cunningham said that to Mister Burdell?" asked Sam.

"Yes, they were arguing about something," replied Thomas.

"Oh, they were arguing about something, about a hundred years ago," laughed Sam. "Miss Cunningham murdered Mister Burdell, well more accurately, Doctor Burdell. He was a dentist."

"That right," said Justin, the light of revelation showing in his eyes. "I knew I knew those names! Harvey Burdell, he was murdered by Emma Cunningham in the late 1800's, but they didn't have enough evidence to convict her. He's buried in an unmarked grave near Landscape and Oak Avenues..."

"Well what about Mister Train and Mister Faber?" asked Thomas.

"Yeah, and what about that guy, Gallo?" added Edwards.

"George Francis Train, the world traveler and politician, is buried by the Sylvan Water," laughed Sam, "and Eberhard Faber, the pencil magnate, is buried over by the Valley Water."

"What about Gallo?" asked Edwards again.

"Gallo? Who is Gallo?" asked Sam.

"He was on the tour," replied Justin.

"He was a tough guy, kind of nasty," said Thomas.

Sam looked at Justin, "Did you take them to the Albert Anastasia stone?"

"Of course, it's part of the tour," replied Justin.

"And who killed Albert Anastasia?" asked Sam.

Justin's jaw dropped, "Crazy Joe Gallo..."

"Who is buried on the other side of the cemetery," stated Sam.

"They had to be actors or something," said Miss Leslie. "You don't mean to tell me..."

Sam smiled, "All I can tell you, Miss Leslie, is that there are three names on that paper and security hasn't reported anyone wandering about the cemetery tonight. Green-Wood always increases security on Halloween night to discourage vandalism. Now Justin, are you ready for that other group?"

Justin shook his head, "I'm out of here." Sam began to protest but he cut him off, "I don't need the job, I don't want it, I'm out of here."

With that, Justin headed for the gate, sweat breaking out across his forehead. He had just gained the gate when the feeling of a hand slipping around his arm caused him to jump. Turning, he saw Miss Leslie, looking frightened, staring up at him. He must have been very scared to have forgotten that she was there.

"Would you like to go get a cup of coffee?" she asked in a small voice. "I don't know what just happened, but I'd prefer not to be alone."

Justin smiled, "I don't want to be alone either. I would love to have coffee with you, or anything else you would like."

As the two stepped outside of the gate, the bell in the tower began to ring. Looking up, they locked arms and hurried away from that place.

Trying to Fit In

Ted woke up feeling exhausted, what the hell had happened last night? Looking down at himself, he saw that he was bare-chested and covered in blood, his legs and arms scratched and bloodied. Touching his hand tentatively to his mouth, he looked at his fingertips and found them covered in blood.

"Oh, shit, not again..."

Stumbling upright he suddenly realized that he was not home; he was in what was left of his office.

"Shit, shit, shit and SHIT!"

Stumbling around the room, he searched in a panic for his cell phone. Locating it on the floor beneath a heap of wood that might have once been his desk, he checked the time, 6:02 am. Good, at least he had some time to act.

Suddenly the phone erupted, its ring causing Ted to jump backwards and to lose a few years from his life. Answering it, he heard an annoyed voice on the other end.

"Please tell me you didn't forget last night was a full moon."

Ted hesitated.

"Damn it, Ted, not again..."

"I'm sorry, man; it's this damn project at work..."

"Damn it, Ted...damn it, where are you now?"

Ted hesitated.

"Oh shit, don't tell me you're at work!"

"Jerry, I was working late..."

"Damn it, Ted, you're an asshole, you know that? It's probably how you got bit in the first place; they prey on the young and stupid..."

Ted rolled his eyes, "Not now, okay? Could you bring me some clothes?"

Jerry sighed softly on the other end, "Fine, fine, I'll be there in ten minutes."

Ted shook his head as he pushed the button to disconnect. Making his way to the office door, he carefully unlocked it and peered out into the main office area. The early morning sun shined through a wall of windows revealing the large main room with its multiple cubicles. Opposite his door sat his assistant Kimberly's desk. On top of the desk, frozen with a look of terror, was Kimberly's head, just her head.

"Shit," sighed Ted.

Ted tiptoed down the hall to the men's room and began to wash off the blood that was beginning to cake onto his body. It was a messy procedure made worse by the fact that the sink was too small and he had no towels. He was maneuvering his body around the blow dryer as best he could when he heard Jerry's ring, three short and one long, on the buzzer. Racing to the front door, he unlocked it and let Jerry in.

Jerry, tall and massive, wore a hooded sweatshirt over jeans and sneakers and was carrying a duffle bag. Looking at Ted, he shook his head disapprovingly.

"I brought a towel; it's in the bag..."

"Thanks."

"Is that blood on your back?"

"Probably," responded Ted, reversing field and heading towards his office.

"How could you forget it was a full moon?" asked Jerry, lumbering slowly behind him.

"I told you, we've got this big presentation..."

"Is that Kimberly?" asked Jerry, pointing to the head on the desk.

Ted hesitated.

"Damn it, Ted," snapped Jerry, picking up the head by its hair. "You ate your frigging assistant? What the hell are you thinking? You know what Korean does to your stomach."

"I'm sorry..."

"Sorry, my ass, you know what's going to happen the next time you go to the can. It took us three weeks to get the stench out of our apartment last time..."

"I'm sorry!"

"If you've got to go, you go here," grumped Jerry. Looking at Kimberly's horrified expression, he nodded, "That's how I'm going to look the next time you go the can."

"Could you forget about the can for a moment and help me clean up this room?" begged Ted, searching the duffle bag for something to wear.

"Fine," sighed Jerry. "What do you want me to do with her head?"

"Put it in the garbage chute," replied Ted. "It's New York; no one will think anything of it."

Ted began to sweep up the debris as Jerry left to dispose of the head.

***

That evening, Jerry and Ted stood at the bar, nursing their beers.

"So what did you tell the boss?" asked Jerry, sipping his beer thoughtfully.

"Told him they ransacked the office and stole my files," replied Ted. "He was pissed, but he ordered me a new desk and computer..."

"It's the second time," stated Jerry. "You can't keep telling him they ransacked the office, he'll put in a security camera and then you're screwed."

"Thank God he's cheap," replied Ted. "I'm going to have to be more careful."

"No shit," replied Jerry, peering out over the bar.

"Neck," said Ted softly.

Jerry glanced at his reflection in the mirror over the bar and adjusted his sweatshirt to cover the scar around his neck. Thank goodness the doctor had been able to remove the bolts, no one had questioned them back in the 1980's but ever since punk had died out...

"Too bad about Kimberly," said Ted. "I really liked her. She was a good worker too."

"What are you going to do about that situation?" asked Jerry.

"I'll wait till next week and then report her as not showing up for work. Thank goodness she didn't have a boyfriend..."

"She didn't?" asked Jerry. "Oh man, I'd have asked her out..."

"You can't go out with my assistants, remember?" asked Ted. "That is never a good idea."

"She was cute..."

"So was Janice, as I recall..."

"That wasn't my fault," replied Jerry. "She was the one who wanted to go on a romantic weekend to a cabin in the woods. Everything was going great until she built that fire..."

"How many times have I told you that fire is good?" asked Ted.

"Yeah, it's hard to take advice from a guy who demonstrates the goodness of fire by setting his own fur on fire. The whole apartment smelled like burnt hair for a month and..."

"I forgot it was a full moon..."

"Yeah, next time you're going to do a demonstration, do it in the daylight," crabbed Jerry. Eyeing Ted, he cleared his throat, "I hate to sound like I'm harping on you, I really do, but can you explain to me how you, YOU of all people, can forget when it's the full moon?"

"I just got busy..."

"Oh, come on Ted," replied Jerry. "It's like the Pope forgetting Christmas. You keep doing this and we're going to get caught and then what?"

Ted shook his head, "So you freaking out at that cigar bar was nothing."

"I admit it was a mistake," replied Jerry. "My therapist said I should go somewhere where fire is normal..."

"So you go to a cigar bar, freak out and kill everyone because someone pulls out a lighter."

"First off, that Bic was set on high and second off, I wouldn't talk all big and bad if I crapped myself every time I heard the Lone Ranger theme..."

"He shoots silver bullets," snapped Ted. "You ever get hit with one? They sting a little my friend..."

"What, you think I've never been hurt?" asked Jerry heatedly. "A whole village comes out and sets fire to a windmill you're hiding in; let me tell you, there isn't enough Noxzema in the world to get over that burn!"

"Okay, fine," replied Ted. "We'll just agree that life can be hard and leave it at that!"

Jerry took a long swig of his beer and sat thoughtfully for a moment.

"No," he stated finally. "No, I think we're focusing on the negative and we have to stop doing that. Sure, we have problems and yes, occasionally this whole monster thing can be a drag, but there are a hell of a lot of positives too."

Ted looked at him as if he had gone insane, "Like what?"

"Well," stated Jerry with a frown, "first off, we're basically immortal and we have a rent controlled apartment. Talk about sticking it to the man..."

Ted nodded and smiled despite himself, "Yeah, that is pretty cool..."

"And I'll never be out of work because I can work at any warehouse in the city and let's face it, those OSHA regulations, no big deal, cause what's going to hurt me..."

"True, true and when I wanted to be a lawyer, who cared about how long it took? I mean eight years, it's not like, "Oh, no, I'm going to be fifty by the time I get out of school, yada, yada, yada..." who cares? Time? Shit, I got plenty of that!"

"Exactly, and now that the mayor has put that no smoking ban into effect, there are like a million less lighters on the street, so no more unexpected fires erupting in my face..."

"True," agreed Ted. "I mean, you went on what, three rampages last year? Hell, most postmen do that in a month..."

"Right," agreed Jerry. "You know what else? Say what you want about the city, but you go on a rampage and you come out of it and you're confused and upset and angry, no matter what time of day or night, there is always a diner open."

"How sweet is that?" asked Ted, offering a high five which Jerry connected on. "You just walk on in and get some coffee and calm yourself and suddenly it's like, yeah, I killed a bunch of people, but there's a new day right around the corner..."

"Exactly, exactly... See, life's not so bad; we just have to learn to focus on the positive."

Ted considered it, "I agree, but I'll tell you, there is one thing that really gets to me..."

"Now don't be negative..."

"No, no, it's not a big deal, just a pet peeve."

"What is it?"

"That whole "Twilight" thing..."

"I know what you mean. I had that back in the sixties and seventies, remember those Hammer films? Now that was tough, but thankfully for me, I've been out of the spotlight for a long time..."

"Well enjoy it my friend, enjoy it. I tell you; first off, they have you turning into a big animated wolf, which is just ridiculous, like I run on all fours..."

"Ridiculous..."

"And then they have you trying to score with a vampire's girlfriend..."

The two began to laugh uproariously.

"A vampire," said Jerry, choking back tears, "like they exist."

"People are so gullible," laughed Ted, wiping his eyes with the back of his shirt sleeve. "They'll believe anything."

### Volume III

### Batteries Included

Thomas Howell stood at the door, lips pursed, trying to control his temper. He stared at his ex-wife, Gina, with a mixture of desire and hatred, finally dropping his dark, violent eyes to peer at the small boy who stood next to her. The child instantly looked away, his thin pale face sad, his entire attitude unresponsive.

"I came to apologize," continued Thomas. "My therapist says that I need to say I'm sorry for what I did as well as feel sorry for what I did and that I need to take responsibility for my actions. I'm trying to do that..."

Gina nodded at him, acknowledging his words, but offering nothing more. The little boy stared down at the door saddle and said nothing. Finally, Gina spoke.

"You put us through hell, Tom," she said, bitterness creeping into her voice. "I understand that you are trying to get your act together and that this is supposed to help you in some way, but it isn't easy on us."

Thomas nodded, his long, dark hair bouncing with each shake of his head. His long, sinister face was pale and his dark beard and mustache making him look darker and frightening. Clearing his throat, he continued.

"I'm sorry, Teddy, that I hit you," he said, speaking quietly to the boy as he glanced about to see if any of the neighbors were looking. "I lost my temper and I should never have taken it out on you or your mother; that was wrong of me." He bit off the words, spitting them at the woman and child, "If there were a way I could make it go away, I would, but all I can do is apologize."

The little boy did not look up, which caused the rage to rise in Thomas' chest. "Do you think that you could forgive Daddy for hitting you?"

"That's a lot to ask all at once, Tom," interrupted Gina.

"Well what the hell else am I supposed to say?" asked Tom testily. "I'm trying to apologize and he won't even look at me..."

"I think that you've spoken to him enough for today," stated Gina firmly. Looking up at the court officer who stood in the middle of the front walkway, she nodded and pulled her son back into the house.

The officer sauntered up to Tom and gave a tight smile, "Okay, Tom, time to go."

Tom glared at him a moment, then thought better of saying what was on his mind.

"Okay, I'm going."

"You can see the boy in two weeks," replied the officer quietly.

"Yeah," he stated, "two weeks. I'll be here."

Stomping off down the path, Tom mounted his motorcycle and sped off into traffic. The officer shook his head as he moved to his patrol car. The world would just be better off without some people...

***

"Damn kid wouldn't even look at me," growled Tom, swilling his beer and cursing his fate.

"Did you ever look at your Dad?" asked the large, tattooed bartender.

Tom considered it, "Back then it wasn't called abuse, it was called a parent's right to raise his child. I turned out fine, I WAS fine until I met that bitch and got her knocked up..." He took a long, deep draught of the beer, bringing the mug down hard on the bar. "I should have never gotten involved with her; it's my own damn fault."

The bartender laughed, "Women..."

The door to the bar opened and a solid looking man in a suit entered, his thinning, dark hair short and neatly combed, his dark rimmed glasses perched squarely on his heavy face. Glancing about the room, he spotted Tom and walked over to him.

"Tom."

Tom looked up, surprised, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Your landlady said I would find you here," replied the man quietly.

"Can I get you anything?" asked the bartender.

"Beer," replied the man, seating himself on the stool next to Tom.

"Should you be drinking on the job?" asked Tom sarcastically.

"I'm off duty," replied the man with a slight smile. "I just stopped by to offer you some friendly advice..."

"A parole officer with a heart," sneered Tom.

"Your hearing is coming up, Tommy boy," stated the man as the bartender placed his beer in front of him. "Frankly, you might lose even your supervised visits if you keep acting like an asshole."

Tom bristled and moved to stand.

"Don't get up Tom or you won't know what hit you," stated the man evenly. Tom considered it and sat down hard. "As I said, this is some friendly advice. If you really are serious about seeing your kid, you had best start behaving a lot better than you have been. I read the supervisor's report of your last visit and let's just say it wasn't favorable." The man took a sip of his beer, pleasantly surprised at the taste.

"It's her fault," snarled Tom. "I can't see the kid without the bitch being there and she won't let me talk to him..."

"Perhaps some more honey, less vinegar," replied the man. "I'm not asking you to love your ex-wife, considering how you treated her, you'd be hard pressed to make a case that you EVER loved her. I'm here to speak to you about the boy. You say you want to be a father to the kid..."

"I AM the kids frigging father," snapped Tom. "You think a court order changes that?"

The man shook his head and took another sip of his beer. He had tried, why, he couldn't imagine...

"I did what I could, Tommy boy," he stated as he rose to leave. "You're going to lose any chance you have to be in your son's life." Retrieving his wallet, he pulled out a few bills and dropped them on the bar. "Some people never learn..."

With a wave to the bartender, he was gone.

"Asshole," snarled Tom. "You wait and see, I'll get the kid back if I have to go bankrupt to do it and when I do, I'll straighten his ass out..."

"That's how you lost him in the first place, isn't it?" asked the bartender.

Tom rose menacingly, but the bartender just laughed.

"Try it Tom," he stated, his voice turning cold and vicious. "I'm not a woman and I ain't no kid. Trust me, the police will never find your body and let's face it, other than me, no one is ever going to miss you..."

Tom wheeled about and headed for the door, the bartender's laughter ringing in his ears.

***

Tom stood staring at the doorstep as Gina glared at him, her voice harsh and sharp.

"He's not here; he doesn't want to see you. The court said if he didn't want to see you, he didn't have to and he doesn't want to see you."

"He's my frigging kid; I'm the father, NOT him!"

Tom's raised voice brought the supervising officer a few steps closer.

"He's not here, Tom..."

"Christmas is coming," stated Tom suddenly. "I wanted to ask him what he wants for Christmas."

"He probably wants a father who doesn't beat him for no reason at all," replied Gina.

Tom stepped menacingly towards her when he heard the officer clear his throat a few steps behind him.

"I want to get him something for Christmas," he stated flatly.

"Like you said, you're his father," replied Gina. "Real fathers know what their kids want for Christmas, they don't need to ask."

Gina nodded at the officer who took the final two steps to Tom's side. Gina disappeared into the house and the officer began the walk back to the sidewalk at Tom's side.

"How the hell would I know what an eight year old wants for Christmas?" he grumbled.

The officer glanced at him and sighed.

"I might be able to help you..."

Tom stopped and eyed the officer curiously.

"You're going to help me? You?"

The officer looked at him, his face expressionless.

"I have kids. Do you really want to get the kid something for Christmas or not?"

Tom nodded, "Yeah."

The officer pulled out his wallet and fished around for a moment, finally producing a business card.

"Go and see this guy," he stated quietly. "He'll ask you a couple of questions about your kid and then make the kid the perfect toy. I go to him every Christmas, he's never failed me."

Tom took the card and eyed it suspiciously.

"Is it expensive?"

The officer shrugged, "I don't know. I never considered making my kids happy an expense."

Tom glared at him and then retreated to his motorcycle to stare at the card again. Neverland Toys, Making Children Happy Since 1883, what the hell, he could find out. Mounting the bike, he checked the address; it was only three blocks from the bar. With a kick, he started the bike and was gone.

The officer watched him drive off, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"Merry Christmas," he said softly.

***

Tom had a hard time locating the doorway into the toy shop. Nestled between a bakery and a nail salon, the doorway had only a tiny sign on it announcing what lay beyond. Entering the door, he had followed a short, dark hallway into an empty room with a glass counter that displayed nothing. On top of the counter was a bell. Looking around, Tom slapped the bell hard and waited. He heard someone shuffling towards the door behind the counter and after a moment, it opened and a short, thin elderly man with thick white hair and piercing blue eyes emerged.

"Good day, sir," he said with a bright smile. "How can I help you today?"

"I need a Christmas gift for my kid," stated Tom. "A cop told me that you might be able to help me out."

The man nodded, his smile undiminished, "I hope I can, sir, I truly hope I can. Now, what is your son's name and how old is he?"

"His name is Teddy and he's eight years old," stated Tom. "Don't do anything where you work his name into a logo or a coat rack of anything, I hate that crap. To tell you the truth, I hate his name, Teddy. His mother insisted on naming him Theodore, no wonder the kid gets beat up by everyone..."

"What are some of his interests?" asked the old man, his bright smile completely out of step with the conversation.

"How the hell should I know?" asked Tom angrily. "That's what I came to you for; you're supposed to know this crap."

The old man's expression remained unchanged, "I take it that you and his mother are not on the best of terms..."

"Not that it's any of your business, but no, we're divorced," snapped Tom. "The kid's afraid of me; he won't even talk to me, the moron. Little momma's boy...once I get hold of him, I'll straighten him out."

"Interesting," smiled the old man. "How much would you like to spend?"

Tom considered it, "No more than thirty bucks, I'm not made of money."

The old man nodded, "I think I can help you. Come back in two days, I'll have something to show you then." With a slight wave, the old man turned and ducked back out of the door from which he had appeared.

Tom stood alone in the room, unsure of what to do. Screw it, if I don't like whatever it is, Grandpa can't force me to take it. Turning, he stomped back out to the street and headed to the bar.

***

Two days later, Tom appeared at the door again and walked down the dark hallway to stand again in the empty room. Slapping the bell, he waited for a short time before the elderly man stepped through the door.

"Can I help you?" he asked with the same idiotic smile plastered on his face.

"I was here two days ago..." began Tom.

"Oh yes, for Teddy, Teddy, indeed," smiled the old man. "Give me a moment."

Stepping back behind the door, Tom could hear the old man rummaging through some boxes before he returned with a wooden case with the name Teddy carved into the top of it.

Tom took the box and scowled, "You made him a box?"

The old man laughed, "The box holds the toy."

Tom looked at the old man and placed the box on the counter. Locating the fastener, he pulled it upwards and then opened the box. Inside the box was a jet fighter, a sleek plane, remarkably detailed, its canopy glistened in the light, its paint sparkling brightly. The fighter pilot within the cockpit was fully clothed and Tom was amazed to see that it had distinguishable features. Picking the plane gingerly out of the box, Tom set it on the counter top, amazed at the quality of the craftsmanship.

"Now," began the old man, "you must be careful with it. It is a solid piece of work and will last for years, but once you place the batteries within it, the bay door will lock closed and you won't be able to install a new set until the old ones wear out. The batteries are included, they're in the box, see? I recommend you don't install them until you plan to give the gift to the boy."

"What does it do?" asked Tom. "Does it light up?"

"Yes," responded the old man, "and it flies as well."

Tom looked back at the box, "Where are the controls?"

The old man's smile grew, "It is voice controlled. Whatever Teddy tells it to do, it will do."

Tom looked at him suspiciously, "All this for thirty bucks?"

"Oh no," laughed the old man amiably, "I knew you didn't want to spend that type of money on your son, so this is yours for twenty dollars.

Tom laughed; the old man was a fool.

"Twenty bucks? Fine, here you go. I'll see you next year." Placing the plane back in the box, he snatched it up off the counter before the old man could reach for his payment. The old man listened to him walk down the hall and out onto the street. Picking up the twenty dollar bill, he looked at it, his smile radiating happiness.

***

Tom sat in his roach infested apartment, staring at the box as he took another shot of Crown Royal. Caressing the bottle, he stood and staggered towards the box, staring down at the boy's name on top.

"Teddy," he muttered, "stupid name. Hate that name, hate that damn kid..."

Refilling his glass, he downed another shot and opened the box. Voice activated, able to fly, all for twenty bucks. He laughed at the stupidity of the old man and then took the plane out, examining it through bleary eyes.

"Beautiful, frigging beautiful," he said with a smile. "I hate to waste you on Teddy..."

Looking at the two batteries, he remembered what the old man had said, don't put them in until you give the toy to the boy, they would run down slower that way. Well who the hell cared if they ran down for Teddy, let his bitch mother buy him more batteries.

Tom flipped the plane over and pulled the batteries out of the box, fumbling to insert them in their proper spots. Closing the case, he flipped the plane back over and placed it on the filthy table top. The plane hummed to life, lights activating, pilot actually moving to check his control panel and then to give a thumbs up before taking off. Tom let out a whoop of surprise as the plane coasted slowly around the room before landing back on the table top.

"Go around again," he slurred.

To his surprise, the pilot looked at him as if puzzled.

"This is Teddy's toy," stated the pilot. "Only Teddy can select the flight plan."

Tom fell back into his chair, unable to contain his surprise.

"Holy crap," he muttered. "How the hell do you know I'm not Teddy?"

"Teddy is a child," replied the pilot. "You are an adult."

Tom laughed and eyed the plane, "If that stupid kid doesn't love this thing, I'll kick the shit out of him, just like I did his mother." Standing he staggered back towards the plane. "Do you know why I bought you? To try and get the little bastard to see me, that's why. He won't talk to me, he's too good for me, well you'll change all that. He'll see me once he sees what you can do and then, I'll have him. The courts will give me full visitation rights and I'll straighten his ass out quick fast, you can be sure of that!"

"You are a coward."

Tom stared at the pilot, unsure of what he had just heard.

"What did you say?"

"You are a coward," repeated the pilot. "You beat up women and children. You are a drunken coward."

Tom felt the rage rising within him. Repositioning his hand on the neck of the bottle, he swung it viciously at the plane, but the pilot lifted the plane off the table and into the air above his head, leaving the bottle to shatter on the table top.

"Coward," taunted the pilot. "Drunken coward..."

Tom hurled what remained of the bottle at the plane but the throw was poor and the bottle slammed into the ceiling several feet ahead of the plane as it cruised about the room. As the remaining glass shattered, Tom roared obscenities at the glass shattered around his room.

"You son of a bitch," he growled, "look at what you made me do!"

"You are not only a coward and a drunk, you are stupid as well," stated the pilot, bringing the aircraft in low and flying quickly past Tom's head.

Tom swung at the plane as it shot passed, his coordination hampered by the alcohol he had consumed, missing his target by a wide margin.

"Teddy isn't getting his present," he snarled, running to the couch and pulling an old blanket that sat across the back upwards and brandishing it like a matador's cape. "Come on, asshole, come on, fly that piece of shit over here!"

The plane veered around him, Tom flinging the blanket at it and missing by a wide margin. Picking up a kitchen chair, he hurled it at the plane barely missing it.

"I'm getting closer!"

"Coward. Drunken, stupid coward..."

Tom swung a fist at the plane as it vaulted passed him, still unable to time his actions correctly. He peered about the room, looking for anything to launch at his tormentor.

"Beats up women, children and toys," taunted the pilot, buzzing Tom again and then heading towards the window.

In a blind rage, Tom picked up the box the plane had come in and hurled it towards the window. The box sailed through the glass, shattering it and plunging to the street below. The plane seemed to slow as it approached the open air.

"Good-bye coward," snapped the pilot.

Enraged, Tom flung himself towards the plane, desperate to prevent the toy's escape. His outstretched hands just missed grabbing the tail section of the plane as it shot out into the night air. He continued to claw at the plane as it grew smaller and smaller, hovering above him as he plummeted to the pavement below.

***

The officer watched as Gina, Teddy and the bartender threw their flowers on the casket and slowly made their way towards their waiting cars. Slowly approaching Gina, he cleared his throat to get her attention.

"May I express my condolences to both you and your son," he began. "We found something in your ex-husband's apartment that we believe was meant for Teddy."

Gina eyed the box the man held suspiciously. Taking it from him, she turned the lock towards her and popped open the top of the box to reveal a beautiful toy plane. She looked at Teddy, whose eyes went wide at the sight of the new toy.

"It's beautiful," he whispered. "Look at it Mom, it's incredible."

"It's voice activated," stated the officer pleasantly. "All you have to do is command it and it will do what you say."

Gina handed Teddy the plane and he examined it closely before saying softly, "Prepare for take off!"

The plane came to life, humming softly, its lights glowing and the pilot seeming to check his instrument panel. Teddy placed the plane on the ground where it sat, patiently awaiting his command.

"Take off!"

The plane lurched forward on the path and then flew up into the sky, circling above them. Gina watched it, fascinated.

"Bank left, bank right, come in for a landing!" called out Teddy, mesmerized as the plane obeyed his commands.

Picking up the toy once it had landed, he raced back to his mother.

"Mom, this is the best gift I ever got," he laughed. "I always wanted a plane, but I never thought I'd get anything like this!"

"I've never seen anything like it," Gina said to the officer with a smile. "Where did he get it?"

"I'm not sure," replied the officer, "we found it in his apartment and as you can see, it had Teddy's name on it..."

"It's amazing," said Gina.

The officer smiled, "It certainly is the type of toy that makes a child happy."

### Big Date

I sat quietly watching the middle aged man in the prison jumper as he ate his meal, obvious delight beaming from his face. James "Gentleman Jimmy" Artuso was going to die tonight and I was the witness to his last meal. I had been his prison guard and friend these last four years, as much as a prison guard and prisoner could be considered friends, and I was genuinely saddened to be losing him.

Jimmy smiled at me, I was the only guard allowed to call him Jimmy. He motioned for me to enter the cell. I opened the cell door and sauntered in, sitting next to him on his bunk as he sipped his coffee.

Pointing to a tray of pastries, he handed me a napkin, "Try the cheese cake, they're delicious."

Taking a piece of cake onto the napkin, I thanked him.

"I'm going to miss you Jimmy..."

"What are you jinxing me?" he laughed. "It's the first big date I've had in a long time, buddy boy. For once I don't have to pick up the check and I know how it's going to end, I'm really gonna get fucked." He laughed heartily at his own joke. "Honestly," he said, turning serious, "I don't really mind. I'm man enough to admit that I wasn't the most upstanding citizen... Still, I wish I had been caught for killing someone else other that Pauley Big Mouth."

"You killed other people?" I asked in mock surprise.

Jimmy smiled, an icy glaze on his eyes as he responded, "Oh kid, if you knew some of the stuff I've done, you'd shit yourself. Try the cannoli, it's fantastic."

I took his suggestion and was again happy with the result.

"I can understand not wanting to be caught, Jimmy, but why does it bother you to be caught for killing Paul Eisenberg?"

Jimmy grimaced, shaking his head, "Because he was a son-of-a-bitch. Some of the guys, well they needed to go, but they were stand up guys, but not Pauley Big Mouth. He was worthless. To go to my "eternal reward" because of him is a real kick in the nuts."

"Why did you kill him?" I asked, trying to speak around a mouthful of cannoli cream.

Jimmy shrugged, "It was to everyone's advantage that Paul Eisenberg die. Don't get me wrong; don't think I'm complaining, okay? I've got a lot of other things I should be sitting here for and I have nothing against giving the Devil his due, it's just that I'd rather die for one of those other things than for offing Pauley."

"Let's face it, I've been no saint and I'm not crying to them now, I know what I've been and I chose it. I'm not going the "society is to blame" route, it doesn't wash with me and I wouldn't insult a friend by saying it. I had a nice life, my parents were kind, I had a dog and an allowance, I liked school, the teachers were inspiring, I ate well, I learned fair play and I turned out to be a killer anyway."

I couldn't help but laugh, "So why did you to it?"

Jimmy smiled, "What do you make a year? I've watched you, you work hard, you're a nice guy and you work hard and you make squat. I'd make in a night what you're pulling down in a year and that's not boasting. I discovered early that I liked money and that I liked getting it without working too hard, so crime was a natural fit. I began as a burglar, breaking into houses and stuff. That led to bigger heists and bigger heists led to other risks and soon, I was carrying a gun and making money seeing that newly dead bodies weren't found. I tried to be professional and plan carefully, but killing people isn't like working in a deli making a sandwich. It doesn't become mechanical or assembly line; there are always problems and possibilities. If you're good you minimize them, you're a fool if you think you can eliminate them."

"Is that how they caught you for killing Pauley?" I asked. "I heard about the trial and all, but I didn't follow it in the papers."

"You work too hard," he laughed. "You don't have the time to look at papers. You want to know what happened?"

"I'd like to know why I'm losing a friend," I replied softly.

Jimmy nodded and smiled. Placing one of his well manicured hands on my knee he shrugged and then leaned in.

"Then this is between you and me, this is the straight dope, not the shit that came out in the trial, but really what happened," he replied. Pouring another cup of coffee, he leaned back and began thoughtfully, "The man who made me wealthy and who paid me to take care of his problems called me into his office one day and said, "I need this guy removed. In my business we never discuss death or killing, it isn't mentioned. People are "removed". Sometimes a guy needs to "go away" and once I was even told that it was "time his insurance company paid up", but we don't discuss death or killing, you never know who might be listening."

He eyed me for a moment and continued, "I took a photo he was holding and looking at the guy in the picture. We never mentioned names, if I wasn't sure who was in the picture, I asked him to write it down on the back and then we destroyed it in his fire place, you don't leave any traces, that's what I was talking about, about being careful and all. So I look at the picture and this time I had no questions, I knew the guy, I had no problem knowing the guy, it was Paul Eisenberg."

"My boss said to me, "You're probably wondering what took me so long" but I didn't say anything, I smiled at him. I'm telling you now, there were at least two dozen good reasons why he should have killed Big Mouth Pauley and frankly, I didn't need to know which one was the deciding factor. So he tells me, "I'd like this done sooner rather than later and I said, "By week's end?" and he says "Yeah that will be fine."

"So what made him decide that Paul had to go?" I asked. "What did he do?"

Jimmy laughed, his eyes twinkling, "What didn't he do? His nickname wasn't one of those ironic things, you know what I mean? It wasn't one of those, "He's a really fat guy so we'll call him Slim" or something like that. Paul Eisenberg was a big mouth, smart ass who never and I mean NEVER did what he said he would do. It wasn't so much that he was a liar; it was that he was completely incompetent. The only reason he had not been dealt with earlier was that his father, Big Pauley, had been a big time wheeler dealer. I had the utmost respect for his father, he was a very clever and capable man, you can't find a guy who didn't like and admire Big Pauley. Like everyone else in our business, I was genuinely touched when he died a few years back."

"Heart attack, wasn't it?" I asked.

"Yeah," he replied. "He was driving his car and then boom, dead."

"Why did everyone like Big Pauley so much?"

Jimmy drew closer, "Big Pauley was a "connector"; he put people together for various enterprises. He always seemed to know the right people to accomplish even the most difficult tasks with a minimum of risk. My boss, he had depended upon Big Pauley, trusted him. He always gave good advice and he was discreet, respected. His son was an asshole; I've got to say, to my boss' credit, he had been more patient with Pauley Big Mouth than anyone else would have been. He gave that kid more opportunities to prove himself than anyone had a right too and had been disappoint with the results each time. Even when the kid had gotten something right, it could have been done better and more often than not, he had screwed it up royally."

"So he was a screw up," I replied. "Why didn't your boss just not use him?"

Jimmy rolled his eyes, "Because of his Dad, he knew too many people, it wouldn't have been safe. If he were cut off, he'd have talked, he was always talking. He had to go away."

"Was he really that bad a guy?"

"He wasn't a loveable person," replied Jimmy thoughtfully. "Everyone hated him. I mean, there are guys I worked with who were total screw ups, but they weren't bad guys, but not Pauley. I think the reason I and everyone else had come to loath him so much was his ability to blame EVERYONE else for his mistakes. He never confessed a wrong, never. In my business, if you have to apologize, you do so; it is considered part of being a man. If you make a mistake, you own up, apologize and fix the mistake if they don't kill you first. Pauley never did that, he had always blamed someone else and then went on to remind everyone of how important his father had been, then he'd leave someone else to clean up the mess."

"As I had said, my boss had been patient, certainly more patient with him than with anyone else would have been. To tell you the truth, I don't know what the deciding factor was, but whatever he had screwed up, it had pushed even my boss over the edge, which frankly was fine with me. I'll tell you something, I knew that once people found out I was the one who had offed him, I wouldn't have to buy dinner for a month; I'd be the first guy on everyone's tab. That's how much people couldn't stand him. In our business, you normally don't celebrate someone going away, it's part of business and like any wasteful part of any business, it is most often viewed as necessary, but regrettable. Trust me; no one was regretting Pauley being gone, no one."

"So you got the assignment..." I prodded.

"Don't rush me," he laughed. "Enjoy the stories I can tell you now because you're not going to be hearing too many of them anymore. Where was I, oh yeah, see, there were considerations I had to make. You have to understand, his father was still a very revered person, so as much as I would have liked to deal him a little pay back, I knew that the final exercise had to be neat and tidy and quick. No one questioned the need for him to go, but there would have been a blow up if they perceived any disrespect for his father's memory."

"Besides the problem of his father's memory, I also had to take into account that Pauley was a pretty erratic guy. Remember, part of the reason people couldn't stand him was he was undependable, you never knew where he'd be or when. I would have to set him up in a way that made him appear when I needed him to do so. So I'm sitting there, considering what to do and suddenly, I realized the way to do it. I need him to arrange a killing but unbeknownst to him, he's the target."

"So you had him set up his own killing," I stated.

Jimmy nodded, "Two days after meeting with the boss, I went to a small diner on the interstate to meet with him. He arrived late per usual and begins talking, like all chummy. So he sits down and says, "So you need old Pauley to help arrange a little get together," like he's in a movie or something, like he's DeNiro, you know? So I tell him, "I need for you to arrange a meeting, some place quiet and discreet. Some place out of the way..." and you know what the idiot says? "There's a park near my house..." so I take a deep breath and I say, "Not a park, I don't need anyone walking up unexpectedly, do you understand? Find a place, out of the way, private, where we can have a meeting. You lure him to the meeting..." and he gets all scared. See, Pauley had never been to a hit, so he's crapping himself thinking he's going to have to see some poor guy get his brains blown out. Anyway, he's shaking and he says, "You want me there?" and I say, "Of course, you're the reason he's coming. If you're there, he won't suspect anything. You would never be there if anything important was going down."

"So he went for it," I said.

"Not at first," replied Jimmy. "First he had to get offended. See, I had hurt his feelings by pointing out that he had never been on a hit before, so he says, "Now wait a minute, I've attended summits with the biggest names in the state. How can you say I would never be there..." so I cut him off and said, "When was the last time you went to a meeting and someone didn't return home from it? With you at the meeting, he'll think he's safe" so he backed off right away and says, "Okay, who is it, who we going to take care of?" So we're sitting there in the diner and I push a piece of paper across the table towards him and he picks it up like a stupid kid pretending to be a spy or something."

Jimmy laughed at the memory, "What a moron, really, it was funny. Anyway, he looks over the note and his eyes start bulged out of his head. So I'm sitting there thinking, this idiot is going to scream out the name so I lean across the table and tell him, "Don't say a damn thing, just arrange the meeting and get back to me with the date, time and location" so he nods and leaves. The next day he calls me that it's all arranged. Like the idiot he was, he arranges us to have dinner at Romanovs, like I'm going to off someone in a crowded, five star restaurant. Still, there would be three of us and there was no saying I had to do it immediately afterwards, so I said fine. Then I tell him, "You're going to have to hang with us until I give you the signal, understand?" so he says, "I've got it, no problem, I'll be there at six."

Jimmy leaned back and chuckled to himself for a moment.

"So what happened?" I asked.

"I'm sitting there with my victim, a friend of mine who will remain nameless and it's like six twenty and my friend asks me, "So do you think this asshole is ever showing up?" and I tell him, "You know he's always late" and my friend goes, "Late for his own funeral" so we're laughing and he finally arrives. So here we are in a crowded restaurant trying to be inconspicuous and in walks Big Mouth waving like he's on the deck of a cruise ship leaving port. I mean, he couldn't have attracted more attention to himself if he had come in and started shooting, what an idiot. Anyway, dinner was a freaking disaster, it was one of those things that was just terrible, not that the food was bad, it was just that he acted like such a jerk. He was such a moron that it was hard for me not to do the job right then and there. He's sitting there and he keeps trying to make jokes, you know, say things with double meanings about offing my friend. I'm telling you, if it had been a real set up, you'd have to be the stupidest man on the planet not to catch on to what he and I were supposedly doing, but to his credit my friend played his part and pretended not to notice. So after dinner we hit a couple of bars and then we headed downtown to this dive I know."

"So I get my friend into one cab and grab Pauley, taking him with me in another cab. To keep up the illusion that I was going to kill my friend, I told him to take the first cab because I had to stop to pick up some cash, but go ahead and we'd meet him there in a few minutes. So I take Pauley aside and I explained my plan. "We'll meet him in front of the bar, there's an alley right there and I'm going to pretend that I need to take a leak. You keep talking to me and just follow me into the alley. He'll follow you and once we're in there, I'll take care of things. Afterwards, you grab a cab and I'll take care of the rest of it. You just go home, got it?" His eyes, I swear, they were as big as meatballs, you know and he says, "You want me to stand there while you do it?" and I'm trying not to laugh, you know, so I say, "Yeah, if you take off, he's gonna know something's wrong!" I laughed my ass off, you should have seen him, he was turning green." Jimmy stood up and laughed at the memory, his eyes glistening with tears.

"So he had no idea."

"None, none at all," he replied, refilling his coffee cup one last time. "I shouldn't laugh I guess, but he had the last laugh, right? I'm the one here now." Shaking his head, he sat back down with a chuckle. "He took out his cell phone and typed out a message while we were on our way downtown in the cab. What the hell do I know from cell phones? I asked him what he was doing and he tells me that he's sending his wife a message that he's coming home late, I didn't think anything of it, like I said, what the hell do I know from cell phones?"

He glanced up at the window and considered the view for a moment. Turning back, he grabbed another pastry and took a bite, savoring the taste for a long while before returning to his story.

"So anyway, we pull up to the bar and as we're getting out, he has a brainstorm. "Maybe I can help you remove the body" he says, so I tell him, "Don't worry about it, I'll take care of it." Now I'm standing there paying the cab driver because on top of being stupid he was cheap as hell and he's saying this to me and my friend is two feet away from us. If my friend had been the victim, he'd have had to have been deaf not to know what was coming. Anyway, I give my friend the high sign and proceeded to speak about nothing in particular. It was a chilly night, early spring and both he and my friend aren't wearing overcoats. Me, in my line of business, you always wear an overcoat, so I was toasty while the two of them were a starting to feel the wind. So I tell them both, like it's news to either one of them, "I gotta take a leak" and I head for the alley. Pauley's eyes were so big and he was stuttering so bad that by the time we got into the dark part of the alley I thought I wouldn't have to use my gun because he was going to have a heart attack. Anyway, it was easy and swift and my friend witnessed that there was no disrespect to his father's memory."

"So you did the job then and there..."

"Right then and there," he agreed, pointing his finger at me like the barrel of a gun and aiming it at my forehead. "Done, baby, done... My friend had a car sitting at the back of the alley and after helping me to get the body in the trunk went inside for a drink while I took a little drive to place in Jersey I know. I was back at the bar in an hour and joined him for a nightcap before heading home and that was that. I reported to the boss in the morning and everything was good. What I didn't know was that Pauley's wife had called the cops saying he was missing. Now, I'm sitting in my home watching the Mets play the Phillies when there's a knock at the door. My old friend Detective Duggan was waiting for me at the door, his big Irish face as happy as if he had just hit the lottery."

"Turns out that even dead Pauley had a big mouth. Remember that text message he had sent while we were in the cab? Not only does he tell his wife that he's with ME, he tells her where we're going. To top it all off, the jackass tells her he's taking part in a hit and that he's going to tell her all about it when he got home. I knew Pauley's wife, a nice lady, Spanish girl. Between you and me, she only married him for the money, but she's not stupid. When he didn't get home, she put two and two together and contacted the police. She gave them the cell phone and they went and checked and found his blood in the alley and then they matched it some blood spots in my trunk."

Jimmy stood up again and stared out the window, a look of regret on his face, "I should have known he would never stop talking, I should have known. Still, I'm not complaining, I think of it as paying for some of the other guys I took care of, some good guys."

He looked at me as we heard the footsteps of the guards and the warden and the priest coming to take him for his last walk, the walk to the lethal chamber.

"I'm going to miss you kid," he said, shaking my hand and then squaring his shoulders as he looked at the new comers. After facing them for a moment, he turned to me one last time, "I just wish it had been for anyone else but Pauley. He never learned to keep his frigging big mouth shut."

With a rueful shake of his head, he followed his entourage out into the hallway and with a smile on his face, left to go on his big date.

### Daddy/Daughter Day

She was a pretty girl, with blue, blue eyes and blonde hair that flowed over her slender shoulders to the small of her back. Just eleven years old and already so pretty and intelligent, everyone said so, everyone agreed.

She loved her Daddy. Worshipped him the way little girls worship their fathers and only their fathers. There was a bond there, a special bond that had grown stronger with each passing day. Every Saturday, they did something special together, just the two of them. His work kept him so busy during the week that he always made it a point for them to spend special time together so that his daughter would know that he loved her.

If there was one thing she hated to do, it was fail in front of her father. Like many a young girl, disappointment became unbearable when it happened in front of the man she idolized.

Todd Wilson knew how badly his little girl felt. He understood their relationship with a maturity that belied his own tender years. He was, after all, only in his late twenties and many an older, wiser father had failed to see the pain that their daughters felt on their behalf, but not Todd.

After today, he knew she would be dreadfully disappointed because things had gone so poorly. He knew she would feel extra bad about things because she would feel that she had failed him. They had trained together and then, at the crucial moment, she had forgotten her training. To Todd it was no big deal, a kid was a kid, and forgetting what to do in their excitement, well, that was to be expected, but to his little girl, it was the end of the world.

After parking their car in the driveway at home, Todd stepped out of the car and met her at the back end of it, placing a paternal hand on her shoulder.

"Sweetheart, I don't want you to be so upset," he said softly, his voice kind and understanding. "You tried your best and that's all I want you to do."

"I've done better," she responded, fighting back the tears. "You know I've done better before. I don't know what happened. I practiced everything you said to do and then when I got there, I don't know..." and then the tears fell.

Todd waited and then dropped to his knees and hugged her to him, letting the tears wash away the pain she felt, the anger, the disappointment.

"Honey, you're only eleven years old," he laughed. "Don't cry so. You didn't disappoint me, honestly, you didn't. Do you know what happened the first time Grandpa took me?"

The crying slowed and she looked at him with sad eyes, shaking her head no.

"We practiced for weeks and I was so sure I would do well, I just knew he would be so impressed and happy when I got done and then I got there and guess what... NOTHING. I couldn't remember anything that he had taught me, nothing, just like what happened to you today." Todd laughed, an encouraging laugh, holding his daughter's shoulders in his hands. "I felt so bad, but Grandpa understood, Grandpa knew. "Don't you worry about it, Toddy," he said to me, "Next time it will be different, you'll see," and you know what? He was right. The next time I was so nervous all over again but then, I took a deep breath and suddenly, I was doing it just like I had practiced."

"You mean it?" she asked, swiping at her nose with the back of her hand.

"I promise you," laughed Todd. "I promise you, sweetheart, the next time we go, you're gonna see. You're going to do it and think to yourself, what was so hard about this? This is easy and fun, just like we practiced and you won't be nervous at all. You'll see. Now come on inside and wash up for dinner, I'm sure your Mom made something special."

As they entered the door, Donna came out from the kitchen, her blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail, a wide smile on her beautiful face.

"How did it go?" she called out happily.

"Not so good," confessed Todd as their daughter raced to her mother's side and buried her head in her chest. "It's okay though, we'll do better next week; you just watch and see."

Donna hugged her girl tightly, "Don't you worry, love, listen to Daddy, it will be fine next week, you'll see."

After dinner and the dishes there was a movie and then it was time for bed. Donna tucked their little girl in and smiled as she drew the door closed, "You'll see. Trust your Dad, he knows!"

The little girl could hardly wait for the week to be over with. She had a hard time concentrating on her school work, had a hard time at lunch time and recess even concentrating on what her friends were saying to her. All she could think of was this coming weekend and her next daddy/daughter outing, of going out and trying again, of not disappointing her father, of doing all the things he had taught her. She would be so much better this weekend, she just knew it. She had acted silly and gotten upset and had forgotten all that she had learned, but she wouldn't do that this weekend.

All week long her father kept encouraging her as they practiced.

"Think positive, think positive," he kept saying and the more he said it, the more she believed it and he was right. When she thought positive, it all went well and when she started to doubt herself, well then she made mistakes.

Mommy kept saying, "Keep a happy thought in your head, that's all you need. Trust Daddy and keep a happy thought in your head and you can't go wrong." Mom was right, too. She felt so much better and so eager that when the school bell rang on Friday, she ran all the way home. All she wanted was for it to be the weekend, to be with Daddy again and to show him how good she could be.

***

The sun rose early on Saturday, but not earlier than the little girl. She could barely stay in bed waiting for the sun, but as soon as it rose, she heard her Daddy in the next room and jumped up without being called and began getting dressed. Today was the day she had waited for all week, today would be the big day.

Racing downstairs, she was waiting for Daddy as he lumbered down the stairs carrying their gear.

"Well, someone is up bright and early," he smiled, leaning over to kiss her on top of the head.

"I'm ready, Daddy," she announced. "I can't wait until we get there. I'm going to show them this time!"

"I know you are, sweetheart, I know you are," smiled Todd. "Now go upstairs and say goodbye to Mommy while I pack the car."

The little girl raced upstairs and hugged and kissed her mother goodbye. By the time she returned downstairs, the car was loaded and they were on their way.

The trip seemed to take forever and she had a hard time not being anxious, but finally, they pulled off the highway and after a while, onto a small road that grew rougher and less distinct the further they went. At last Daddy pulled the car off what was now little more than a path and slowed the car to a halt beneath some trees. Jumping out, Daddy retrieved their gear as she watched and then the two of them hiked up a small hill.

The hill offered a beautiful view of the city below, stretching out before them in the morning sun. At the hill's base an occasional car was seen meandering along the highway in the morning sun and opposite the hill and across the highway stood an apartment development. The building was about ten stories high, its highest floor just below the top of the hill. Each one of the apartments in the building boasted a sliding glass door that led to a small balcony. The little girl thought of her father's safety training, you always had to be careful.

Daddy dropped the gear on the ground and searched the area for a spot to set up.

"Over here, sweetheart," he called and, retrieving their gear, led her to a stand of bushes slightly taller than himself. Crouching down, he led her underneath the outer layer and into a clearing at the center of the bushes. It was a secluded spot, a spot where they would be unseen and he smiled as he placed their gear on the dirt and began to open their bags and assemble their equipment.

The little girl took out a site and examined it, looking through it and testing to see what she could and could not see through it. At last, Daddy asked for the site and she handed it to him, patiently waiting for him to affix it to her rifle.

Handing her the rifle, he smiled and pointed, "Now remember what I told you and to relax, just like we practiced. I'll be watching through these," he said, holding up a pair of binoculars. "Now you go ahead, whenever you're ready."

"Okay Daddy," she smiled. "And I'll remember to think positive."

Daddy smiled and began to scan the horizon. It didn't take long before he felt her tense up. "You see something darling?"

"At about twelve o'clock," she whispered, "you see it?"

At first he seemed to have trouble locating what she was looking at and then he nodded, "Yes, oh yes, that's a good choice. You go ahead, whenever you're ready."

Peering down the scope of the rifle, she held her breath and then stopped. "No," she muttered to herself, "you need to breathe like Daddy taught you. Remember, breathe and think positive." Re-sighting the target she leaned against the stock and gently squeezed the trigger.

The gun let out a sharp report that jerked the site up slightly, causing her to lose sight of the target for a moment.

"Great shot," laughed her Dad, patting her gently on the back. "Bulls eye, what a shot!"

Looking through the scope, she could see that the target was down, "I did it Daddy, I did it!"

"Yes you did, sweetheart, yes you did!" he laughed. Peering through the binoculars he pointed, "Wait a minute, you've got a follow up shot, don't miss it now, don't miss it."

Peering through the site, she saw a woman running out onto the balcony and standing facing her, screaming as she fell to her knees over the body of the man whose head the little girl had just blown off. Remembering to think positive and breathe, she sighted the rifle again and pulled the trigger. The woman's head exploded, a mist of blood and brain washing the balcony wall behind her, her body slamming back into the window.

"Great shot," laughed her Daddy. "That was even better than the first one sweetheart."

"Daddy, Daddy, look, two floors below at about ten o'clock..."

"I see him, honey, I see him..."

The rifle bucked again and Daddy let out a triumphant cry, "That's my girl. Oh, he won't be getting up from that, that's for sure!"

"Look Daddy, at three o'clock..."

"Okay, darling, okay, but just one more, we'll have to get going after this one, so make it count."

The gun bucked again and again Daddy let out a triumphant yell, "You did it, look at her fall. Oh boy, sweetheart, oh boy, that was wonderful."

Taking the rifle from her, Daddy quickly dismantled it and put it back in its case.

"Come on, darling, we have to go now."

The little girl remembered what Daddy had taught her and stayed low without Daddy having to remind her, running back to the car and sliding into the passenger side door and buckling up quickly while Daddy put the gun back in the trunk and slid into the driver's seat. Leaning over, Daddy kissed her on the forehead before throwing the car into reverse and then regaining the path leading to the roadway.

"That was great honey; that was wonderful. Wait until we tell Grandpa, he's gonna be so proud."

"Can we go see Grandpa now?" asked the little girl, "can we?"

"Oh honey, we can't today," replied her Daddy. "The prison won't let us see him without an appointment but next week we can visit him and then we can tell him all about it. He'll be so proud of you. See, I told you, you just have to think positive!"

### Delirium

He struggled to consciousness, fighting to achieve it the way a drowning man seeks the surface of the water. Gasping heavily, his eyes sought something familiar, but nothing around him brought him the comfort of the known. Twisting his head to his left, he saw a man, obviously ill, unconscious, his face drawn and pale, his breathing labored. His head flopped to his right and he beheld another man, awake but in obvious pain, his features contorted, his limbs taunt and bent as if fighting with the cause of his agony.

He became aware of the heat, the heavy, all enveloping heat that permeated from him and caused his entire world to become a tropical nightmare. Pushing the thin sheet that was wrapped around him away, he was determined to stand, to retire to someplace cooler, to seek the relief of cool air.

The suffering man to his right noted his movement and cried out, "Sister! Sister, he's doing it again!"

A heavy set woman in a starched white gown with a nurse's cap fit firmly in her dark hair stomped towards the bed of the overheated man. Taking his arm, she lowered him back against the mattress and replaced the thin sheet.

Her voice was tired, but not unfriendly, "You know you shouldn't be doing that, you heard the doctor. You need your rest, now just lie back and remain quiet. You'll feel cooler if you just lay back..."

"Why am I here?" begged the man suddenly, his dark eyes peering at her with a glassy urgency.

"You've been sick," she replied gently. "You're running a fever and you've been very ill, you need to rest. You'll get worse if you don't rest..."

"Don't you feel the heat?" he asked. "How can you not feel it? It's ungodly hot here; I need some air, to be cool again..."

"You needn't get yourself all worked up, it isn't hot in here, it is your fever you are feeling. You need to relax now and try to sleep..."

"I'm sick?" asked the man, his eyes growing suddenly so mournful that even the tired nurse could not help but feel sympathetic.

"Yes, you've been ill for a few days now, but don't you worry. If you just lie back and rest as the doctor said to do, you'll be right as rain in no time." She pulled the sheet up closer to his neck and smiled down at him, a weary, but friendly gesture. "Now try to get some sleep and don't get excited."

The nurse watched him close his eyes and retreated back towards her station. There were many seriously ill patients on the ward tonight and she did not have a moment to spare if they were to receive the care that they needed.

Moments after the nurse had gone; his fevered eyelids snapped open again and then quickly retreated to a half mast position. Oh God, if he could only sleep, maybe he'd feel better. Just a little sleep, just a little time away from the heat he felt, away from the nausea, a moment of clear thought, that was all he wanted, to understand clearly again, why couldn't he focus?

His eyelids drifted closed, wrapping him in the darkness, a hellish, quasi-conscious state. He wasn't asleep, he wasn't awake, it was the sleep of the damned, a place above the normal state of sleep where the mind wandered and begged for release, but the body could not shut down, could not embrace sweet slumber, but wrestled with it instead, fighting against it in pointless anger.

He dozed and a moan rose from him. He could see him, see the old man, see him peering up at him through the crack between the doorway and the door. That eye, that ghastly eye, staring in the dim light, waiting, waiting for him to act. He had to act, there was no choice, someone had to act. He had vaulted into the room and thrown the bedding upon the old man before killing him. His eyes rolled back, even now he was so much younger than the old man had been, even now he was still younger, how old had the man been...

He stared at the wall, why was the wall cracked, such a deep fissure...It had been grand once, it had been beautiful and full of life once, but now it was cold and dead, a cold dead thing, no blood, no life to it. His friend, his friend was dying, dying as the house died, dying as the house fell apart around him...

His eyes rolled back in his head and then he opened them again, the heat of his body draining him, siphoning off his strength with each movement. He remembered that his wife was dead; he had not killed her, had he? He could not remember, she was so beautiful, so young and innocent, he hadn't killed her, he would never have killed her... No, he remembered weeping, the crushing of his dream of happiness, no, he had done nothing to her, nothing at all. He had stood by and watched helplessly, watched as her disease wasted her, but all he had prayed for, all he had wished for was to see her live.

"I could do nothing," he groaned, "nothing for my sweet...."

He froze as he thought of the old man. He had cut him, cut him up into pieces like a slab of beef. He had carved him up like a roast at a dinner, had done it gleefully. He had been so clever, no one knew, no one could have guessed...

"Would you like some water?" asked the nurse, floating into view, staring down at him with concern.

He nodded his ascent, too tired to speak, his dark eyes wild and large and glowing from the heat that burned within him. He felt her hand slide behind his damp hair and lift him ever so gently towards the glass. The water was cool, a stream of coolness that flowed through his mouth and upon entering his throat seeped out throughout his body, spreading its coolness in lessening degrees until the coolness lingered in his upper arms and legs and died away slowly.

"More?" she asked gently, but he shook his head no, unable to reconcile himself to the momentary coolness that the water provided. The water was a sham, a deliberate lie that promised relief but that died before fulfilling its promise.

As the nurse laid his head back against the pillow, sliding her hand from beneath his damp hair like a person releasing a leaf into the wind, she decided she would seek out the doctor.

He stared at her and cleared his throat, his eyes drooping and finally closing. He had seen so much death, so much pain and death and loss...What had he done with the old man? He remembered working throughout the night, working with bricks, oh yes, the bricks had been so cool. Had he rid himself of the old man in the cellar or had that been someone else? The wine cellar, so cool, the moist damp air had caressed his cheek that night, making his labor easy. He had worked up quite a sweat that night, building walls is not easy work, but he had been cool, almost cold. Had the feeling of revenge made him cold or had it been the weather that night? How he wished for that coolness again, how he wished to feel both the coolness of the air and the satisfaction of purpose. Oh yes, revenge was wrong, a great wrong, but when one had been greatly wronged, was not one entitled to a great wrong? Thinking too much, he was thinking too much and it was so hot. The water had lied, had lied that it would help, had offered him relief and then had merely brushed against his pain before disappearing into the heat and the darkness.

Darkness, yes, the party had been dark he recalled. Not every room, no, most of the rooms had had light enough, most had had a warm, friendly glow. No, they were not brightly lit, not that overwhelming white light that seemed to permeate the room now, no, the rooms had been lit in a gentle glow. He remembered the revelers, oh how fantastic their costumes, how imaginative. He strolled about those rooms anxiously, taking in the colors and textures, the feeling and emotion. Had he conveyed on paper what his mind had seen? How cool it had been, how wonderfully cool and relaxed. They had all been so happy away from the death and disease outside of the walls. Relaxed until that one fellow had arrived and spoiled everything, relaxed until that one fellow had upset the host and then...

He squinted through the white light, why was the light so bright. Such an odd light, incredibly, indescribably bright, yet not hot, no there seemed to be no heat to it at all. He could just make out a figure, odd. He was sure he was the fellow from the party, sure it was the fellow who had ruined the party he had written about so long ago, but he looked nothing like he had imagined him, yet he knew, absolutely KNEW that he was the same person. He stared at him and as he grew closer, the figure beckoned, a gentle motion, an invitation yes, but a promise as well.

Sitting up he could not believe how much better he felt, he was so much cooler and comfortable. It was as if he were awakening from the most excellent sleep he had ever enjoyed and now he could see others behind the fellow, others who looked beautiful and familiar, gentle and kind.

Rising from the bed he stepped towards them and laughed, laughed as he had not done in a long time. He had so many questions, so many dreams, so many hopes...

"He said that you can come now," they all stated. "He wants to share His love with you, you'll be happy here."

Unable to contain his excitement he slapped his thigh and said, "God have mercy on my soul! Let's go, let's not waste a single moment!"

Wrapping his arms around them in fellowship, he allowed them to lead him away, the fellow from the party falling into step at their heels.

***

The doctor pulled the sheet over the corpse' head and signaled the nurse to bring the dividers and cordon off the bed. The nurse moved forward gingerly, placing the dividers on either side to block the other patient's view of the deceased man.

"Were you able to make out his last words?" asked the doctor.

"I believe he said, "God have mercy on my soul,"" she responded, looking down at the form covered by the sheet.

"Were we ever able to establish his identity?" the doctor asked, reaching for the chart and preparing with a sigh to begin the paperwork necessary to record the death.

"Yes, doctor, his name was Poe," replied the nurse. "Edgar Poe. Poor fellow, he suffered so much at the end." She moved to the top of the sheet and pulled it back respectfully. "Funny that...see? Such a beautiful smile...that's right, Edgar, no more suffering dear, nothing to be afraid of..."

### "Information; this is Jenni speaking..."

"Come on, come on, and deal the cards..."

Vince eyed the deck and shuffled again, debating whether he should speak or not. Finally he decided...

"Jim, you know I love you, right?"

Jim peered at Vince through angry, dark eyes, "I'm not interested in your romantic notions, Vince, just deal the cards."

As the others laughed, Vince shrugged his shoulders and began dealing.

"Look, Jim," he continued as he dealt, "you're a successful guy and a good friend, why do you do this every week?"

"Do what?" asked Jim, huddling over his cards greedily.

"You're a good guy, Jim, but you've got no luck, not with cards anyway. Every week, we soak you for several hundred dollars..."

"Have I ever welched?" snapped Jim defensively.

"No one's complaining about you paying up, least of all me," continued Vince cordially, "but man, you never win, I mean never. You've got a nice house, a great car, plenty of women, but gambling is just not your thing. Like I said, you have no luck..."

"It's not a matter of luck," snapped Jim, "its skill."

"Then you've got no skill," replied Vince as the others laughed. "Either way, you're always out money, man, it just bothers me. When I wanted to go mountain biking, you stopped me, right?"

"You'd have killed yourself," replied Jim. "You can't walk and chew gum at the same time..."

"Exactly, you saved me from myself. Jim, I'm begging you, stop gambling, really dude, you're no good at it."

Jim glanced at the others seated around the table, but none of them moved or looked up from their cards.

"It's a friendly game and no one gets hurt, am I right?" asked Jim.

"It's friendly for us," replied Vince, "it's completely unfriendly to you. You always bet the most, you always lose. It's no fun taking your money Jim, it's sad."

Silence reigned at the table for a moment as Jim examined his cards.

"Do the rest of you feel this way?" asked Jim.

No one spoke.

"No one else seems to think the way you're thinking, Vince," he stated, "so why the hell don't you just shut up?"

Vince shrugged. Everyone had a blind spot, gambling was Jim's. He had watched him lose everything he had ever bet on, long shots, sure things, everything. Each failure only seemed to drive Jim on more, seemed to excite his gambling passion even more. Vince had tried to stop him, this wasn't the first time, but he decided that it would be the last. Jim was on his own, he couldn't help him from himself.

Jim examined his cards as if by staring hard enough at them, they would change into something resembling a decent hand. He had read every book, had seen every video, had spoken to master card players, gamblers and pool sharks, yet he never came any closer to winning than this hand. Every master had agreed that there was always a degree of luck. Sure there was skill, sure there was strategy, but you had to have something in your hand to work with and Jim never did. Staring at the cards he decided to cut his losses and fold. He hated to do it after Vince's little lecture, but it made no sense to continue this hand, besides, his kidneys need a little relief and he had to call that guy about the shipment.

"I'm out," he said, rising to avoid the glances of his companions. "I'm going to the can."

Gaining the bathroom, he took care of business and then washed his hands. Staring at his face in the mirror, he wanted to scream. He was a successful importer, he made money hand over fist, he dated the hottest women, he drove the nicest cars, he owned a house in the best community within a thousand miles, why the hell could he never win at a game of cards? Just once, just one stinking time...

Stepping out of the bathroom, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket as he approached the table. Apparently, poker was done and now they were playing blackjack. Jim sat down and saw that the deal was Eddie's. Eddie wouldn't give him shit like Vince had done; Eddie would just deal the cards and wait for him to pay off when he lost. Jim shook his head as Eddie shuffled the cards; he'd forgotten the guy's phone number at home.

"Damn it," snapped Jim.

"What are you complaining about?" asked Eddie, "You haven't even lost yet."

The others snickered.

"I forgot the guy's phone number and I need to confirm tomorrow's shipment," grouched Jim.

"Call information," stated Carl as he picked up his cards.

Jim thought back, what the hell was the name of that place... Mercer's, that was it, Mercer's Design.

"You got a pen?" he asked.

"Yeah, here," replied Carl.

Calling information, Jim listened as the phone rang and a recording picked up.

"Welcome to Information Services, what city and state?"

"Brooklyn, New York," snapped Jim, glancing at his cards and folding immediately.

The phone clicked and the live operator took over, "Good evening, this is information, Jenni speaking..."

"Yeah, Jenni, can you get me the number for Mercer Design in Brooklyn?"

"One moment please..."

Jim stared at the cards in his hands; he had fourteen and needed twenty-one. Should he take another card?

"Take another card."

Jim shifted in his seat, "Excuse me?"

"Take another card," stated the pleasant female voice on the other end of the phone.

"How do you know...?"

"Take another card, sir."

Eddie sat eyeing Jim, "Well Jimmy, you want one or not?"

Jim nodded and Eddie tossed another card to him, face down. Picking it up, he stared at it, a seven! He had twenty-one.

"Please hold for your listing..." said the voice and the line switched to a recording of the phone number he was requesting.

"Wait a minute..." yelled Jim.

"They cut you off?" asked Eddie. "That's why I don't call information; they always cut you off..."

"No, no, she gave me the number," replied Jim.

"You need another card?" asked Eddie.

"No, no I'm fine with what I got," replied Jim, flipping over his seven to reveal his twenty one. The others stared at him in blank amazement as he scooped up the pile before him.

"No luck, huh?" he snapped. "No skill, well I guess this shows you! Deal me out, I want to count my winnings!"

The others sat in stunned silence, in three years of play, none of them could remember Jim winning a hand of anything.

"It's the end of an era," stated Eddie in wonder.

Jim sat and wondered as he counted his chips and smiled. Who was Jenni and how had she known? He'd find out, he knew that. He had a way of finding things out, he had connections. He'd find out.

***

Jim stood in the area that stretched beyond the foot of his bed and paced as he spoke to the operator.

"I want to speak to Jenni," he snapped for the thirtieth time.

"Sir, you cannot request a specific operator," replied the woman on the other end.

"It's important that I speak to her," he continued.

"Let me put you through to the supervisor, sir," replied the woman. "I'm afraid I cannot help you."

He moaned as the phone clicked over to the supervisor's line. To his surprise a male voice answered it this time.

"Supervisor Riggins, can I help you?"

Jim let out a long sigh, "Yes, I hope so. I'm looking for one of your operators, her name is Jenni, I spoke to her earlier this evening, I need to speak with her again."

"Sir, any one of our operators is trained to assist you..."

"Look, it's a personal matter; I'd like to speak to Jenni."

He could hear the supervisor covering his mouthpiece. He thought he was a stalker, so had the others.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but we cannot allow customers to speak with individual operators, it is against company policy..."

"Look, I need to find her, it's important. How about I give you my number and if she wants to call..."

"Sir, I'm not sure you understand the situation," began Riggins patiently. "This is only one of many call centers set up throughout the country. I have fifty operators sitting in front of me at this very moment, there is no way I can track down a specific operator who spoke to you to give her a message..."

"It is a life or death issue," replied Jim. "Now surely you know what operators are on duty..."

"Yes sir, at this location," replied Riggins. "I don't know every operator who is on call tonight at every location and I can't stop what I'm doing to try calling around to see if I can relay a message to one named Jenni. If you are a relative, you must call her supervisor and a message will be given to her, but if you don't know who she works for..."

"She works for you people," snapped Jim. "How the hell would I know who her supervisor is?"

"Sir, company policy allows me to terminate a call if the individual becomes abusive..."

"I didn't abuse you, you dumb ass," replied Jim. Before he could continue, the phone slammed down on the other end and the line went silent. Picking up the beer that he had next to him he took yet another swig and slapped it down hard on the table in disgust. Stupid bastards...

Wait a minute! He stood, transfixed to the spot, glowing happily at his own genius. Sarah, of course, Sarah! He smiled, ready to turn in, yes, starting tomorrow, Sarah had one job and one job only; find Jenni!

***

Sarah Marciano was a small woman with dark hair and even darker eyes. Pretty, petite and quiet, she had been Jim's assistant for almost eight years. Jim loved Sarah for her tenacity, for her positive attitude and for the fact that no matter what he gave her to do, she did it with an obedience usually reserved suicide bombers for their given cause.

"You want me to call information until I get Jenni on the line," she repeated, not questioning his sanity but just for her own clarification.

"That's right, Sarah," he replied. "I want you to drop everything you're doing, forget it completely, put it out of your mind and call information until you reach an operator named Jenni. Once you have her, don't patch her through, just call me, I'll come to you."

Sarah nodded as if Jim had just asked for a cup of coffee and returned to her desk to begin dialing. Jim let out a deep, satisfied sigh. If the woman lived, Sarah would find her!

For her part, Sarah sat stoically hitting redial and listening to the operators as they gave out their information. She had long ago understood the basic principles of business and applied them to her situation every day. Principle one was that your boss was insane, that at no time should you play with the notion that your boss had any intelligent thought process whatsoever. Principle two was to obey every direct command with no comment or outward showing of interest or revulsion. Principle three was to not ask questions and to cover your ass. There were more principles but those were the Holy Trinity of business as far as she was concerned.

It was on the thirty eighth call that Sarah hit pay dirt.

"Good morning, this is information, Jenni speaking..."

"Jenni?" asked Sarah.

"Yes," replied the voice pleasantly, "this is Jenni speaking, how may I assist you?"

"Jenni, will you stay on the line just a moment, my boss needs to ask for the information..."

"Certainly ma'am..."

Sarah called out into Jim's office, "Jim, I've got her on..."

Before she could finish, he thundered out of the office and grabbed the receiver from her hand.

"Jenni?"

"Yes, how may I help you?"

"Jenni, my name is Jim Albertson and I spoke to you the other night on the phone while I was playing cards..." Jim suddenly went blank; he had no idea of how to continue. "Uh, Jenni, I, uh..."

"May I get you a listing Mister Albertson?" said the voice casually.

"Jenni, how did you know that I should take another card?" he stammered.

"I'm sorry sir," she replied pleasantly, "we are not allowed to answer personal questions, it is company policy. Is there a listing you would like?"

"Can I get in touch with you..."

"I'm sorry sir, if you do not request a listing, I'm afraid that I will have to disconnect your call..."

"Okay, I want your listing," replied Jim. "What is your number?"

"I'm afraid, sir, we're not allowed to give out our personal numbers. I'm afraid, sir, that I'll have to disconnect this call; have a nice day..."

"No, wait," he yelped, but the line had already gone dead.

"She's gone," he said, wild eyed. Turning to Sarah he thought quickly, "Okay, okay, this is what we're going to do, you keep calling until you get her back on the line, they switch her over to me at my desk, you've got it."

"Yes sir, call until I speak to Jenni and then switch her over to you."

"Yes," squinted Jim. "I'll set up a test, that's what I should have done in the first place. Okay, okay, let's do this!" Clapping his hands he ran into his office, the door slamming behind him.

Sarah began to hit redial again. Principle one was obviously in full swing.

***

"I have Jenni," snapped Sarah, exhaustion creeping into her voice after almost six hours on the phone with information.

"Switch it! Switch it and Sarah, if you lose this call, I swear..."

"Line one," replied Sarah.

Taking a deep breath, Jim picked up the receiver, "Hello?"

"Good afternoon, this is information, Jenni speaking..."

"Jenni, I have several numbers I would like to request, can you help me with that?" asked Jim as he turned on his computer and activated his computer black jack game.

"Certainly, sir, what is the first listing?"

"Jenni," began Jim, entering the game and setting the dealer in motion, "The first number I'd like is the number for a Chancellor Designs."

"One moment please..."

Jim waited as the dealer dealt the cards. The dealer was showing an ace and an eight; Jim had a seven and a queen showing.

"Take another card..." said the voice on the phone.

Jim clicked his control and taking another card stared in amazement as he was dealt a two.

"I have your listing for Chancellor Designs, sir; it is 555-228-2821."

"Thank you," laughed Jim, "Thank you so very much. The second listing I would like is Gregors Salon on East Huntington Street."

"Please hold just a moment..."

The dealer was showing eighteen and Jim had thirteen.

"Take two more cards," said the voice on the phone.

Jim did as instructed and ended up a winner with nineteen."

"The number for Gregors Salon is 555-228-1761."

"Thank you, Jenni, thank you so much," replied Jim. "The last number I would like is for Two Cousins Pizza."

"Please hold one moment sir..."

The dealer was showing eighteen and Jim was holding nineteen.

"Don't bet anymore," stated the voice on the phone. Jim could not believe his ears, the odds were with him, so he bet more. The dealer handed himself a three, black jack.

"Please hold for the number for your final listing..."

Jim cried out, "Jenni, wait a minute..." but the phone switched to the automatic voice reciting the number. Had she hung up on him because he had disobeyed or because it was the final number?

"Sarah!" he shouted frantically, but there was no response. Rushing out into the main office, he saw that the lights were turned down low and that he was alone. Glancing at the clock, he realized that it was six o'clock, everyone had gone home.

Rushing back into his office, he glanced at the stack of papers on his desk; a whole day wasted waiting to speak to Jenni, or was it? He sat in his chair and considered it, there had to be a way, a way to make this profitable, but how. Obviously, he had to be in a position to win big and then be able to access her, but it wasn't possible. Sarah had spent hours to get her on the phone.

Taking the paperwork on his desk, he examined the top sheet. After reading it multiple times, he put is back down, he would never be able to concentrate on it, all he could do was think of who he was going to reach Jenni...

***

"I barely know him," stated Vince, cramming a mouthful of sandwich into his mouth. Jim had invited him to a pub near where they worked to discuss what Jim called an "important business venture". "I don't even know if he's still there..."

"Come on, Vin, those phone company people are all lifers," laughed Jim, desperately trying to pour on the charm. "I need some technical information, but I can't let them know I need to get it, I need an inside guy."

"I don't even know if he would talk to you, Jim," replied Vince. "I mean, what are you asking him to do, something illegal?"

"No, man, no, no," replied Jim, feigning sincerity and a slightly hurt expression, "nothing like that, you know me better than that, come on. I need to ask about their switching systems, how incoming calls are transferred to various information operators..."

"What the hell would you need to know that for?" asked Vince. "That's IT stuff; why not just ask your own staff how it's done?"

"Because my staff doesn't know how they do it," replied Jim, fighting not to sound desperate. "They have theories regarding the system, but they aren't sure. I need to make sure that we're right or I'm going to look like a complete ass to a very important client." Jim lowered his voice and hunched closer to his friend, "I'm talking a big deal here; a lot of money is on the line. I'm begging you..."

"Fine, Jim, fine," replied Vince. "I'll call him. I can't promise you anything, I barely know the guy, but I'll call him."

Jim sat back, controlling his elation, "Thanks Vin, thank you man. You don't know how much this means to me."

***

Mike Cohen was a small, nervous looking man, pale with dark hair and nervous eyes. The whispery beard that covered his jaw could not hide his youth or make one take him more seriously. Jim leaned over the small table that separated them in the pub where they had arranged to meet and smiled reassuringly.

"I don't know how much Vin told you about why I asked to speak with you..."

Cohen fixed Jim with a haunted stare, "Look, he said you wanted systems information, how calls are dispatched to the various centers from the central line, that's it, isn't it?"

Jim nodded, noting the aggression in Mike's tone. Obviously there was something else going on here, Mike was a nervous boy and he needed to be handled with kid gloves.

"I'm not looking for any information that would get you in trouble," said Jim calmly. "What I'm really asking you to do is to verify my own IT people's descriptions. I have a presentation for a major client and if I flub the presentation of this system, I'll lose some big money."

Mike's eyes shifted continuously, taking in every aspect of everyone in the bar at a glance.

"So you need in an insider, a guy who will verify what you think you already know."

"Exactly."

"And what do I get out of it?" asked Mike.

Jim shrugged, "What do you want?"

Mike crowded in closer, eyes frantic, "Let's stop talking crap here, this is industrial espionage, we both know it..."

"Hold on," snapped Jim, trying to maintain his balance, "I'm not asking you to take spy film or unauthorized videos here. I'm asking for a verification of how something works..."

"Industrial espionage," replied Mike tersely. "You want info; I've got info, for a price."

Jim looked across the table and realized that he was dealing with a nut. This guy thought they were playing some sort of cold war spy game. Yes, if he could get to Jenni it would be worth some serious money, but this guy was acting like they were in a James Bond picture and the KGB was hot on their trail.

"Look, Mike, if you can help me, that would be great, but if not, I completely understand."

Mike lowered his voice, his balled hands clench tightly, forming a pedestal for his chest as he leaned across the table, "Don't play cool with me. You want the info and I need the money so name me a price."

Jim considered it.

"How about... a thousand dollars," he replied, unsure of how his response would be received.

Mike leaned back, the muscles in his jaw working convulsively. Obviously the offer had not hit the proper level, but what did he think his information was worth?

"You think I was born yesterday?" asked Mike, his tone both frightened and angry. "I know this is a big deal and you're offering a grand? I could lose my job..."

"Look, Mike," said Jim apologetically, "I've never done this before, I'm not sure how much I should offer. You name a price."

Mike considered it, suddenly out of his depth. Jim's confession had thrown him.

"Uh, I'm not... uh... how about fifteen hundred?" he asked

Jim mulled it over, "Fifteen is a bit steep...I was thinking more like twelve."

Mike nodded, "Fine, twelve... twelve hundred it is."

"Good," smiled Jim, "good. Now I need you to meet with my IT guys and answer some of their questions..."

***

Jim sat in his office as Craig, the head of his IT department, explained the equipment.

"After you tracked her down, we were able to coordinate the data to allow us to identify her sign in code. First, you take this device and connect it to your phone; it will search for her sign in information and verify that she is on the system."

"Do I have to dial information for it to work?" asked Jim.

"No, it does it automatically," replied Craig. "Once you've verified that she is on the system, then you can connect this to your phone and dial information, it will provide you a direct path through the system to her coordinates."

"English, Craig," said Jim.

"You dial information and she'll be the one who picks up," said Craig. Leaning closer he looked at Jim apologetically, "Jim, this has taken a lot of hours and a lot of money, if you don't mind me asking, why is this so important?"

"I do mind you asking," said Jim abruptly. "You get paid to solve problems, not ask questions. Thank you for these."

Craig nodded, Jim could be a jerk sometimes, it was just how things were. With a grimace, he let himself out.

Jim held up the two devices, he would try them out tonight. Hitting the intercom button on his phone, he heard Sarah respond.

"Sarah, cancel my afternoon appointments, I have an emergency."

"Is everything alright, Jim?" she responded, concern in her voice.

"Everything is fine," he replied. "It's a good type of emergency."

Sarah hung up and looked at his calendar to see who she had to call. Her principles were once again holding true.

"A good type of emergency..." she muttered.

Jim stood up and grabbed his coat. He could be in Atlantic City in three hours, two if he was lucky and suddenly he was feeling lucky.

***

"Bet a quarter..." instructed the voice on the other end.

Jim hit the button and waited for the slot machine wheels to stop. Nothing.

"Bet a quarter..." instructed the voice. Jim complied.

"Bet the full amount..." instructed the voice.

Jim hit the correct button and waited. The wheels spun with what seemed to be agonizing slowness and then, lights, sirens and buzzers sounded.

People gathered around Jim as the attendants arrived to verify his win.

"I'm sorry sir, I have no listing for a Donald Duck at Pluto Avenue," stated Jenni. "Is there any other assistance I can offer you today?"

"Oh, Jenni," laughed Jim. "I have about a dozen more numbers I need..."

"I'm afraid that I can only provide you with one more listing, sir," came the always polite voice.

"That's okay," replied Jim. "I can always call back!"

***

The haul amounted to over thirty seven thousand dollars between Jim's slot machine, roulette and craps wins. Sitting at a table in the fanciest restaurant at Caesars, he ordered another steak and watched the waiter fill his glass with more champagne. Life was good and it was going to stay that way. Jim was a winner in everything now, business, life and...

He noticed the attractive blonde when she entered the restaurant. She was on the arm of a large, ugly, powerful looking man. She was beyond beautiful, tall, incredible figure, tight black dress, long tan legs, ample cleavage, face of an angel. Jim smiled at her and raised his champagne glass in salute. The mug with her glared but Jim saluted him as well and his expression softened.

Motioning to the big man, he gestured him towards his table. The big man sauntered over, curious.

"I'd be honored if you and the young lady would join me for dinner," smiled Jim. "I won BIG today and I'm a stranger here. Celebrations are less fun without friends."

The big man smiled.

"I'd love to join you, but I think it's only fair to warn you, she's got expensive tastes."

Jim laughed, "Only the best for my new friends, only the best!"

***

The blonde smiled as Jim opened the door and the muscular, ugly man entered.

"I'm a bit late," said the ugly man, "last night was a hell of a party."

"You're not kidding," smiled Jim, taking the lady's hand and kissing it with a wink.

"Good-bye, Jimmy," she replied, sauntering out the door with a smile, "it was fun."

"Thank you, doll," he replied as he reached into his pocket and removed his bankroll. The ugly man smiled, not a pleasant sight, as Jim looked up at him and spoke. "So, what do I owe you, my friend?"

"Three large," stated the ugly man, his smile growing larger.

Jim peeled off three thousand dollar bills and handed them to him with three hundred dollar bills on top.

"A little something extra, take care of that hangover of yours."

The ugly man took the money and smiled, handing Jim his card, "Here, next time you're in town, give me a call. I've got several others you might be interested in, depending, of course, on your taste."

Jim took the card and slapped the ugly man on his broad back as they walked to the door together, "I'll be in touch. Thanks for a great evening."

The ugly man smiled at him as he exited, "The pleasure was all ours."

"Not all of it," laughed Jim as he closed the door and looked down at his bankroll; about half of it gone but who cared? After breakfast he'd see if Jenni was working and make his money back. He'd bankroll twenty girls like the one from last night and never worry about it. He smiled as he headed for the shower, beautiful girls, expensive dinners, anything he wanted was within his reach just as long as Jenni was on the line.

He was in the shower when his cell phone rang and Sarah left him the urgent message to contact her immediately. It wasn't until he had almost left his room when he noticed the phone flashing at him. Listening to the message, he immediately called the office, swearing to himself, "Gone one day, you'd think they could manage..."

"Jim?"

"Is that how you answer the phone?" he asked with a laugh. "I've got to send you back for training..."

"I hate to call you when you're away, but your doctor called, he said he needed to speak to you immediately."

Jim sauntered around his room, searching for his keys, "What, did I forget an appointment or something?"

"I don't know," replied Sarah. "He just said; call him as soon as you can. He insisted that I track you down, I didn't like the sound of it, so I called you, I hope you don't mind."

He found the concern in Sarah's voice unsettling, "What did he want? Didn't he say?"

"No," she replied, the worry more evident, "he just said to call right away. Call him, okay? Call him now."

"I'll call him, relax," replied Jim, trying to put her at ease. "I'm sure I forgot to send him some money or something, don't worry about it."

"Okay, I won't," she replied, "but call him now."

"Okay, okay," replied Jim, "I'll dial him as soon as you ring off."

He heard the line go dead as he sat on the bed. What was she so worried about, what had he said to her? Dialing the number, he shook his head. Forget to pay these doctors and they scare the hell out of the staff. He was going to let him know he didn't appreciate it. He heard someone pick up the phone and he asked for Doctor Welling. After obtaining his information, the nurse asked him to hold. He wondered if it was that brunette nurse with the nice eyes who...

"Jim?"

"Doctor Welling, what's going on? You've got my secretary scared half to death, what did you say to her?"

"I'm sorry Jim; I didn't mean to worry your staff. Where are you?"

"I'm in Atlantic City, doc. Why don't you come down, I'm on a hot streak, we could have some fun."

"Jim, I would prefer to speak to you in person..."

Jim felt himself growing cold, "What is it doc?"

The doctor's pause made his stomach lurch.

"Jim, I got the results of the tests you took last time. I would have called you sooner, but I wanted to make sure..."

"What's the problem doc," asked Jim, forcing a laugh, "I don't need a proctology exam, do I?"

"Jim, I would really prefer to speak to you in person, but I can't wait for that. Jim, you've got cancer, leukemia, your blood is...well, it's not good Jim. We need to get to work right away, when can you get here?"

Jim sat on the edge of the bed, trying to understand the doctor's words. They were every day words, words you heard all the time, words you used in sentences a thousand times a day, but Jim couldn't understand what the doctor meant, it was like he was speaking a foreign language. "Can you get here"? What the hell did "can you get here" mean?

"I don't understand you doc, slow down," he asked, feeling the room revolve around him.

"Jim, we need to get started on your treatment right away if we're going to have any chance of..."

"Treatment?" asked Jim, staring at the phone. "Treatment for what?"

"You have cancer, Jim," replied the doctor, slowly, deliberately. "We need to start treatment..."

The doctor spoke, words filled with concern, words filled with sympathy, but words without meaning. What could he be trying to say? It didn't make any sense. An hour after hanging up with the doctor, Jim was still staring at the phone as if it would suddenly explain what had just happened to him. Cancer treatment? What did it mean? What did any of it mean?

Calling Sarah, he asked her to call the doctor, to find out what the hell he was talking about. The man had spoken gibberish to him; he was using words that no one could understand. Sarah promised to call the doctor and promised to call him right back. He sat in shock until the phone rang. It took him a moment, but he finally remembered how to answer it and it was Sarah. Her voice was kind and gentle and made sense...

"Jim, I want you to check out of the hotel and come back to the office," she said calmly.

"I'm on a streak..." he began.

"You're needed here," she replied firmly. "We're having problems here that only you can solve. When should I expect you?"

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Ten thirty," she replied. "Can you get here by two o'clock?"

"Yeah," he replied absently. "Two o'clock. I'll be there. Work, right?"

"Yes, Jim," she replied. "Come to work, come here, I need to speak with you. Be careful, I'll be waiting for you."

"Alright," he crabbed softly, "I'll be there."

He sat for a few minutes staring at the phone...go to Sarah... go and see Sarah...the thought finally penetrated. He had to get up and go and see Sarah, it was important. Packing his things, he wandered down to the desk and after paying his bill, out to his car. He sat in his car, it took a moment to remember how to drive it, yes, now he remembered. Drive the car... must go to Sarah... After a minute, he put the car in drive and was on his way.

***

"The treatment is experimental," replied Doctor Welling. "For some people it works wonderfully, but for others, it seems to do very little."

"But I thought you said we needed to be aggressive about this," replied Jim, exhausted from the hours of poking and prodding.

"We do, Jim, we do, but we have to be intelligently aggressive," replied Welling. "We can't afford to lose time on something that doesn't work for you."

"How bad is it, doc? You keep saying we have to be aggressive and get to work right away, but you haven't answered my question. How bad is it?"

Doctor Welling looked down at his hands, "Jim, it's stage four, stage four of a very aggressive cancer. If it keeps going the way it's going now...well, if we can't slow it or affect it in some positive way, we're talking months... I'm terribly sorry."

Jim nodded, "I understand."

"Any course of treatment will be risky," stated Welling, "they're all a gamble..."

Jim jumped up and grabbed his arm, "A gamble? Of course, of course, they're all a gamble, it's a game of chance in the end, whichever we choose, it's a chance. Doc, give me ten minutes, I need to take a walk and make a phone call, when I come back, I'll have an answer to what we should do."

"Jim, I don't know..."

But Jim was already pulling on his clothing and discarding the hospital gown.

"Ten minutes, just ten minutes...she's working, see the green light? It means she's working! Ten minutes, doc, just ten minutes..."

Jim was working the second device as he jumped into the elevator and began buttoning his shirt. She was there, it was the ultimate gamble, she would know, Jenni would know!

Gaining the outside of the hospital, Jim waited until the device tracked down Jenni. He had to do this correctly, just like they always did it, first he'd request a listing, then he'd tell her the treatment options and then... oh God, she had to be right.

"Good afternoon, this is information, Jenni speaking, how may I assist you?"

"Hi, Jenni, this is Jim," he began, trying to control his nerves, "Jenni, I need a listing for the Concorde Playhouse in Queens, New York."

"One moment please," she responded.

Jim took a deep breath, "I have a choice between a new treatment option and conventional aggressive chemotherapy..."

The seconds stretched, the whole world grounding to a complete halt as Jim stood and waited for her to answer, for her to say anything...

"Chose the new treatment option," responded the voice casually.

Jim started to laugh, yes, yes, he would be all right, he would beat this thing and then...

"I'm sorry sir, we're about to be disconnected, good-bye." The line went dead.

"Jenni?" he screamed into the phone, "JENNI!"

He never saw the car, never heard its approach as it vaunted into the hospital driveway and slammed into him. He flew some thirty feet according to the police report, landing headfirst on the curb in front of the main doors. The doctors could do nothing for him but pronounce him dead at the scene.

"I blame myself," stated Doctor Welling as he spoke to the police officer taking his statement, "I should have never let him go outside in his state. He kept insisting, said he needed ten minutes to decide on the course of treatment. He was so distracted he probably never realized that he had stepped into the main driveway while he was on the phone."

***

As a favor to Jim's grieving parents, Vince went to the hospital to identify the body and make the arrangements.

"That's him," he said softly, tears in his eyes.

"Who will be coming for the body?" asked the mortician, studying his paperwork.

"Oh, God," said Vince, "I forgot. Can you excuse me a minute, I need to call his parents."

Jim's parents were with Sarah. She had taken them to her apartment to wait for Vince to return. Vince dialed information and heard the line click over.

"Good afternoon, this is information, Jenni speaking, how can I help you today?"

"Yes, I'd like the number for a Sarah Marciano in Queens," began Vince, "I believe she's on one hundred and sixty third street."

"One moment, please," replied the voice pleasantly.

Vince couldn't imagine a world without Jim. Who would he...

"Kearns Funeral home," said the voice on the other end.

"Excuse me?" replied Vince.

"They wanted you to make the arrangements through Kearns Funeral home," replied the voice.

Vince stared at the phone a moment, "That's right, now I remember, how did you know that?"

"Your listing, sir..."

Vince stared at the phone as Sarah's number was recited by the mechanical voice on the phone. How did the operator know which funeral home he was supposed to make the arrangements with? He redialed information and shrugged.

"Good afternoon, this is information, my name is Alice, how can I help you?"

"Alice, I need the number for Kearns Funeral home in Queens," he said softly. How weird was that? It had been a weird day...

### John's Dilemma

She had been the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. It was his first week as a college freshman college and he was walking across the courtyard towards the law building; he could still remember every sensation, every smell, every feeling. She was walking the other way looking every bit as nervous and overwhelmed as he felt and their eyes locked for the briefest of moments. Both looked away, overwhelmed by the feeling, the electric shock of it all and then...then they looked back at one another and their eyes locked again.

Her name was Donna and she had auburn hair and blue-grey eyes and the sweetest smile he had ever seen. They both missed class that day, locked into one another like two pieces of a puzzle that had finally come together. She was smart and funny and so incredibly sexy and she liked him, really liked him. Soon they were inseparable. You would see them together, gazing adoringly at each other and somehow your life was better, you felt their energy, their passion, their love.

John sat in his car remembering those early days, those first few moments, the magic that had been theirs. It was almost fifteen years now, FIFTEEN YEARS! His mind struggled to wrap itself around the fact. The beautiful girl/woman from college had grown into an incredibly beautiful, accomplished woman. He remembered leaving for work the first time after they had married, after they had returned from their honeymoon. He had almost cried! He could not believe it now as he sat in traffic, shaking his head at the thought. Had almost cried at having to be separated, had almost cried at being apart from her for eight hours.

"Amazing," he said softly, shaking his head as his car inched forward another three feet before he had to apply the brake yet again. "Amazing..."

He could remember when the trouble had started, the very first signs of it. It wasn't earth shattering, nothing that anyone else would have noticed. Their sex life had been incredible from the start, they could make love for hours without ever tiring. Then, about two years ago, he had noticed it; funny he hadn't noticed it before. Was it something that had developed over time or was it just something he had never noticed before? Funny, he remembered his father telling him that the senses dulled with age, you noticed less and less, but somehow he had missed it, somehow, he had just never heard it before.

The only way he could describe it was that it sounded like a dentist's drill with asthma. He knew that didn't make sense, but that's what is sounded like. As she rose to her climax, she would make this noise, this high pitched noise that just split through ones skull like a buzz saw. He grew to hate the noise, it never changed, it never faltered, it was always there, right at the peak of ecstasy and BOOM; there it was driving a wedge into his skull. He never refused sex, never said no, but he became hesitant, unsure of how to handle it. Sometimes he tried just to please himself and get it over with, but she would always insist that he "finish the job" and there it was; that horrible noise.

After the noise, he had begun to notice other things, little things, trivial things. They didn't matter, he told himself, they didn't matter in the least, but they were like sand in his eyes, sand he just couldn't get rid of no matter how much he blinked. Why was it she kept talking long after he had finished listening? She would go on and on and on until the subject was just beaten to death. And then there was the thing with her nails, she was always working on her nails. Cathedrals took less time to build than she took on painting and priming and primping those things. And her friends, where did she find these people? Trisha from work, so funny, so much fun, yay, it's Trisha on the phone... He wasn't a mean spirited man, but if a bus took out Trisha one day, THAT would be funny, but he'd never heard Trisha say anything even remotely funny.

A car behind him beeped and he rolled forward a bit more, thinking, thinking. He used to love the way she looked at him, those adoring eyes, those loving eyes. He had eaten it up before, loved it, those eyes, those vapid pools of thoughtlessness. She looked at him as if he was some sort of Greek god. Okay, he was in shape, he hadn't let himself go, but stop it all ready, take a frigging picture! And her laugh, what was up with that? Did a donkey mate with a seal? Who laughs like that?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, she was still good to look at; she was always good looking, no two ways about it. She was sexy as all hell without trying, she looked good in anything and she was always very ladylike. He'd give fifty bucks if she would just belch once in a while, just let loose a bit. He'd pay to see someone dump mud on her, sell tickets for someone to throw tomatoes at her. He didn't want her hurt, that wasn't it; he just didn't want to come home to Donna Reed and a string of pearls every day. He felt like Mister Rogers, he had to wear sweaters and deck shoes to look "nice". WHY? All he was doing was watching television and trying to unwind, who even saw him once he slunk into the house?

He eyed his exit, home already. Why wasn't there more traffic? He dreaded going home. Everyone told him how lucky he was, how beautiful she was, how fantastic they were together. Together, always together; it was like being crazy glued to a saint. She was wonderful, she was terrific, she was thoughtful and considerate and kind and loving and if he didn't kill her soon he...NO!

He pulled off the exit and headed for the streets. Kill her? How could he even think that? Okay, okay, things weren't perfect, or maybe they were and that was the problem. People aren't made for perfect, he thought. People aren't supposed to enjoy a perfect life and they aren't supposed to pretend it either. It was their friends fault. "You guys are the perfect couple" they'd say, "You guys are amazing", who the hell could live up to that? They shouldn't have to try! It wasn't Donna's fault, she was a good person, a loving person, an attractive, loving wife any man would be lucky to call his own. And she was his; all his! No wonder people were jealous; no wonder people thought they were perfect together. She was a fantastic woman, a real godsend.

Still, where the hell did that noise come from? You're making love, not trying to do a root canal...No, no, think positive, positive thoughts, that's what I need. He was sure he did things that annoyed her, things that were less than considerate, things that were horrible. He knew he wasn't good enough for her... who the hell is good enough for the perfect woman? Yes, yes, he was inadequate, not in the sack, hell no, he was fine there, but he just wasn't up to constantly being kind and considerate and intelligent and fun loving and perfect! That was the problem, she WAS perfect and he wasn't; except she wasn't so perfect either, but no one believed that, not for a moment. You can't complain about the old ball and chain when she's perceived as perfect, people look at you like you're nuts, like you have a screw loose, like you aren't the perfect man; but he wasn't. He didn't want to be perfect but he was trapped, he was trapped to the perfect woman, trapped in the perfect love story, trapped in the perfect marriage.

Pulling into the driveway, he put the car in park and cut the engine. He stared at his neighbor George's tree. Maybe today would be the day that the rotten old thing would snap and come crashing down on the roof of his car, killing him instantly. He waited, took a moment to look in the glove box. Damn it, the tree just stood there offering him nothing. Shaking his head, he slowly got out of the car and looked lovingly at the large branch poised above him. Drop, damn it, drop! Nothing. Stupid tree...

He entered the house and heard her, heard her gliding to meet him. She looked sexy in her tight white shorts and tank top, tanned and beautiful and perfect. She kissed him and looked at him lovingly.

"Dinner is almost ready, sweetheart," she said in a voice that could melt a normal man's heart. "Why don't you get changed and relax a bit and I'll fix you a drink."

"Thank you," he said with a grin. How nice of her. After going through all the trouble of making dinner, she still wanted him to relax, to make him a drink. Positive thoughts, look on the sunny side, that was the ticket.

Climbing the stairs to their second floor bedroom, he quickly changed, noting a package on the bed.

"What's on the bed?" he called down.

"I'll model that for you later tonight," she purred.

Opening the top of the box he saw a sheer nightie. She would look great in that, he thought. She would look so sexy and they would make love tonight. He smiled in anticipation until he thought of the sound, the drill with asthma. Damn tree, DAMN TREE!

The drink was delicious and dinner was spectacular. All this and she could cook too. Damn tree. Slumping into his easy chair, she sat next to him, looking at him adoringly. They spoke of their days, a conversation he tried not to appear to lose interest in, but he knew his eyes glazed over two minutes after it had begun. By the time he had refocused his attention, he had agreed to Christmas at her mother's house this year. He thought of his mother in law, she was kind and sweet and the best mother in law in the world. Damn tree...

"Excuse me," he said finally, rising to make his way back upstairs again to use the bathroom. He could hide in the bathroom, at least for a little while.

He was gone maybe fifteen minutes when he heard her wander upstairs. She went into the bedroom near the top of the stairs. Quickly he finished his bathroom business and peeking out from behind the door saw that the coast was clear. Stealthily he made his way to the top of the stairs and began to descend. Suddenly, he was in the air, his feet in front of him, no, no, now to the side. The first jolt of the stair against his back was painful, agonizing. He twisted, no righted himself, no, twisted and now he was falling, the stairs rising up to batter him, the stairs lining up to inflict punishment on him as he helplessly fell. Two steps from the bottom, he twisted hard to his left and the stair thrust its way into his neck. He heard the snap and then all was silence.

***

The funeral was tasteful, restrained, elegant and horribly sad. Donna made a beautiful widow, dressed in a tasteful black dress, a delicate veil hiding her exquisitely grieving features. With her mother and father sitting on either side of her, she looked at the man she loved lying in his casket wearing the soft gray suit he had worn on their wedding day. She felt awful about not being able to control her crying, about suddenly bursting into tears. For once in her life, she found she could not completely control herself, could not completely contain what needed to be contained. Poor John, oh, poor, poor John...

The minister entered and spoke some words of comfort. The funeral home director drew near, informing her that they were ready now, ready to go to church and have the service. Donna nodded and then asked if she could have a moment alone with her husband, one last moment alone. The director nodded, he had known John, had, like everyone in town, known the love they had shared. Slowly the mourners filed their way out and Donna stood alone at the casket, touching John's hand and grieving silently.

"Oh, John," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, so sorry. I wish I had been a better wife to you, a better friend. I'm so sorry." She dabbed at her eyes, too overcome to speak. Taking a deep shuttering breath, she paused for a moment. Glancing about, she lowered her head closer to John's perfectly manicured hair and spoke softly into his ear. "Darling, I'm so sorry that I pushed you down the stairs, I swear that I am. Darling, I'm sorry, but the truth is, if I had to spend one more minute with you, I would have killed myself. I'm sorry you died, darling, but you were the most annoying man who ever lived. I hate myself for saying it, but I'm really happy that you're gone..."

### Rage

Not again. The phrase screamed through my mind and the anger filled my soul, NOT AGAIN! Another black man killed, beaten to death, another brother whose spirit and power was lost to the world because they hated the color of his skin. NOT AGAIN!

The Minister stood at the intersection of the broad boulevards that cross through our area of this detestable city, standing at the crossroads of our times on a makeshift platform. Tears were in his eyes and in his voice, his gaunt frame shivering in the light of our anger. We would shout him down if he had told us to forgive, to forget, to make peace with this latest atrocity, but despite his withered look he was not that type of minister, not the fawning, lapdog of the white establishment, not him, not now, not ever.

He stood on the platform as Moses must have stood on the mountainside and hurled his words like tablets down upon us, shattering us with his conviction.

"If this has caused anger in your soul, God has put it there! If this has caused fury in your soul, GOD HAS PUT IT THERE! AN ANGRY MAN CAN CHANGE THE WORLD! AN ANGRY MAN CAN CHANGE THE WORLD!!!!"

Our voices rose in a single roar as we heard the battle cry issue from him, as he rose to the summit of his speech. It was in his summing up, at full crescendo, as he called out over and over again, "NOT AGAIN, NOT AGAIN, NOT AGAIN..." that we found our rally cry. We marched with it streaming above our outstretched voices, our heads turned towards the skies crying vengeance and anger and hatred upon those whom had committed this latest deed.

The police were no match for us, their lines forming and falling back under the assault and we marched forward and through. Our way was lit with our righteous anger and with the cars of the oppressor, with the shining light of justice and the flaming property of those who would deny us. The fire engines arrived and then turned back, the force of our wave washing them away. Our words filled the air and our fists filled the sky, raining down upon those who had been sent to calm the fires or restore the white order.

"There's one," someone yelled. "There's one, one over there!" and we were off, surging in a direction. We were one organism, with eyes on all sides and the body following, blindly obeying the commands of those that saw what we could not, giving gesture to the ideas they voiced.

We surged through a small yard and up the front steps, a wave of humanity breaking the door and flooding into the cleanly kept hallway. I heard the faint cry, the sound of surprise and fear and then the roar around it, the yelling and screaming and anger. I saw the group as they descended upon their prey and I joined them, flailing in my anger, giving vent to my rage.

Then, like a tsunami wave, the flood that had filled the house abated, the wave pulled back, leaving in its wake the destruction and chaos, the broken furniture and windows and me and a body. It was a white man's body, an old white man, whose bald head and fringe of gray hair were crushed and bloody and who lay at the foot of a set of stairs that led to the second floor of the house. I stared at the white man for a long time; he had to have been in his eighties, a shallow reality to the imagined giant of the oppressor we strove to unseat.

I stared at his withered hands, the pronounced bones and dark spots and the way the skin sagged and made hollows between the lifeless fingers that seemed to extend into the palm and up the scrawny arms. I climbed the stairs and saw the destruction, the violence that had been satisfied only when all of the hatred had been released.

I saw the bedroom where he once had slept, a small room filled with books and mementos. There had been a wife, a woman he had grown old with who had died not too long ago if the pictures told the tale accurately. I cared nothing for him or his wife or their life together. What had it to do with me? He was the enemy; he was the killer, not me. His kind killed my kind; we had only returned the favor. He didn't belong in this neighborhood, he didn't belong here; none of them did.

I looked at the walls and the shelves that had been forced down and the books that had been scattered. I recognized the titles, the titles of books I myself had read, enjoyed and learned from. Had he read these books as I have done? Did he understand them as I did, could he have seen the knowledge in them and still consented to what had been done to my people? I picked up one of the books from the floor, a book at random and looked at the well worn pages, the easy movement of the spine as I carelessly flipped the paper. He had read them, he must have; they were all like this, every one of them. He had loved to read, had kept his books close to him, even as I do; he had read them.

The hardness, however, returned. A monkey can read a book, but does it understand? So he read some of the novels I had read, what did it matter? Did it make him black? No, he was still the enemy, still one of those who agreed with the hatred, the unseeing, unfeeling hatred that destroyed my people. They would not listen, but we would make them listen now, they would have to listen now!

I wandered from his bedroom, his room, shuffling out past the door to escape the palpable feeling of his prescience and entered a small room towards the front of the house. It too had been destroyed, every place had, but it showed something more.

Had this been his wife's room, I wondered. There were pictures of family and pictures of friends, of him and of her and of others. They were picnicking and at the beach, they were smiling and peaceful and happy. They were with other white people and even black people, smiling, waving, happy. There had been figurines here and china and dolls, all of them smashed and destroyed now, all of the memories gone, ravished, nothing but junk. But they hadn't been junk, not to him, not to them. They had been living and breathing moments in a life, a life now ended, a life now stopped.

I stepped out of the room, a constriction in my throat as I stared at the picture on the wall. It was eschewed, twisted out of its natural position, but it stared at me, accusingly, angrily. It was him again, him and her again, younger, much younger then and they were dressed up, her in an ivory dress and him in a dark suit and tie and there were friends behind them, dark skinned friends all around them and in the middle of the smiling faces they stood and held a small black child, a baby. She had the baby in her arms and was looking down at him with undisguised love and he had his arms around her, holding her and smiling at the camera, so happy and so proud, standing before the minister, the new godparents to a new black life. They were the only white people in the picture and they looked happier and more at home than I had ever been in my own neighborhood.

Actors, my anger said, actors extending a false promise to our race. They didn't care for that child; they didn't care for my people anymore than we cared for this house or its furnishings or its owners.

Moving back down the stairs I saw another picture, smashed on the floor, grounded into the floor by an unseen hand, crushed and shattered, but still discernable. They were in a park, older now, much older, standing beside a young man, a young, black man and his beautiful bride, his beautiful black bride. The old white people stood on either side of them, their arms holding them, embracing them, their smiles wishing them years of peace and love and happiness and the young black man and the young black woman smiled, smiled back at the camera, smiled back to the truth that lay dormant in my heart.

Perhaps they did not love black people, perhaps they had no use for them, but they had loved this couple, they had wanted the best for this couple, they had hoped and prayed for and loved this couple. Perhaps it was just this one couple, perhaps just these two people of color had been the only ones who had ever touched their hearts, but they had loved them, there was no denying it.

Who was white that I loved? Who was white that I wished happiness and peace too? I examined my hatred; I examined who I was and what I wanted. Did I live the life I wanted others to live?

What of my rage, I asked, what of my rage? Was it wrong to be angry at the death of a brother? Was it wrong to cry out for vengeance when a man was cut down for the color of his skin? Anger could be righteous, anger could be indignant; anger could be a force, a fuel for change. An angry man could change the world, but only a loving one could cure it.

I sat down on the bottom step and stared out into the street, I smelled the smoke and heard the sirens, I heard the screams and shots, I saw the confusion of the people running and saw the anger and the hurt. I looked down at the old man, at his blood clotting on the floor, at a body that had contained a spirit that had once loved and now was gone.

Looking out into the street, I finally understood; this was hell and because of that, the old man had to die. I understood there is neither love in hell nor even the memory of it; it is just anger and chaos and hate.

### So Glad That You Are Here

Carter Jeffers stared at the tent flap as it swayed ever so slightly in the gentle breeze of the hot July sun. The battle had been hard fought, vicious and unrelenting and now, the enemy had withdrawn, leaving the victors the field. Carter had been wounded on the second day, but had not sought medical treatment until the third and the pain in his arm had only gotten worse.

"We'll try to save it, Captain Jeffers," promised the surgeon. "The next few hours will tell if we will have to amputate."

"Better men than I have suffered amputations for the cause," replied Jeffers.

The surgeon merely smiled and handed the Captain the bottle of rum that he held in his hand.

"Either way, best to drink some of this," he replied. "Rest and quiet are what you need now, Captain, rest and quiet."

After consuming most of the bottle, Jeffers had fallen into a sound sleep, something that the battle and the steaming hot weather had previously prevented. He dreamed of the Confederate Army's desperate attack on the final day, thousands of men thrown against the Union middle. He and his men had been just to the left of the clump of trees that they had been marching towards. He winced, watching men being blown to pieces by cannon balls and canister, watching through the smoke and the haze and the pain he was in. He would not leave his men, not in that hour. As much as it hurt now, it had been worth it to see that terrible, wonderful sight. No one who had seen it would ever forget it, no one who had not been there could ever know the horrible glory of that day, of that hour of fighting.

He awoke with a start and stared again at the tent flap, moving ever so slightly in the breeze. It had to be at least one hundred degrees, maybe more. At least in the shade of his own tent, if he didn't move, he could breathe a little. In his cloth sanctuary he could keep his coat and shirt off, their absence providing at least some relief from the heat. He heard the men outside, his brave boys, milling about the camp talking in hushed tones. They were trying to be quiet so that he could rest, God bless them, God bless them all. They had acquitted themselves like true warriors, each and every man. When he was well enough to write, he would send a letter to the colonel request a commendation for each of his men. They had fought bravely and many had died bravely, good soldiers and good men.

He nodded again in the stifling heat. The men must be so hot outside; he would tell them to take it easy as soon as he awoke. He would tell them all not to work so hard, they had worked hard already, harder than they had ever worked before. No battle had ever been as bad as this one, no fighting as desperate. He slept. How long he slept he had no idea, could not fathom how long it was, but when he awoke it was a little cooler. The tent flap was pulled back slightly and a breeze, a merciful breeze wafted into his tent, its coolness touching him to his very core. He laid day dreaming, staring at the light just behind the tent flap and enjoying the cool cloth that bathed his forehead.

Cool cloth? He started and looked at the hand, the delicate, lovely hand that held the cloth. His eyes traveled up the arm and to the face, the beautiful heart shaped face that looked back at him in surprise. The dark, loving eyes, the shining dark hair, the perfect lips, the eyebrows arched playfully.

"Awake at last I see," she smiled, her voice gentle and soft and musical.

"Kate," he breathed, staring in amazement. "Kate, my God, is it really you?"

She smiled as she straightened he plain blue dress, "Well I like that, I certainly do. I come all this way to see you and you doubt I'm even here."

He sat up and stared at her, unable to believe his eyes.

"The colonel sent me a note saying that you had been injured and that it might be of some assistance to you if I were able to come and attend you..."

Standing, he swept her into his arms and kissed her. Breaking the kiss, he held her close, inhaling the beauty of the fragrance of her hair.

"Oh my darling, it's like a dream," he whispered. "How did you get here so quickly?"

"You have been resting, my love," she said gently, her dark eyes staring up at him adoringly. "You've been asleep for several days. The doctor said the infection would run its course and now that it has, you're awake again, but you mustn't try to do too much..."

Carter felt the bandage on his arm, "I'm alright, darling, I feel so much better..."

"You've had an excellent nurse, that's why," she smiled.

"I'd like to sit outside for a bit," he said softly. "I haven't been out of this tent..."

"Do you think it is wise, darling? You've just begun to feel better."

He smiled, a mischievous grin, "I want to show you off to the others. I want them to see the girl I'm going to marry."

She smiled shyly, "Well, I suppose if you don't get excited, it will be all right."

Sliding his arm around her, he led her to the tent flap and out into the open air. The camp was alive with activity, his men working at various tasks, preparing food, policing the area and caring for the camp in a normal manner. He looked out over what had been the battle field and saw sun shining on the recently ruined grass, the men working out in the field, burying their comrades and foes amidst the splendid sunshine. To Carter's surprise, though the sun was bright, the temperature was cool and the breeze crisp and clear. Taking Kate by the hand, he led her to a group of his men who sat outside his tent, cooking something above the campfire.

One of the men saw him coming and snapped to attention, the others following suit.

"At ease men, at ease," he said happily. "I want to introduce you to my fiancée, Miss Kate Netters of Philadelphia. Kate, may I present some of the members of the finest regiment in the entire Northern Army." The men smiled at the compliment, bowing to Kate. "This is Sergeant Edward Matthews..."

"A great pleasure, miss..."

"And Corporal David Evans..."

"A pleasure, miss..."

"And privates Shelby Waters and Clark Anderson."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss," stated Waters. "The Captain speaks of you very highly..."

"And very often," teased Sergeant Matthews.

"It is a pleasure to meet all of you," replied Kate. "Thank you for taking such good care of my fiancé. I've heard that he can be a bit reckless..."

"No finer officer in the whole army, miss," interrupted Evans. "We'd follow the Captain to the gates of...well; we'd follow the Captain anywhere."

The others laughed.

"If you gentlemen will excuse us," replied Carter, "I think I feel up to a little stroll about the camp."

"You mustn't over tax yourself, darling," warned Kate.

"With you by my side, I have the strength of ten men," laughed Carter. Returning the men's salutes, he moved steadily through the camp with Kate on his arm, pointing out some of the areas where the fighting had been the worse and introducing her to several officers along the way.

They found themselves standing upon a ridge overlooking the entire battlefield. Carter stared out over the horizon, at the scarred land and smoke that still smoldered in some places, the late afternoon breeze feathering it across the fields, thinning it, clearing it. The burial details moved slowly from place to place, digging trenches and removing bodies, swollen, twisted corpses.

He turned to see Kate, her handkerchief pressed to her eyes.

"What is it my darling?"

"So much death, my love, so much death..." She shook her head and dabbed at her eyes, "So many brave men, killed and wounded. I've seen the ambulance trains in Philadelphia, the long lines of the wounded and dying. Oh, Carter, my love, when will it be over?"

"Soon, my love, soon," he stated, holding her tightly and looking out over the shattered landscape. "It was a terrible fight, something I hope you never see or know about, but I think we broke them this time. I think we took the heart out of them, though they have a lot of heart. I know they're the enemy, but you have to admire their fighting ability. All of them, all of them on both sides, they all died like men. Right or wrong, no one can take that away from them."

He looked out over the field with her for a long time until the light began to fade. Without a word, he led her towards the tent.

***

Colonel Phillip Stanton sat on a log in front of his tent, reviewing the lists of dead and wounded with a frown. He was older than most of the men here, his hair tinged at the temples with gray, his mustache speckled gray and black. His dark eyes were weary, peering over his hawk like nose at the lists. He groaned at the length of the dead list, so many good men, so many brave officers.

His adjunct, Lieutenant Stevens, a slim, pale man/boy of twenty approached and saluted sharply. Stevens might look like a youngster, but he had fought with the best of them and had bravely communicated the Colonel's orders under heavy fire. Stanton looked up at him expectantly, returning his salute.

"We're ready sir," he said softly.

Stanton nodded. "All has been prepared?"

"As you requested, sir," replied Stevens softly. To his surprise, the older man closed his eyes and dropped his head to his chest, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Are you all right, sir?"

Stanton rose and buttoned his tunic to his neck. Removing his handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

"I'm responsible, Stevens, it is my fault."

"Begging the Colonel's pardon," replied Stevens, "I disagree. It was an accident, sir. If I might say so, sir, we've come to expect them in our line of work; we've forgotten that they happen in the outside world, the world we've left behind."

The Colonel nodded, Steven's words bringing him no comfort.

"I sent for her, Stevens. I thought it might be a comfort to a dying officer..."

"Begging your pardon, sir," he countered, "It was a noble sentiment, but Captain Jeffers died before she would have arrived. It might be better this way, sir..."

"Better?" snapped the Colonel, his eyes glaring at Stevens.

"Perhaps that's the wrong word, sir," replied Stevens, struggling to find the right one. "I just mean, sir, that they were to be married and he had died..." he shrugged futilely, "the fact that her carriage overturned and she was killed, well, maybe they were meant to be together, sir, never to be parted again."

The Colonel nodded at the justice of the statement.

"Perhaps," he whispered, feeling the weight of it on his soul.

"Her parents consented to them being buried together," replied Stevens. "I think they think so as well, sir."

"The others, Sergeant Matthews, Evans, Waters and Anderson..."

"They'll be buried next to the captain and Miss Netters, sir."

The Colonel nodded and stared at the fading light, cursing himself for having ever sent the letter. Picking his hat up from the log, he slapped it on his thigh and then carefully placed it upon his head.

"Come, Stevens," he whispered. "We're keeping the chaplain waiting."

Slowly the two men walked down the hill, ready to bear witness to the burial of Captain Jeffers and his fiancée Kate.

### The Champion

"I am NOT picking up my own luggage, Kasandra, no way, no how! Do these people know who I am? I'm the champion, the one and only TRUE CHAMPION! I won this damn show three times, count'em, THREE FRIGGIN' TIMES! No one is gonna take my crown, NO ONE! If we are not on camera, I don't do shit, do you understand?"

Kasandra Allen put her best fake smile into place and spoke gently, yet firmly.

"Della, dear, I know your track record, we all do, it's why we invited you back to play "Last One Standing Celebrity Edition", but you have to understand that things are different this time. This time, because it's "Celebrity Edition" we can't have anyone acting like a celebrity. People will think the show is fixed, that it's phony..."

"Phony my ass," snapped Della, maneuvering through the airport like a tractor trailer through rush hour traffic. "Did you ever eat a roach, Kasandra? Did you? Well I did, in front of seventeen million people. They know if I'm involved, it's real! I am the real deal, the champion of champions, do you understand?"

"Yes, but we can't show any of you favored treatment," replied Kasandra. "Think of it this way; you have street cred we all know that, but someone like say, Eddie Dunkirk..."

"Is that asshole gonna be on this thing?" snapped Della, her dark eyes bursting from their sockets. "Oh no, oh no, I had approval, it's in my contract..."

"No, no, he's not a contestant," replied Kasandra, remembering the season two winner wistfully, such a gentleman, "I'm just saying, say someone like that were on the show, people are going to think that us carrying your luggage makes you less credible. You must carry your own luggage, I'm sorry, but try to see our point of view. In reality, we're protecting your image."

"You tell those bastards that if I carry my own luggage, I want five thousand more."

Kasandra blanched, "Della, I can't ask the producers..."

"Don't ask," replied Della, her eyes blazing, "I said tell. Tell those bastards to get me my money by the time we land or Della is on the next flight back to the mainland."

Kasandra nodded as Della streamed passed the startled ticket agent. Removing the ticket from her pocket, Kasandra handed it to the agent and smiled, "She's a bit anxious. She's playing "Last One Standing" and..."

"That WAS Della," replied the ticket agent. "I thought so! Oh boy, I can't believe it! This should be a good one if she's going to be on it. She's such an obnoxious bitch!" The ticket agent lowered her voice conspiratorially, "Tell me, is that all just a put on or is she really..."

"We clean it up for television," interrupted Kasandra. "The woman is Satan himself."

The agent smiled as she handed back the boarding pass.

"Well, good luck to you."

Kasandra smiled for the first time that day, "I'm not going. I just had to get her to the airport, so I guess its good luck to you."

The agent laughed, "I'm the agent, I'm not going on this flight, so I guess it has been good luck for both of us!"

The two laughed, glad to have dodged THAT bullet.

***

"I specifically asked for lemon, not lime," snapped Della. "I thought you guys were the "Best in Show in the Air", best in nothing if you ask me. Can't even get a friggin' drink order correct..."

"I'm sorry for the mistake, miss," replied the stewardess through clenched teeth. "You might have noticed that we are a bit shorthanded today..."

"I don't give a shit if you're shorthanded," snapped Della. "Work harder. If you're short people, then push harder; don't give me no damn excuses! You think I became a three time champion on excuses?"

The stewardess retrieved Della's drink and retreated to the drinks station.

"Bumpiest damn flight I've ever been on," bitched Della to no one in particular. "They need to get some pilots that know what the hell they're doing. It's like being in a cement mixer on this damn flight."

Returning with the drink, the stewardess smiled, "I hope you enjoy your drink."

"Yeah, kiss my ass. I'd have enjoyed it if it had been done right the first time."

The plane shook violently and seemed to lurch to the left and then steady again. The stewardess was barely able to keep from falling, just grabbing the overhead compartment in time to save her from landing in the lap of the man on the other side of the aisle.

"What the hell is wrong with the idiots flying this plane?" snapped Della. "Where did they get their pilot's license, correspondence school?"

Four drinks and a hundred rude remarks later, Della leaned back and fell fast asleep completely missing the increased violence of the plane ride.

***

The plane landed with a bump that jolted Della out of her sleep. Rubbing her eyes, she looked about her and saw some of the passengers preparing to disembark. Others seemed to be waiting for the next leg of the flight to commence. Picking up her own luggage, she strolled towards the door of the plane, cutting off other passengers and complaining loudly about the flight. Upon reaching the door, she found the flight attendant standing there, smiling at her pleasantly.

"This airline is the worse airline I've ever flown with," snapped Della.

"I hope you won't be joining us again," smiled the stewardess. "In fact, I can safely say, you won't be. Good luck!"

Della looked at the woman as if she had lost her mind.

"I'll be speaking to your boss," she snarled.

"Somehow, I doubt that," replied the stewardess dreamily, "but I'm looking forward to seeing him myself."

"Oh don't doubt it bitch," replied Della, "don't doubt it for one damn minute."

Della stormed off the plane and down the narrow staircase that led to the tarmac below. With her luggage over her shoulder, she saw a young man with tattoos on his arms waiting for her.

"Della, right?" he asked in a high, nasal twang. "This way."

"Wait a minute," snapped Della, "I told the producers..."

"Yeah, I know," replied the young man with the tattoos. "You want your money, get in the car, did you think they were really going to send it with me to the airport?"

Della considered it, "Fine."

Snatching up her luggage she stormed towards the taxi that sat just beyond the runway. The car was an older model Chevrolet, painted bright yellow, the words TAXI hastily painted on the door. Slamming her bags into the back seat, Della slid in next to them as the young man with the tattoos took his place behind the wheel.

"Hot day," he remarked, sarcastically, "but then again, they're all hot here."

"I've felt hotter," lied Della. "When I was on the fourth season, the temperature reached one hundred and fifteen degrees. When you're a champion you can't let the weather get you down."

"It will get hotter than that here," smiled the young man. "There are times the seats burn your skin and touching anything metal burns you as if you had touched a stove..."

"I can handle the heat," snapped Della. "I just hope those other assholes can handle me. People always ask me, "Is it boring to dominate every time you play?" and I tell them no, but it does. I hate having no competition, you call these losers you dragged up competition?"

The young man smiled but said nothing. In minutes they were pulling into the parking lot where a large crew of people stood, apparently waiting for them to arrive. The young man pulled the car towards an area where a beautiful young woman stood in a bikini. Parking the car next to the woman, he stepped out of the cab and called out to her.

"I got her, do you want her here?"

The young girl smiled, "You can leave her here. We need to start to prep her for what's to come."

The young man shrugged and leaned back into the cab, "You can get out here. Follow that woman; she'll lead you to where you have to go."

Della was about to protest when she saw the young woman turn and head away from them. Grabbing her luggage, she burst out of the car door and began following the woman with rapid steps.

"Hey, hey, HEY," she yelled, finally stopping the girl's progress with her final call. "I said I'd carry my luggage to the car, I ain't carrying it all the way to the damn show!'

The young girl turned and sauntered back towards her, her beautiful features descending into an angry pout.

"I don't care what you do with your damn luggage. I don't care if you follow me and I sure as hell don't care about your damn show! You want to follow, follow, if you don't, I don't care, they'll know I did what I was supposed to do, that's the only important thing."

"Bitch, do you know who I am?" screeched Della.

The girl turned and sauntered away in the direction she had begun. Della picked up her bags and followed, cursing and screaming at the back of the girl's head. It seemed like they had walked ten miles by the time the girl stopped near the door of a large building.

"Wait here, they'll be with you shortly," she stated, muttering to herself as she walked back in the direction in which they had just come.

"CRAZY BITCH!" yelled Della, "I'M GONNA GET YOU FIRED, CRAZY BITCH! WAIT TILL I TALK TO THESE BASTARDS! YOUR SKINNY ASS WON'T BE ABLE TO GET A JOB MODELING SOUP NEVER MIND ANYTHING ELSE ONCE I'M DONE WITH YOU!"

Turning back to her bags, she saw an enormous, sweaty man staring at her, his jowly face dripping sweat, his pale white skin contrasted against his dark hair giving him a sickly, disgusting appearance. He wore a bright, Hawaiian shirt and a pair of shorts and he stared at her with undisguised anger.

"You were supposed to be here hours ago," he raged. "We've been waiting for you to get here and you show up now? Get your crap and let's get a move on!"

"WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TOO?" screamed Della. "I HOPE YOU AND THAT CRAZY BITCH LIKE THE UNEMPLOYMENT LINE BECAUSE YOU'RE GOING TO BE SPENDING THE REST OF YOUR LIVES ON IT!"

A cultured voice behind her spoke in a soothing tone, "Edward, Edward, Edward, how many times have I told you, you aren't supposed to speak to our guests. Go away you disgusting, fat shit."

Turning, Della saw the most handsome man she thought she had ever seen in her life. He was tall with broad shoulders and dark like creamy chocolate and his face was so perfectly handsome that she was stunned. He moved towards her with the flawless smoothness of a professional dancer, his impeccably suit flowing with the fluid motion of his flawless body.

He eyed her with the calmest brown eyes she had ever seen.

"Edward is a disgusting shit," he stated apologetically. "If you would please follow me, the others are already assembled and we would like to begin filming."

"I thought we were beginning tomorrow," stated Della with some alarm. "I haven't even gotten to the hotel to freshen up. I thought we'd be taking publicity photos..."

"No dear," smiled the handsome man. "I'm afraid things are going to be much different this time. You must adjust if you're going to survive. Now you can leave the bags here, you won't be needing them..."

"Who's going to pick them up?" asked Della.

The man looked at her, not comprehending, "You won't be needing them. Come now."

Turning, he began to walk away and it struck Della, this is part of what he meant by different. They were playing head games with her. Throwing her bags down, she fell into step behind him. This whole thing was a mind game, but Della was the Queen of Mind Games, they weren't going to throw her with this nonsense. They walked for what seemed to be a mile before they reached a weird landscape. They had been walking on hot asphalt along a desolate stretch of road and now, turning towards a ridge, they suddenly had emerged through a pass to a desert setting. A group of people stood in a circle, some familiar, some not to Della.

The handsome man spoke, his voice beautiful and calming.

"The last is finally here and now we can begin. I am sure you all know Della and if you don't, well, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. Now, I want you all to strip to your underwear, quickly, we don't have much time."

"But I'm not wearing any underwear," protested a woman in her forties with long blonde hair and large, fake breasts.

"That, as they say, is your problem," replied the handsome man. "Come now, all of you, off with it, off with it!"

The others began to comply, so Della quickly removed her top and pants, the feeling of heat on her skin unpleasant. She had run around in the sun in skimpy outfits before, but she never felt the sun burn into her like this. She could see the others were having difficulty with their increased vulnerability. The handsome man moved to the now nude woman, who tried to cover herself by the strategic placement of her hands.

"Really dear," he smiled. "You're a whore; everyone knows it, why are you trying to disguise the fact now? Drop the false modesty, dear, and get in line."

The woman looked down at her feet and dropped her hands to her sides, lining up with the others as Della watched them.

Turning, the handsome man stared at Della for a moment, "Are you waiting for a special invitation Della?"

She could not believe the way he had spoken to the other contestant and decided to fall into line, but to speak to the producers afterwards regarding his actions. Handsome or not, he needed to know his place.

"You're all here to compete," began the handsome man, "all of you in the hopes of obtaining different rewards. Most of you know the reward you will be granted if you succeed and the ones who do not will become familiar with their rewards in due time."

"The rules for the game are simple. We don't care if you cheat, we don't care if you injure your opponent, we don't care, period. Victory at all costs, that's the motto. If you want to be crowned champion, victory at all costs. Now you see before you a desert, your first test is to run through it as far and for as long as you can. On your mark, get set, go!"

Della was momentarily startled by the suddenness of the task but quickly sprinted out towards the group that had taken the lead and ran hard. She must have run almost a mile when she began to force herself to focus and to think of the mechanics of the situation. Running was about being consistent and enduring the pain, she advised herself and she strove to make her stride and breathing consistent while her skin fried in the sun and her legs begged for rest.

The others in the group surprised her; they were pushing harder and harder even as she watched many of their bodies fail. One man in particular fascinated her. He had to be about sixty years old and seemed to be a person who had never exercised in his life, yet here he was, forcing himself to run with a group of people substantially younger than himself, wringing with sweat, his face a flaming red color.

She watched as he continued pushing himself to keep up even as his breath and his body failed him. He was running like a man possessed until finally, his body pushed beyond its limit, he began to bleed through his nose and then to cough up blood. Finally he collapsed, landing face first on the sand, choking and gasping. Della looked about for medics to assist him, but there was no one in sight. No one in the group either stopped to offer assistance or slowed, each one continuing to run as if their lives depended upon it.

For Della, the matter was not disturbing. The old man shouldn't have gotten involved in this in the first place and now he was paying the consequences for his stupidity, it was that plain and simple. Champions did not have pity, champions had focus. One down, thirty eight to go!

***

It had been a grueling week. The producers must have lost their minds, Della decided, it was beyond brutal and the worse it got, the more she found herself enjoying it. She was used to being tortured and starved and pushed to the limit, but this was something on an entirely different level. This was brutality for brutality's sake. Whoever the producers were, they had not lied; they did not care.

She had been behind in one of the races over an obstacle course when she got within a few feet of the man who would win. Reaching out, she was able to push him just enough to make him fall and then crossed the finish line first. She waited to hear complaints from the other contestant and when he crossed the line he screamed bloody murder, but the handsome man merely dismissed him and congratulated Della.

She had become enamored of the handsome man, his words driving her harder than she had ever gone before, "Winning is everything, it is worth everything, the only thing that matters is winning, who will be our ultimate champion!" Della had the answer; Della would be the ultimate champion!

The second of the group to be eliminated had been the nude blonde. The test had been to jump over a pit of lions. Della had made it easily enough, but the blonde had been encumbered in her flight by her age and top heavy physique. She fell just short of the other side and as she clung to the wall, the lions badly mangled her legs. Finally she had pulled herself up onto the burning sand but no one had helped her and no medics attended her.

There had been other casualties, bodies mangled, twisted and broken. Della had been cut and bruised, had suffered cramps, dehydration and pain, but she kept forcing herself forward. The others played the game as if their lives depended upon it and if she were Della, she might have given them their due as contestants, admired their determination, but no, she had no sympathy or respect for any of them. They were garbage, everyone she met was garbage, there was only one winner and that was Della.

Della's main nemesis was a young white woman named Tracy. She was athletic and arrogant and as determined as anyone to win. Like Della, she had pushed and shoved her way through various events, tripping and attacking less skilled adversaries. It had become apparent that she and Della were in a different league than the others and they hated one another. The handsome man always kept them in separate groups as they competed, but no one doubted that either of them would do anything to eliminate the other.

Della sat, exhausted beneath a withered tree that offered no shade from the constant, burning sun. The handsome man sauntered up and smiled. She met his gaze with rolling eyes. As handsome as she found him, his prescience had grown repulsive; the constant demands he voiced making him an unwelcome guest.

"We're almost at the end," he smiled. "Today is the day the champion will be chosen."

Della forced herself to her feet, screwing up her enthusiasm.

"Della is always ready for the ultimate challenge!"

He smiled, "I know, my dear, I know. Today's test is worthy of your drive, your, shall we say, enthusiasm. Come with me."

Della followed him to a place she had never seen before. Even though it was a short distance from the camp, it was a completely different landscape. Trees strangled by vines grew around them offering weird and grotesque configurations. The trees wore their broken branches like the outstretched arms of a starving child; they nipped at your skin and scraped your flesh. Della noted that the dead trees offered no respite from the heat, no shade from the blazing sun. Passing the grove of trees, the remaining members of the group stood around a large, square pool.

Gesturing Della to a place near the pool's edge directly opposite of Tracy, the handsome man spoke, "You will note that the pool around which you stand is six feet deep. At the bottom are clear rings which you cannot detect unless you are less than two feet from them. Your task is to dive into the pool and bring up as many rings as possible."

"Seems easy enough," stated one of the men.

The handsome man smiled, "I'm not finished. With each minute that passes, another foot of depth will be added to the pool, so if you go down at six feet and spend a minute at the bottom collecting rings, you will have to swim up seven feet in order to bring them to the surface and then swim down eight feet to continue looking. You will have fifteen minutes to collect rings. Ready, set, go!"

Della dove into the water and headed straight for the bottom, halfway there before she realized that the water that surrounded her was uncomfortably hot. It was as if it were being heated towards a boil, not quite there yet, but hotter than one would take a bath in and she almost headed for the surface to cry out in pain...almost.

Della prided herself on her ability to handle pain and she continued to dive. Immediately she saw the rings, hundreds of them about the size of a woman's wrist bangle decorating the bottom of the pool. She grabbed as many as she could, grasping and clutching them to her until she felt as if her lungs would explode. Pushing off the bottom she rocketed upward, higher and higher, but the surface of the water seemed to elude her. She began pumping her legs, desperate for air when she finally broke the surface and swam to the side, depositing her rings on the edge of the pool with the young man with the tattoos, her cab driver, who took them to count.

Taking a deep breath, she plunged back downwards towards the bottom of the pool. It seemed to take a long time before she reached it and she instantly began to stuff the rings onto her arms and down the remains of her bra. Fearful she would not have enough air to reach the top, she headed back up, bumping into another contestant as she forced herself towards the surface.

Time and again Della dove to the bottom, stuffing rings into her arms and then rocketing to the surface to deposit them with the young man with the tattoos. As she broke the surface yet again, the handsome man called out, "One minute! There is one minute left!"

Della threw the rings at the young man and dove, driving herself harder than she had ever driven herself before. This could be the deciding factor. Grabbing as many rings as she could possibly hold, she struggled upwards, seeking the surface. Just above her and to her right was Tracy. The girl was holding a large number of rings, but from her desperate motions, Della could tell that she was struggling to get to the surface before she ran out of air. A look of panic permeated the girl's face as she kicked to reach the surface and take in some precious air. Della could see the surface, had enough air to make it, but did she have enough rings?

Glancing about her, Della could see that no one else was left in the pool, no one would see. Reaching up, she grabbed Tracy's leg, stopping her upward progress. The girl struggled, desperate to reach the surface, but Della held her leg tightly, denying her any upward motion. At last, the girl stopped struggling, her arms slowly releasing the rings she held, her body going limp and floating weightlessly at the end of Della's hand. Kicking passed her, Della smiled at the wide eyes, staring at her in uncomprehending astonishment as she swam upwards, breaking the surface. Swimming to the side of the pool, she tossed the rings she held at the tattooed man and hauled herself out of the pool.

The others sat gasping around the pool, staring at the body that floated facedown at the surface. The handsome man looked ruefully at Della as the tattooed man presented him with the tally. Breaking into a wide smile as he looked at the paper, he nodded sagely.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have our ultimate champion!" Crossing to Della, he raised her hand.

Della screamed with joy, dropping to her knees and crying out, "I knew I could do it. I never doubted for a moment that I would do it!"

The handsome man looked at the others and smiled, "The rest of you have failed. You will be dealt with shortly."

Filing in behind the tattooed man, the others silently walked off, too tired or too angry to say anything.

The handsome man watched them leave with a resigned air.

"I wish we had been able to supply you with better competition, my dear, but we can only do so much. Please, come with me."

Della followed him, crying with joy, as he moved through the dead forest again to what appeared to be an audience chamber. On a dais at the far end of the chamber stood a regal looking chair and next to the chair a table upon which sat a beautiful, intricately woven, golden crown. Della followed him to the dais and at his gesture, took her seat in the chair.

"Della, you have become a champion," he began with a smile. "Correction, not A champion, OUR champion. Never before have we seen your drive, your enthusiasm, your hatred. It is most refreshing. I had my doubts, I must admit, about you living up to your reputation..."

"Oh yes," yelled Della for the cameras she could not see. "Oh yes, Della NEVER fails, NEVER!"

"You have lived up to your reputation," smiled the handsome man. "When you drowned your opponent to win, that just verified everything we already knew about you. You are our kind of champion, Della. You understand that life is meaningless, that other people are garbage and are only here to be stepped on. You, Della, understand life the way it is supposed to be understood, the way we understand it HERE."

Della swiped at her tears of joy. Looking at the handsome man, she dropped her arms onto the armrests of the chair and smiled for the cameras before asking, "Where's my prize?"

Wrist and ankle restraints flew forth from the arms and legs of the chair and bound Della fast to the seat upon which she sat.

As Della struggled, the handsome man picked up the crown and smiled, "You are a champion, Della and it is my honor to give you your prize. I am honored to crown you." Raising the crown high above his head he called out proudly, "To hell's champion, Della!"

"What shit are you talking about?" snapped Della.

The handsome man took a step closer, "Unfortunately, you were asleep when your plane went down. All aboard were killed, a great loss for television viewers everywhere, but a great gain for us. Allow me to crown you, Della, our champion."

With that, the handsome man thrust the crown down onto Della's head, its sharpened edge slicing into her scalp, cutting into the bone of her skull. As she screamed out in agony, the handsome man twisted the crown deeper into her skull and then produced four bolts from the pocket of his beautifully tailored suit. Choosing four points in the intricate design, one above each ear, on in the back of the head and one in her forehead, he pressed the bolts through the crown and into her skull, locking it onto her head. Della screamed in pain, blood running from her head down over her face and neck, drenching her.

"No one will ever take your crown, isn't that what you wanted?" asked the handsome man. "But just to prove that we are people of our word here in hell, I've arranged that every soul that comes here must try to take it from you, but I promise you, they won't be able to do so. Still, you can't blame them for trying, can you? Come in, everyone!"

A line of people began to file into the audience chamber as the handsome man gestured them towards Della, who screeched in agony, writhing in her chair. Leading the group was Tracy, her eyes filled with hatred. Gaining the place behind Della's throne, she grabbed onto the crown and pulled upwards with all of her might. Della screamed, begging her to stop, but she merely let go and made room for the next soul to try its luck. Each one in turn stepped forward and grasping tightly, pulled with all of their might on the crown, causing Della indescribable pain but the crown, fused to her skull, and did not budge no matter how hard they pulled.

The handsome man smiled as he began to leave the chamber. Calling out over his shoulder, he cheerfully acknowledged, "Congratulation, my dear, you need never worry, you will be a champion forever."

### The Concert

"No, no, NO, just the damn luggage," snapped Ronald, snuggling the violin case against his chest and glaring at the taxi driver. "This comes with me."

As the driver struggled with his suitcases, Ronald threw himself in the back seat of the cab and checked his watch, eleven thirty, good God he would never make it for lunch.

"Could you hurry it up please," he snapped unpleasantly as the cab driver took his place behind the wheel.

"Where are you headed?" asked the cab driver.

"Le Bernardin on fifty first between sixth and seventh," replied Ronald. "I'm going to be late if you don't hurry."

"I'll do my best," replied the cab driver, heading away from the curb and out of Kennedy Airport.

Ronald sat back and ran his long, thin fingers through his shoulder length brown hair. He was a handsome man, tall, thin, elegant with a sculpted face hidden beneath a three day growth of beard. He had to get to this lunch; one did not stand up Charles Seegan and his wife. The Seegan's were extremely influential in the world of classical music and while Ronald was an acknowledged star, with their backing, he could become a superstar.

"Can't this thing go any faster?" he whined as the cabby forced the car onto the Belt Parkway towards Manhattan.

"Any faster and we'd be air born," replied the cabby. Staring in the rearview mirror a moment, he broke out into a large grin, "Hey, you're Ronald Sinclair, oh my God, the famous violinist."

"Could we talk less and drive more," snapped Ronald.

"Mister Sinclair, I'm sorry to bother you, but my daughter is a huge fan of yours, she thinks you're the most amazing musician in the world..."

"I don't do autographs," replied Ronald. "I'm not going to waste my hand strength on clutching pens and signing my name for the huddled masses. Tell your daughter to purchase one of my albums..."

"You don't understand," replied the cabby. "You see, my girl, she's sick..."

"I'm sorry your child is sick, but I need to get to Manhattan now! I don't feel like talking, all I want from you is to drive me as quickly as you can to my destination and I don't want to discuss your tragic life, are we clear?"

The cabby eyed him with distain, "Fine, Mister Sinclair, fine."

People were always bothering him with their problems, thought Ronald. Oh, couldn't you play The Merry Widow Waltz, my sick sister in Iowa loves that song and she's here with me in spirit blah, blah, blah. He was an artist, not a sideshow attraction. He spent years perfecting his technique, studying, working, working his ass off and now every yahoo who owned a television and saw him on a PBS special thought they had a right to try his patience.

Noel would be waiting for him to ask him about how the lunch went when he got home. Oh God, he had to break it off with Noel. She was attractive and fun and supportive, but he agreed with his publicist, it would get out sooner or later that he was living with someone and it could endanger his image. Woman like the fantasy, he'd learned that, even with Noel. Once they lost the fantasy, he would need to depend upon their knowledge of music to understand him and he doubted there were ten women alive who could tell the difference between a violin and a banjo.

Yes, Noel would have to go, but how, how would he do it? He would have to be a gentleman about it, he'd let her keep the apartment, still, he hated to move. He was a busy man and he did not have the time to go apartment hunting. Perhaps Ellen could handle that for him. She was a decent assistant, but she had a big mouth, she'd tell Noel he was looking for a place and then there would be a blow up. No, he'd have to entrust that to someone else, someone who knew his likes and dislikes but could keep a secret. Maybe Francis could help, after all he was his brother and he should do something for all of the money he borrowed. Noel hated him so he was safe on that score, but...no, Francis wouldn't do. Francis would have him living at some expensive place with no sense of style. All Francis understood was expensive, he would not know class if it crawled up and bit him on the ass.

The cab suddenly drew to a sharp halt.

"We're here," announced the cab driver flatly, "its fifty dollars."

As Ronald dug into his pants pockets for his wallet, the cab driver stepped out of the car and unlocked the trunk. He had the three bags out of the trunk and on the sidewalk by the time Ronald had exited the car and handed him a fifty dollar bill. As Ronald looked for assistance with his bags, the cabby returned to the car, barely able to repress the curse on his lips. In a moment he was gone.

***

It was about half way through lunch that Ronald suddenly realized that something was horribly wrong. As the blood drained from his face, Charles Seegan examined him with a practiced eye. Charles was a tall, thin man, about seventy years of age, with a bristling white mustache and thin silver hair, strategically combed about his head. His nose was so large and his torso so short that from a distance he appeared to be nothing but legs and nose. Staring at Ronald, Charles wanted to form a question, but as always, deferred to his wife in the matter.

Alecia Seegan was a beautiful woman of about twenty eight years of age. The daughter of one of her husband's good friends, she had married him ten months after the death of his first wife some three years ago. Cultured, intelligent and with a true love of the finer things in life, Alecia guided Charles through life during the day and discreetly committed adultery against him during the night. She was entranced with Ronald Sinclair and had been hoping to make him her latest conquest when she noted the horrified look on his face.

"Ronald, what is it?" she asked.

"My violin," he yelped. "I left my violin in that cab! My violin!"

In a moment the entire restaurant was in an uproar. The head waiter immediately began phoning taxi cab companies throughout the city. Ronald alternated between bravado and hysteria. Charles ordered him a drink while Alecia drew his head down to her breast and comforted him. Finally he remembered the name of the cab company and the manager called at once to ascertain if the violin had been found.

"They will call as soon as they know anything, Mister Sinclair," he promised.

"My violin," moaned Ronald, "oh God, my violin."

"Charles, get Ronald another drink," pouted Alecia, stroking Ronald's hair and rubbing his ankle discreetly with her foot. "There, there. There, there, poor boy..."

***

"I don't understand," stated Ronald.

"He doesn't work for us," replied the man on the phone. "We only dispatch him, he owns his own cab. He said if you wanted to speak to him to give you his number, but that's all he said."

"Then give me his number," snapped Ronald, motioning the manager for a pen and paper. Taking down the number, he called and heard the cab driver's familiar voice answer the phone.

"Hi, are you the cabby who drove me this morning?" asked Ronald with no preamble.

"I have no idea," replied the voice. "I drive a lot of people. What's your name?"

"I'm Ronald Sinclair; I believe I left my violin in your car."

"You might have, Mister Sinclair, I couldn't say," replied the cabby.

"You don't know if it's in the back seat?" asked Ronald.

"I didn't say that," replied the cabby, "I said I couldn't say."

Ronald took a deep breath, "I will be more than happy to pay you a reward..."

"Oh, I knew you would, you being such a big tipper and all," replied the cabby.

Ronald smiled at the Seegans and lowered his voice, "What is it you want?"

"Nothing, Mister Sinclair," replied the cabby. "You want your violin, then come and get it."

"Couldn't you bring it here?" asked Ronald.

"I deliver people, not packages," replied the cabbie. "Get a pen and paper; I'll give you my address."

Ronald took down the man's address with a sneer. How dare he hold him up this way, making him come and pick up what was rightfully his! After thanking the Seegan's for lunch and quietly slipping the folded piece of paper that Mrs. Seegan handed him with her phone number on it into his pocket, he dashed out into the street to hail a cab.

"We will hold your bags until you come back, Mister Sinclair," shouted the manager as the violinist entered a cab and disappeared on the streets of Manhattan.

***

The cab ride seemed to take longer than any cab ride Ronald had endured in his life. He had spent a fortune on that violin, a priceless, Renaissance piece, irreplaceable and now it was in the hands of some yahoo in Brooklyn. The cab drove up to a small, semi-attached house in the neighborhood of Old Mill Basin and Ronald looked out at the house in disgust.

"Don't go anywhere," he told the cab driver. "I'm only staying to pick something up; I'll be out in a minute."

"Very well," replied the cab driver, sing songing his response in a heavy Indian accent. "I will wait for you, sir."

Ronald opened the gate and was on the front porch of the little house in a flash. Ringing the bell, he checked the house number again to make sure he had the right address. The door opened and was filled with the bulk of the cab driver from this morning. Ronald had not looked at him this morning, had not seen that the man was middle aged with thick dark hair peppered with gray. His gray eyes seemed calm, almost soothing, and his features were regular, if heavy. He was wide at the shoulders, a large built man, but well proportioned and he said nothing as he stared at Ronald, merely gesturing him to enter.

Ronald stepped into a living room, its furnishings worn but clean.

"What you're looking for is on the table," pointed the cabby.

Ronald looked through the living room into a dining room beyond and saw his violin case. He was on it in two quick steps and opened the case to find everything intact. It had been his greatest fear that the man or his children had been using it as a cheese slicer or were playing with it in some manner. Picking up the case, he turned and saw that the cabby was standing in the doorway of the dining room holding a large hand gun. It was easy to notice because he held it pointed at him. Ronald took a step back, realizing that he had no path of retreat as he came in contact with the table.

"What is the meaning of this?" he snapped, trying to sound brave and failing miserably.

The cabby stared at him with dead eyes and then flicked the gun towards a stairway to his left that led upstairs to the second floor.

"Upstairs," he said in a quiet monotone.

"I told you I'm only too happy to pay a reward," began Ronald.

"Upstairs," repeated the cabby, "now."

Ronald slowly moved towards the stairs and twisted to see the man snatch up the violin case and begin moving up the stairs behind him, the gun leveled at his back.

"What is it that you want? Just tell me and I'll get it for you."

The cabby smiled slightly, "Oh, you're going to give me what I want, that I know. Now get upstairs."

Ronald moved slowly up the stairs, straining to see what was ahead of him. Gaining the landing he saw that there were four rooms on the floor, a bathroom towards the back of the house, two bedrooms off the hallway and another room at the front end of the house.

"Go to your right," instructed the cabby, "to the end of the hall."

Ronald tried to think. If he ran into the room and slammed the door shut, maybe he could lock it and call out to the cabdriver below. Could he move that quickly? What if the door jammed or didn't have a lock? Before he could decide, he was already at the door. Tentatively, he peered inside.

The room was dimly lit, but he could see against the wall sat a large bed, an IV stand on the left side of the bed with a tube running towards the sheets on the bed which bulged slightly in the middle. An oxygen tank sat on the right side, a mask poised on top in case it was needed. He heard someone in the bed stir slightly as the cabby entered the room, holding the gun.

"Sweetheart, are you awake?" called out the cabby softly, motioning Ronald to be quiet.

"Daddy..." came the whispery reply.

"Honey, I brought someone to see you," he continued softly. "Look who it is, it's Mister Ronald Sinclair."

The sheet shifted ever so slightly, but Ronald could still not make out a person beneath the blankets. If there was a person there, they must be dreadfully thin and small, he thought. He peered from the cabby to the bed and back again, unsure of what he should do.

"Mister Sinclair insisted on coming and seeing you," stated the cabby, his dead eyes looking at Ronald even as his voice created a soft and loving sound. "Mister Sinclair is going to play for you."

"Now look here..."

"Mister Sinclair is going to play for you, darling," repeated the cab driver, raising the gun ever so slightly. "He's going to play so beautifully that you won't think about the doctors or the pain or anything else for a little while."

"Oh Daddy, will he?" came the raspy, excited whisper.

"Yes darling," replied the cabby, a slight, menacing smile growing on his face. "He will."

Ronald looked at the gun and heard the menace in the man's voice. Very well, he would play, what choice did he have? The man held his case out to him and taking it gingerly from him, he retreated to a chair opposite the door. Opening his case, he removed his violin and began to tune and test it. The cabby pulled a chair away from the wall where he could keep an eye on both the bed and Ronald and motioned to him to play.

Just as Ronald raised his bow, the cabby said distinctly, "Is there anything you want to hear darling?"

"Could you play Beethoven?" asked the whispering sheet. "I love how you play Beethoven."

Ronald raised an eyebrow. He was one of the foremost interpreters of Beethoven, at least in his own mind. Some critics disagreed, some were vehement supporters of the notion, but who cared what the critics thought. Had there ever been a statue built to a critic? No, but he had his bust in the Museum...

"Mister Sinclair would love to play some Beethoven for you, angel," said the cab driver, interrupting his thoughts.

Picking up his bow, he began to play Beethoven's First Violin Concerto and he heard the sheet gasp, a tiny sound made all the more noticeable by the respectful silence of the room. It was obvious a gasp of delight and Ronald, though uncomfortable with the circumstances, decided to abandon himself to the music. His fingers performed deftly, sensitively, his touch sure and caressing, swift and precise. At the end of the piece he stopped and looked at the cabby, who looked at the sheet.

"It was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard," cried the little voice. "Oh thank you, Mister Sinclair, thank you with all my heart..."

The cabby motioned him towards the bed. Ronald took a tentative step towards the sheets and looked down. Perched above the tiny white bump of the sheet was the tiny bald head of a girl, she might have been ten or twelve years old at one time, but she had both progressed and regressed and now she appeared to be the size of a baby with the face of an eighty year old. Whatever had happened to her, whatever she was suffering with, it had been a long and painful battle that she was obviously losing. Large dark suffering eyes stared up at him and the tiny voice spoke again.

"Thank you, Mister Sinclair, with all my heart thank you."

"You're welcome," said Ronald softly, terrified by the pain he saw there.

"Is there anything else you would like to hear?" asked the cabby of the little form.

"I would love for Mister Sinclair to play for me forever," confessed the little voice, "but I'm so tired Daddy. I'm sorry, but I'm so tired."

"It's all right, angel," said the cabby. "Mister Sinclair has to leave now anyway. You go to sleep."

"Thank you Daddy, thank you Mister Sinclair. I'll always cherish this day."

Ronald could not look down again, "No problem. Get some sleep."

He turned and walked towards his case, placing his violin in it, turning to see the cabby straightening up from having kissed his daughter on her forehead. The cabby turned and pointed him out the bedroom door with the gun.

Ronald left the room, his violin in hand and went down the stairs, stopping in the dining room as the cab driver descended.

"And now Mister Sinclair, you can leave," he stated.

Ronald walked slowly towards the door, terrified that at any moment he would hear the gun go off. Gaining the door, he glanced back and saw that the cabby was seated at the dining room table, his face in his hands, the gun nowhere to be seen. Racing out the door, Ronald jumped into the waiting cab, startling the cabby.

"Where to sir?" asked the cabby cheerfully.

"Call the police," snapped Ronald. "Call the police!"

***

The police officer stood in the dining room as Ronald recited the incident to them. The cabby sat quietly agreeing with his statements, the gun on the table near the officers. They had examined it and found it to be both registered and empty.

"I want that man arrested Officer Polizzi," seethed Ronald. "I want him in jail now!"

Polizzi was a tall, well built man with a dark crew cut and dark eyes. He offered Ronald a polite smile and gestured him towards a chair.

A second police officer came down from upstairs and motioned to Polizzi.

"Excuse me for a moment," he said softly, the two men retreating slightly to speak in hushed tones in the living room.

The cabby stared uncaringly at Ronald. It didn't matter what happened now, the doctor had said that soon she would have to be given so much morphine that she would never be awake again. He had watched her sleep for the last two years; she would forgive him if he missed two more weeks...

Polizzi returned to the dining room and smiled at Ronald, "Mister Sinclair, we have a little problem here..."

"I want that man arrested!" replied Ronald.

"Yes, of course, but the problem is the publicity. You see, Mister Sinclair, if you file the complaint, the whole story that you were held hostage by a man with an empty gun is bound to come out and frankly, it's not going to reflect on you too well, you know what I mean?"

Ronald had not considered the publicity.

"Another thing is that the judges here are kind of lenient on first offenders and he's got no priors, so say he makes a deal, pleads to a lesser charge and is out in thirty days. Now every fan you have is going to think that they can kidnap you for private concerts and get away with it."

"I want that man punished," snapped Ronald.

"And he will be," stated Polizzi, "but don't you think it would be better if you were kept out of it?"

Ronald stood and drew nearer, "What do you mean?"

"Well," drawled Polizzi, "we could say that we received an anonymous report of a man waving a gun around and take him in on reckless endangerment charge without having to release your name. He'll get the same sentence, he'll be punished and you and your reputation will be protected."

Ronald considered it.

"Fine, then," he snapped. "Do it."

"It would be best if you left now, Mister Sinclair," stated Polizzi, "just in case."

Ronald nodded at the wisdom of the statement. The other police officer accompanied him to the waiting taxi and wished him well.

Once seated in the backseat, Ronald checked his violin again and looked up at the cabby.

"Where to sir?" he asked cheerfully.

"Take me to the Waldorf," he ordered, leaning back in the chair. He would call Noel tonight and tell her that they were through, with any luck, Alecia Seegan would be able to make an excuse to her husband and join him tonight. He needed something to relieve the tension, a distraction from the horror of it all. He thought of the girl lying in that bed and did his best to put the picture out of his mind. Revolting, absolutely revolting...

***

Polizzi came down stairs and waved the other officer out of the room, taking a seat next to the cabby.

"How long..."

"She's been sick for four years," stated the cabby, "over a third of her life in hospitals and surgeries. Doctor says it won't be long now, two weeks, maybe less..."

Polizzi reached over and picked up the empty gun, examining it briefly before placing it back on the table.

"From what Mister Sinclair said, you never waved the gun, you just kept it trained on him, isn't that right?"

The cabby nodded, "Yeah, I kept it pointed at him."

"Then I guess I can't charge you with waving the gun around in a dangerous manner," said Polizzi softly. "Seems the whole thing has been another false alarm..." Rising, he put a hand on the man's shoulder, "If there's anything we can do for you, please let us know."

The cabby shook his head, tears in his eyes, "There's nothing anyone can do, but thank you. Thank you so very much for all you've done."

Polizzi sauntered to the front door followed by his partner, the two men returning to their patrol car and driving away.

Back in the dining room the cabby sat and thought of the beautiful music that he had heard that afternoon and the happiness in his daughter's voice and for a brief moment, smiled through his tears.

### The Replacement

"Oh God, Ethel, not tonight," begged Tom, "I'm so damn tired, why did you say yes?"

Ethel Norman stood, hands on hips, staring down at her pleading husband.

"She invited us Tom and I said yes and that's it. Now go and wash up and let's get it over with."

"I don't mind her," whined Tom, "I've always liked your cousin Rose, but you know I can't stand him. Eddie's a drunken loudmouth and by the time we get there, he'll be three sheets to the wind. Can't we make an excuse?"

"We've made an excuse the last five times, Tom; we're not going to make an excuse tonight. I don't want Rose thinking her family has abandoned her. It's bad enough she wasted her life by marrying the lowest, most degenerate, worse piece of horse flesh in the county, I don't want her thinking that she's alone in the world."

Tom lumbered to the bathroom and threw some cold water on his face and brushed his teeth. Pulling another shirt on, he took a moment to comb his hair and then reported to Ethel for inspection.

Ethel eyed him from top to bottom and deemed him acceptable with a grimace. Reaching for her coat, she pulled it on and then retreated to the kitchen to pick up the cake she had made earlier in the day. This horrible depression had put so many men out of work; all she could do was be thankful that Tom still had his job. Eddie never did believe in work to begin with and now there was no hope a job would fall on him.

"You're giving them the cake?" strained Tom.

"Rose doesn't have a lot to eat, he don't work you know."

"But the whole cake? Can't we give them half?"

"Don't start, Tom, I'm not in the mood. I'll make you a cake tomorrow, this cake is for Rose."

Tom followed obediently behind Ethel as she trudged up the street towards Rose's house. The house was hard to miss; it was the one house on the block that everyone avoided. It looked condemned, with broken machine parts in the front yard and shingles strewn about like leaves in autumn, peeling from the outer walls. The roof seemed about ready to call it a day and cave in on the second floor and the front porch had more holes in it than a field infested by gophers. The whole place was a mine field just waiting to grab a foot or twist an ankle.

As they entered the broken gate, Ethel stopped and Tom drew himself to a halt behind her like an obedient dog, still mourning the loss of the cake.

"What's that sound?" asked Ethel.

"Sounds like music," responded Tom, straining to hear the noise.

"Sounds like it's coming from Rose's place," she stated. "Can't be though, they don't have a radio, can't afford it..."

"Maybe someone gave it to them," he said softly.

"Who'd give a radio to that jackass?" asked Ethel shaking her head at the foolishness of the suggestion and resuming her forward motion.

Tom fell into step behind her, shaking his head. "As soon as give them a radio as a cake."

He winced as Ethel shot him a glance and banged on the screen door.

The inner door swung open and out stepped an attractive woman in her late thirties, her blonde hair disheveled and her pretty face displaying a surprised, but pleased smile.

"Ethel!" she cried, throwing open the door happily. "Come on in, come right on in!"

Ethel stood, stunned in the doorway. She could not remember the last time she had seen her cousin happy, never mind laughing.

"Rose, are you okay?"

"Oh, Eddie and I were just cutting up when you knocked is all," giggled Rose. "Come on in." Spying the cake she shrieked with delight, "Is that for us? Eddie come and look what Ethel brought, one of her famous chocolate layer cakes, oh God, this is gonna be a great night!"

A man appeared behind Rose and offered Ethel and Tom a winning smile. He was tall and very handsome, standing in dress pants, a white t-shirt and slippers.

"Tom, Ethel, well come right in. I'm so sorry, Rose said you were coming but I lost track of the time, just look at what I'm wearing... You come on in, I'll be right back, let me get a shirt on," he laughed good naturedly, directing Tom and Ethel into the front foyer of the house with a happy good fellowship.

As the man retreated up the staircase, Ethel looked at Rose in a near panic, "Who the heck was that?"

Rose looked at Ethel in surprise, "What do you mean? It was Eddie."

"Eddie who?" snapped Ethel, peering around the corner, waiting for a glimpse of Rose's sour, drunk husband.

"Eddie my husband, silly," laughed Rose. "What are you thinking, Ethel? You've only met him a thousand times..."

Ethel stared at her cousin, "What are talking about? That ain't Eddie; anyone can see that ain't Eddie."

Rose laughed happily, "You're just used to seeing him dressed is all. Men look different in their undershirts, why I bet you wouldn't recognize Tom in his undershirt."

Ethel turned to Tom for confirmation, "Is that Eddie?"

Tom looked at the two women in confusion, "He might be someone named Eddie, but he ain't your Rose's Eddie."

Rose let out a happy laugh, "You two are a riot. Of course it's Eddie."

"Your husband Eddie is six inches shorter, twenty pounds heavier and a whole lot uglier than the fellow who went upstairs to get a shirt. Now what gives Rose, you tell me right now!" demanded Ethel.

"Ethel, whatever has gotten into you? THAT IS EDDIE! Eddie, come down here, these two don't believe it's you!"

Eddie came sauntering down the staircase, his dark hair slicked back and a smile on his face. Ethel couldn't help but think that if she didn't know any better, she was looking at Clark Gable.

"Ethel, Tom, what are you on about? Of course it's me!" Eddie laughed, an infectious, joyful sound that hit Ethel like a slap in the face.

"This is some sort of trick," stated Ethel. "I've never heard Eddie laugh about anything. You ain't Eddie!"

Eddie looked from her to Tom and back as if they had lost their minds, "Ethel, Tom, now stop fooling around. Rose, darling, did you tell them why we invited them over?"

"No, I didn't get a chance," smiled Rose. "Ethel, Tom, we wanted you to be the first to know that Eddie got a job!"

"Is he at the job now?" asked Tom, trying desperately to keep up.

Eddie laughed and put an arm around Tom's shoulder, "Tom, I always said you were the funniest one in the family. I start tomorrow, it's not much, I'll be working at the grocers, making deliveries and helping out at the store, but it's a start."

Ethel stared at the stranger, "There is no way in hell you're Eddie. Eddie wouldn't take a job if it was handed to him on a silver platter!"

Rose and Eddie looked at one another and burst out laughing.

Stepping forward, Eddie put an arm around Ethel's shoulder and led her and the cake into the dining room as he spoke.

"Oh Ethel, you and Tom are too funny. It reminds me of the fun we had last summer up at the lake, all the singing and fishing, those were good times!"

Ethel looked at Tom, who was being led into the dining room on Rose's arm.

"You remember when Tom fell into the lake trying to catch that big fish..." she began.

"And I ran over to help him and he ended up pulling me in too!" laughed Eddie.

Ethel thought she must be going crazy. Yes, the story was true, but this wasn't the Eddie who had fallen into the lake with Tom and the old Eddie certainly had never seen the humor in the situation.

For the rest of the evening, Rose and Eddie laughed and carried on, complimenting and fawning over Ethel and Tom until they decided to put their questions on hold and just enjoy themselves. Later, as they walked home, Ethel remained as silent as her husband until they entered their home.

Entering the kitchen, Ethel turned on Tom as soon as he hit the door.

"What in the hell was that?" she asked.

Tom just stood shaking his head, too bewildered to reply.

"T'weren't Eddie," he said finally. "I've known them for fifteen years man and boy and that is not her husband Eddie, no way, no how. Hell of a nice fella, but not Eddie."

Ethel suddenly looked at him, obviously frightened, "Tom, you don't think she..." her voice dropped to a whisper as she glanced at the windows to make sure no one was listening, "did away with him, do you?"

Tom shrugged, "I'm not sure who I am anymore, never mind what your cousin might have done with her husband."

"Maybe we've lost our minds," she said softly. "Maybe it is Eddie and we're crazy and just don't know it."

Tom shrugged, "Ethel, I don't know what to think and that's a fact. But I'll tell you one thing; the new Eddie is a big improvement on the old Eddie. He's sober and polite and he has a job and on top of that, in case you didn't notice, he ain't bad looking."

Ethel shook her head, "What are people gonna say, Tom? They're either gonna demand to know what happened to the real Eddie or they're gonna put us away as crazy or both."

Tom reached up and began to unbutton his shirt, "Only time will tell, Ethel, only time will tell..."

***

"Ethel Norman you come right over here and sit down and talk to me."

Ethel had just stepped out of corner drug store with her purchases and looked to see Celia Wright sitting on a bench outside of the drug store, looking shocked and uneasy.

"Celia, you look like something has scared you half to death," said Ethel, dropping down onto the bench next to her.

"Ethel, I've seen my fair share of things in my life, but I never saw anything like what I saw today. There, in Gramercies Market was the most handsome man I have ever seen working like two men, helping customers, packing orders and just doing everything. When I asked him his name he just laughed and said, "Celia Wright, what's gotten into you, it's me, Eddie, Eddie Thomas" and I almost fainted. Now I don't know if this is some sort of joke, but Ethel, there's a handsome man in Gramercies Market pretending to be your cousin's husband!"

Ethel drew closer, "So you say it isn't Eddie too!"

"Of course I do," responded Celia. "I know your cousin Rose's husband. He was a no good, ugly, do nothing who'd spit at you as soon as say hello. Now you tell me, Ethel, what in blazes is going on here and you tell me right quick!"

"Oh Celia," laughed Ethel, "oh Celia, you don't know how happy you've made me. Rose invited me and Tom over last night and we went over and they had us half convinced that he really WAS Eddie and that we had lost our minds."

"Well, Ethel, I'm not the interfering type, you know that," replied Celia, "but something's got to be done about it, that's all there is to it."

"I agree," replied Ethel, "I do, but I don't know what."

Celia sat back on the bench, her indignation slowly fading, "I don't know what the joke is, I certainly don't, but he is a fine looking man, whoever he is..."

"Oh he is handsome," replied Ethel, "and such nice manners, a real gentleman."

"He was telling me things that had happened between me and the real Eddie like he WAS the real Eddie," replied Celia. "Funny, but when he told them, they were funny stories. I have to say, I never enjoyed running into Eddie, he was, well you'll excuse me for saying so Ethel, a miserable man."

"Don't apologize, Celia, not a bit," said Ethel. "Eddie was a miserable man and a drinker to boot. I never enjoyed his company. I used to stay up nights worrying about poor Rose. She was always so pretty and full of life until she married him and then, she faded, just sort of withered. You should have seen her last night, Celia; it was like getting her back. She was so pretty and happy..."

The two women sat for a long time on the bench, each communing with their thoughts.

"Someone should do something," said Celia finally. "Isn't right..."

"No," agreed Ethel, "someone should do something, no doubt about it."

After a time, they rose and agreed to have tea later in the week and let the matter drop.

***

Tom returned home that night and lowered himself to his plate at the dining room table as Ethel brought in supper.

"Had an odd conversation with Willard Atkins today," he stated casually. "Seems he got a grocery delivery from Gramercies and a fellow who claimed to be your cousin Eddie was the one who brought it, but seems he didn't think it was Eddie at all."

Ethel sat down opposite him across the table and nodded, "Had a similar conversation with Celia Wright this morning outside the drug store."

"Willard thinks we should look into it," said Tom, eyeing a suspect piece of carrot before tentatively slipping it into his mouth. "Mind you, once he got over the shock of the thing, he wasn't very upset about it. Seems the new Eddie is a lot more popular than the previous one..."

"Funny you should mention that," replied Ethel. "Celia was of the same opinion also, said we should do something about it, but didn't seem too intent on pursuing the matter, the new model being so much better than the previous one."

Tom considered his pork chop for a moment and then looked up at Ethel.

"It's a good dinner, Ethel," he stated finally, cutting himself a piece of chop.

"Glad you like it," replied Ethel.

***

It had been six months since the new Eddie had arrived in their lives and everyone was of the opinion that while it was most peculiar and singular, he was such an improvement on the old version that perhaps it wasn't worth the time to investigate the matter too closely.

Within the first three months of working at Gramercies, Eddie had gotten promoted to Assistant Manager, complete with pay raise and soon the house where he and Rose lived began to show a different type of look to the neighborhood. Eddie fixed the roof and the front yard was cleaned and a lawn seeded and tended and the front porch no longer invited comparisons to a piece of Swiss cheese. All in all it was a huge improvement of the property and everyone was much happier about its appearance now and how it compared to how it looked under the former regime.

It seemed almost as if to celebrate the six month anniversary of the startling event, Rose invited Ethel and Tom over to dinner, an invitation that required some prodding for Ethel though none for Tom to accept. Like most of the men in town, Tom found Eddie to be helpful, courteous and a pleasure to be around. Quick with a joke, ready to lend a hand and intelligent, all the men had quickly taken a shine to this new Eddie, he was a good man. Tom and Eddie had become best friends, sometimes just sitting on the front porch drinking some pop and talking about life and old times. Odd as it seemed, Tom had already begun to think of the old times as Eddie described them and had begun substituting Eddie's recollection of them for what he had previously remembered.

Unfortunately, as the men got closer, the women seemed to drift further apart. The women in town had been happy for Rose initially, but it seemed to them that the new found popularity of her husband had turned Rose's head. From being the person people felt sorry for, Rose had begun to take on airs. While no one could blame her for showing off her newly improved home or her handsome husband, she had begun lording it over the same women who had befriended her before fortune (or whatever it was) had smiled upon her.

Even Ethel, always Rose's staunchest supporter, had found several flaws in her emerging character. Currently, Ethel was fuming about a new slight committed by her cousin. Formerly when she had entertained or had larger functions, Rose had relied upon Ethel's advice and assistance, but now she had discarded her cousin's advice as "old fashioned" and had taken to giving parties without even mentioning them to Ethel.

"Invited the whole ladies guild over for luncheon and never once mentioned it to me," stated Ethel to no one in particular. "She's gotten mighty high and mighty now a days."

Tom said nothing, trudging behind his wife in his usual fashion. The only reason that they were going was that Rose had promised them a cherry pie, Tom's favorite and whether his wife was upset with her cousin or not, he was going to have pie tonight.

Knocking on the front door, Ethel sneered at the music that was playing softly on the radio within. A striking brunette suddenly appeared at the door and smiled at them, her dark hair and porcelain skin accentuated perfect cheekbones above which perched the most beautiful emerald eyes that they had ever seen.

"Tom, Ethel, well it's about time you got here, in another few minutes my dinner would have been ruined."

Ethel looked at Tom before speaking to the woman slowly, "Do we know you?"

The woman looked at them and burst into a hearty, angelic laugh.

"Eddie, they're at it again..."

Eddie came tramping down the stairs tying his tie, a huge smile on his face, "What are they up to now Rose?"

"Remember when they didn't know you?" asked the brunette. "Now it's my turn. Ethel just asked me if she knew me!"

The two laughed as Ethel turned to Tom, who to her surprise was laughing as well.

"Tom..." she began.

Tom held up his hand and smiled, "Ethel, it was funny, let's not over play the joke."

"I'm so glad you two are here," began the new Rose. "Ethel, I want to have the ladies from the chamber of commerce up for a luncheon next week and I need your help desperately. You always have the best ideas and you always throw the best luncheons..."

Ethel smiled at the new Rose, "Why of course, dear, if I can help..."

Tom smiled as they all entered the dining room, Eddie's arm around his shoulder, Ethel and the new Rose chatting amicably. He could almost taste that cherry pie now...

### The Ties that Bind

November 11th, 1921 – Brooklyn, New York

"Come Annie, come, hurry!"

Mrs. Ultzer pulled her worn, dark shawl about her shoulders and urged her chubby form down the street in front of her neighbor, Annie DeStefano. Annie was a large woman herself, though much younger than Mrs. Ultzer. Despite her bulk, she moved quickly, gasping out questions as she followed the older woman down the street.

"What happened?"

"I don't know, I don't know," fretted Mrs. Ultzer. "I was coming up the stairs and heard a loud thump, like someone dropped a piece of furniture. It's so hot; I thought someone might have collapsed. The door was open, I guess she was hoping to get a breeze and I saw her laid out on the floor. I was so scared I didn't know what to do, so I sent Jacob to get a doctor and I ran to get you!"

Rounding the corner, they hurried up to the steps of their apartment building and Mrs. Ultzer stopped.

"I can't run anymore, you go," she panted, leaning against the steps trying to catch her breath.

Annie thundered up the steps and into the building, moving up the three flights to her apartment at a surprisingly fast clip. At the top of the stairs, she saw several people crowded around the door of her apartment. Suddenly, one turned and spotted her and began pushing the others out of the way.

"Annie's here, back up, Annie's here..."

Annie stepped through the crowd and into her tiny living room. On the floor lay Mrs. Williams, her body motionless. Kneeling down, Annie touched her friend's cheek and smoothed back her gray hair. She could see that there was nothing to be done, there was no breath, there was no movement, there was no life. Her friend, Mrs. Williams, was dead.

***

Two days later, Annie and the other tenants walked somberly behind the hearse that slowly carted the remains of her friend Mrs. Williams to the cemetery. Mrs. Ultzer maneuvered herself into a position next to Annie and spoke to her in somber, respectful tone.

"Mrs. Williams, she had no family?"

Annie shook her head, "None. She barely spoke English, but I know for certain that she had no one in the world, just us."

Mrs. Ultzer nodded, "Poor dear. She was such a kind soul. I know we didn't understand each other, but I really liked her. How did you meet her?"

Annie smiled, whispering, "On the stoop. I came home from work one day and there she was, just sitting on the stoop looking so tired my heart just went out to her. I asked her if she was okay and she answered me in whatever language it was she spoke. I don't know why, but something told me to invite her in, poor soul, so I asked her in for a cup of tea. I don't know if she understood tea, but she came in and we sat and talked, well, we tried to talk. It got later and later and finally, I asked her if she had a home and she shook her head, she had no home, so I told her she could sleep on the couch."

"Weren't you afraid?"

Annie shook her head, "You saw her, did she frighten you?"

Mrs. Ultzer smiled, "No, you could see she was just a gentle, good soul. Still, I bet a lot of people had something to say about you letting a colored woman who couldn't speak no English and with no background come and move in with you."

"I'm sure there were some, but what was I supposed to do, let her starve out on the streets? I went to work and when I came home, the apartment was clean and dinner was on the table. I would go to work and she would keep the apartment, it was like having a maid and best friend all rolled into one. We had a cup of tea every night and tried to talk to one another. It took a long time, but I finally understood that her husband had died and she had no one else in the world. I don't know how she stretched my salary to cover food and clothing for us both, but she was wonderful with the money. I'm gonna miss her, she was a good soul and a good friend."

Mrs. Ultzer looked back at the rest of the mourners and drew closer to Annie, "You gonna bury her in your family's plot?"

Annie nodded, "Where else should she go? She had no family and she was my friend. She was welcome in my house, it was our house really, so why not? Mama and Papa would have liked her, so now she'll be their guest until it's my time..."

"Do you think people will be angry about you letting a colored woman be buried in your family plot?" asked Mrs. Ultzer quietly.

Annie shrugged, "She was no problem when she was alive, I'm sure she'll be no problem now."

***

After the service the undertaker, Mister Chester, took Annie aside. He was a tall, good looking man with kind eyes and wisps of grey hair plastered neatly to his bald head.

"Miss DeStefano," he said in a quiet voice, "we've run into a problem."

"I'll pay you over time..." began Annie.

"No, not that," chuckled Mister Chester. "You see, your friend, Mrs. Williams wasn't Catholic, so technically, she isn't allowed to buried in your family plot."

"Why not, it's my plot," snapped Annie.

"Please, please, Miss DeStefano," stated Mister Chester softly. "It's all right, I spoke to the manager and he has no problem with it, it is just, we can't record the burial. Let's say that we made a "local" arrangement between the two of us. Mrs. Williams will be buried without informing the powers that be."

Annie was unsure of what to say, so being an intelligent woman she waited to see what else the undertaker might be driving at.

"I'm afraid that you cannot put her name on the marker," he whispered confidentially. "Technically, she isn't here. We all knew her and she was such a kind woman, no one wanted you to have any problems, but we can't let the cemetery officials know or there will be a problem, do you understand?"

Annie nodded, slowly relaxing, "I understand. In a sense, I could not have put her name on the stone anyway, I only knew her as Mrs. Williams, even though we were roommates for these past seven years. To tell you the truth, I'm not even sure that was her name, she tried to help me pronounce her name and the closest I could come was Williams. I didn't know her first name and I don't know when she was born..." She shook her head, tears coming to her eyes, "God knows her first name and He knows where we buried her. Thank you for arranging this, I don't know what I would have done if they said she couldn't be buried here."

"It was my pleasure, Miss DeStefano," replied Mister Chester. "As I said, she was a good woman and she will be missed." Shyly, he looked down at her, "Now that Mrs. Williams is gone, you're going to be alone, aren't you?"

"Well, I have some friends and there's always work..." she replied absently. "I'll miss coming home to someone though..."

"It is difficult," replied Mister Chester. "I remember when my wife first died; it was very lonely, especially in the beginning." Eyeing her, he smiled a friendly smile, "Perhaps we might discuss it over dinner some night..."

Annie looked at him, taken off guard, "Why, Mister Chester..."

"If you'd rather not..."

She smiled, "Well, why not?"

***

August 14th, 2012 – Brooklyn, New York

Andrew Chester leaned forward and shook his head, "Rob, what the hell are you talking about? You did the research and you said that there were six people buried in the plot and that the new mausoleum could hold them all, so what the hell is the problem?"

Rob Edwards, Andrew's assistant stood looking small and slight under his boss's angry gaze. A young man of only twenty four, he seemed too delicate and frightened to be the assistant of a man as powerful and ruthless as Andrew Chester.

"The records show that six people were buried in the plot, but there seems to be a seventh person there."

"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Andrew. "What..."

Andrew leaned back and uttered a soft, "Waiiit...."

Rob came to attention, maybe this wouldn't be his fault after all.

"Are you all right, Mister Chester?"

"Get my stupid brother on the phone," said Andrew absently.

"Which one?" asked Rob.

"Alan. Alan would know. Yeah, get Alan on the phone, he would know."

Rob retreated to the outer office and retrieved Alan's number. He had met Alan once or twice, he was some sort of technician for an alarm company or something, but he seemed to always be on call in case Mister Chester needed a flunky for something boring or unpleasant. Quickly dialing the number, Rob heard the familiar voice on the other end of the phone.

"Mister Chester, hi, it's Rob," he began.

"Hi Rob, how are you?"

"Fine, just fine... Your brother asked me to give you a call, he needs to speak to you, can you hold just a minute?"

"Okay."

Rob pushed the button on his phone to put Alan on hold and hit the intercom for Mister Chester, "Your brother is on line one..."

Andrew picked up the phone and pushed line one.

"Hey Alan, I got a quick question."

"Sure, what is it?"

"As you know, I've been working on moving the cemetery plot from Brooklyn to the new place in Jersey and there seems to be a problem."

"A problem?"

"Yeah, a problem. Seems that we have records for six people being in the grave, but they found seven bodies..."

There was silence on the phone and then a long, "Ohhhhh..."

Andrew sprang forward in his chair, "I remember something about someone else being buried there, do you know who it is?"

"Yeah," replied Alan, "it's Mrs. Williams. I forgot all about Mrs. Williams."

"Who the hell is Mrs. Williams and why is she buried in our plot?" snapped Andrew.

"She was Grandma's best friend," began Alan. "She lived with her before she married Grandpa. In fact, I believe that's how they met, he was a funeral home director and Grandma went to him to get Mrs. Williams buried..."

"Alan, who the hell cares," interrupted Andrew. "Why did Grandma bury her in our family plot? Was she related or something?"

"No, no, Mrs. Williams was a black lady," responded Alan. "Grandma found her or something. I'm not sure how they met, but Grandma took her in because she had no place to go and then when she died, she had no relatives, so Grandma buried her in the family plot. They couldn't put her on the tombstone because she wasn't Catholic or something, I'm not sure, but Grandma said they had to do it in secret. Grandma said they used to have tea together every night and try to speak to each other..."

"What was wrong with her that she couldn't speak?" asked Andrew sharply.

"She couldn't speak English," replied Alan. "She'd speak whatever language she spoke and Grandma would speak to her in English and somehow they understood each other."

"Again Alan, who cares? What the hell am I supposed to do with her?"

"Do with her?"

Andrew rolled his eyes, "Yes Alan, I have seven people in a grave and I only have six spaces in the new place."

"I guess we have to get another unit in the wall..."

"Are you out of your frigging mind?" snapped Andrew. "This thing is costing a fortune already and now you want to buy another unit?"

"We can't leave her there," replied Alan softly. "The next people who own the grave aren't going to want someone in there. We have to take her with us."

"Bullshit, Alan," groused Andrew. "What do you think, we're made of money? I said I'd give so much to this idea and I've already contributed more than that to move the whole damn family to a place where civilized human beings can come and visit them and now you want me to drop another bundle on some woman who isn't even related to us?"

"Be reasonable," replied Alan softly, "you have to put her some place, they aren't going to let you leave her there and you can't take her home with you."

"I'll find some cheap place for her," replied Andrew.

"She was Grandma's best friend," replied Alan. "Grandma would be very angry..."

"Then let Grandma bury her," replied Andrew.

"Grandma DID bury her," replied Alan.

"Look, you want to pay for another vault, you pay for it, I'm not contributing one more dime."

"I'm sure everyone will contribute for another vault..."

"Not me, I'm not paying anything towards it."

"Look, if we all chip in, it won't be that much more expensive..."

"You know the others aren't going to pay for it, they haven't paid their share yet. Look, if you want to pay for it, pay for it, but I'm not contributing another dime."

"You know I can't afford it on our own..."

Andrew laughed, "Then I guess Mrs. Williams is going to have to find a new home. I got to go." With that, he hung up the phone. Alan was an idiot and the rest of them were moochers, he had already put in the lion's share and now they wanted more money for someone who wasn't even related? If he was paying the most, he'd make the decision and he made the decision now.

Pushing a button on his phone he called out, "Rob, get in here."

Rob entered almost immediately and made his way toward Andrew's desk.

"I need a single plot, a single grave at the cemetery, the cheaper the better," said Andrew.

"In Jersey..."

"No, in the old cemetery, in Brooklyn. I'm not transporting people I don't know and putting them up at thousands a clip for no one to visit. I don't even know the woman's name, I just need a place to put the body they found, so find a cheap place and we'll have her moved there."

Rob nodded and removed himself from the room.

Andrew leaned back in his chair and laughed. Mrs. Williams had been mooching free room and board for ninety years; it was time she got off the gravy train.

***

"Most unsettling..."

The words relayed a fascination and a horror that made Andrew uneasy. He had picked up Alan at his home having no wish to venture to his job to pick him up. It might have been closer to his own place of business, but Andrew had no wish to mingle with the middle class.

"Please explain to me why we are going to the cemetery in Brooklyn," began Alan. He was dressed casually in jeans and a sweatshirt and he wore a concerned look that got on Andrew's nerves.

"They exhumed the bodies today," replied Andrew. "The head groundskeeper called and said we needed to get out here right away, they had found something "unsettling" during their dig."

"What did they find?"

Andrew shrugged impatiently, "How the hell should I know? He wouldn't tell me anything except that we had to get out here right away."

"What about the others? Shouldn't we call them..."

"Please, use your head, they're useless," snapped Andrew.

Alan took the rebuke and stared out the window as they neared the home where his grandmother had once lived. He had happy memories of his time spent there; he missed the old lady even though it had been years since she had died.

Pulling into the main gate of the cemetery, Andrew brought the big car to a halt within the driveway of a small stone home with a sign stating "Groundskeeper" out front. The two men exited the car and were approaching the door as it swung suddenly open.

A tall thin man of about sixty exited the door, his steel gray hair in sharp contrast to his still black mustache. Looking up at the two brothers, he gave a little start of surprise.

"My name is Andrew Chester," stated Andrew forcefully. "I received a call..."

"Yes," responded the man, "I called you. Most unusual, very unusual..."

"My name is Alan Chester, what is so unusual that you asked us to come out here?"

"If you two men would follow me," stated the man, leading them towards a large, stone building that appeared to be a converted barn behind the small house.

"When we have exhumations, we bring them here for identification and to prepare for transport," stated the man. "We had the list of names you had given us and were examining the remains to make sure we had the correct people."

Taking a key from his pocket, he opened the wooden door that led into the barn and gestured them inside. The inside of the building was primarily made up of one large room with various tractors and trucks on one side and some large, steel tables on the other. A small office had been set up in the back and it was there that the men most often enjoyed a coffee and played cards.

On the steel tables stood several coffins, obviously recently disinterred. There were seven all together, three made of worn and battered wood and four made of some sort of metal.

"These three," stated the groundskeeper, pointing to the wooden ones, "these are the most recent ones. You can see the oldest one, the woods rotted on the side; we're going to have to get a container for it before we try to ship it."

Shifting towards the other four boxes, the man continued, "The first two on these we identified as your great grandfather and great grandmother. These are lead coffins, just like the other two. They contain the woman you call Mrs. Williams and your Grandmother, well, they SHOULD contain Mrs. Williams and your Grandmother..."

"What do you mean, "should"," asked Andrew.

Opening the casket nearest to them, all three men peered into the box; it was empty.

"It's been a long time," stated Andrew with a shrug, "I'm surprised the box is still left, never mind the body and bones."

"This is a dry cemetery," counted the groundskeeper. "Rot isn't the reason there is no one in this box..."

Opening the last lead box, the groundskeeper pointed, "Perhaps you can explain this..."

Andrew and Alan looked in; both puzzled by what they saw. Inside the box were two skeletons, scraps of fabric still clinging to their bodies. The two skeletons had their arms wrapped around each other as if hugging.

"What the hell is that?" asked Andrew.

"Look here," pointed the groundskeeper.

On the side of the empty lead coffin was a perfectly round hole about twelve inches in diameter. Pointing to the coffin with the two skeletons in it, he showed them an identical hole in its side.

"What were they for?" asked Alan.

"They shouldn't be there," replied the groundskeeper. "You don't bury people in boxes with holes in them. It's not rot, metal don't rot that way. There's no reason for them to be there, so why are they there?"

"How should we know?" asked Alan. "You called us here, we don't even know why."

"This is why," pointed the groundskeeper. "You can't bury two people in one box and there's no sense in burying an empty box. What went on in this plot?"

"How the hell should we know?" snapped Andrew. "You think we came here and moved bodies and made holes in caskets? Yeah, let me go get my backhoe and we'll have a grand old time."

"Look here," snapped the groundskeeper, "you want your grandmother buried in that fancy place in Jersey and you want Mrs. whats-her-name buried here, so which one is which?"

"How the hell should I know which one is which?" asked Andrew angrily. "What am I, an anthropologist? You mixed them up, you straighten them out!"

"We didn't mix up nothing," replied the groundskeeper heatedly. "We opened up the plot and this is what we found. Both of them were in the same box, I don't know how or when it happened but it wasn't by me and it wasn't today. You identify them and we'll bury them where ever you want them buried."

"How can I tell the difference?" screeched Andrew. "There's no way to identify who's who!"

"Perhaps that's the point," stated Alan softly.

"What the hell are you talking about?" crabbed Andrew.

"When they were alive, Mrs. Williams was black and Grandma was white and they were best friends. Now you can't tell what color they are and they're still best friends. They don't want to be separated and they're not going to be separated, no matter what it costs us."

Andrew spat on the floor in disgust, "I don't care, I'll choose one or the other..."

"Well then choose," snapped the groundskeeper.

Andrew pulled back the lid of the coffin and stared at the two skeletons. How the hell had this happened? He'd sue the cemetery's ass off! What did it mean? Turning, he looked at Alan who stared back noncommittally.

"Screw it, send them both to Jersey," mumbled Andrew as he stalked towards the door.

"What about this other coffin?" called the groundskeeper.

"Shove it up your ass," replied Andrew as he walked out into the yard.

The groundskeeper looked for direction to Alan who merely shrugged.

"Dispose of it as you think best and then ship them to Jersey just as they are."

"They're going to make you pay for another plot..." began the groundskeeper.

Alan smiled, "It doesn't matter. Grandma is going to keep Mrs. Williams with her no matter what you do."

With a laugh, he made his way out to Andrew in the waiting car.

### To Hell in a Hand-basket

Jeff Arlington sat in his cabin, switching channels on his shortwave nervously. The whole world situation seemed to be going to pot right before his ears and he looked about the cabin with a sense of impending doom. It wouldn't be long now, no sir, it wouldn't be long now. If the government kept up its nonsense, the common people were ripe for revolt and with problems breaking out in Asia and in the Middle East; the people were at the breaking point. No sense going over the reasons, he thought, best to prepare.

For fourteen years, Jeff had sat listening to the radio and preparing. He had once had a job in Los Angeles, was seen as an up and comer until he came to his senses and quit. He had taken his savings and bought this property and had disappeared into the back woods. No one was going to find him and if they ever did, they would find him prepared. He had read every book on survivalism, had gone through training and spent countless hours honing his body and mind to be prepared for the cataclysm that was certain to come. Listening to the voice over the radio, he had no doubt that the time would shortly be upon them.

Jeff grabbed his clipboard and went to his store house. The store house was a concrete bunker with walls two feet thick sunk eight feet beneath the ground. Jeff followed the narrow path to the steel door that opened into a short corridor that took him to another steel door which opened using a special combination lock. Entering the unit, he ran an inventory on all of his supplies. If he hurried, he still might have a day or two to order more supplies, to stock up before the inevitable happened.

There was only one supplier who Jeff felt he could trust anymore, Grady and Sons. Like him, they were convinced of the inevitable conflict to come and they would understand the urgency that drove the order. Picking up his order form, he examined his supplies, noting his needs and the amounts of each item. Satisfied that he could do no more concerning his supplies, Jeff went to his home, another concrete bunker further up on the hill and faxed the order over to Grady and Sons.

Moving into his second bedroom, he eyed the fire arms lining the walls. Yes, he had best make sure he had enough ammunition for every gun. It might be a long time before he could make anymore. If you're trying to survive a nuclear holocaust, it was best to have all your ducks in a row.

Slowly, methodically, he began the painstaking task of counting all of his ammunition. He would need to be sure what he had and what he could do before the shit hit the fan.

***

The fax machine at Grady and Sons buzzed and spat out a sheet of paper slowly. Brad Grady slowly rose from his desk and sauntered over to the machine, pulling the sheet from the tray and eyeing the order it held with dark eyes.

What the hell were these people thinking, he wondered. Didn't they listen, didn't they see the news? Were they so stupid as to think they would even have a chance once the big one dropped? Looking out over the courtyard that housed his "business", he shook his head and reread the list from the machine.

Turning to his brother he nodded at the paper in his hand, "Do you believe this? What the hell is this idiot thinking? We're not going to be here next week, the world is going to end and he wants us to send him supplies?"

Brad's brother said nothing, staring at him with vacant eyes.

"Forget it," he replied, "I'll take care of this myself."

Crossing the compound, he made his way to his warehouse, a cement block building hidden behind a cluster of oak trees. Opening the barn door, he saw his foreman, Errol, leaning against one of the bins.

"Got an order," snapped Brad.

Errol didn't move.

"What is it, your lunch hour? What is this, a union shop? Screw it, I'll fill it myself," he roared, grabbing a hand truck and scouting the various bins for boxes that fulfilled the list.

When the order was filled, Brad placed it on the loading dock and headed back to his office. For the rest of the day, he watched the fax machine, waiting for the orders to come in and listening to the radio with its dire predictions and innuendos. He would make the deliveries tomorrow, he thought. After that he would close down and prepare himself for the inevitable. He would be ready, no matter what happened, he would be ready.

***

Jeff watched the truck come up through the forest that surrounded his compound. It was Grady's truck no doubt, but he did not recognize the driver. Rifle in hand, he moved out to the front of his home and took up a defensive position in one of his bunkers. The truck pulled into the clearing in front of the house and the driver stepped down, dark eyes peering out from beneath his camouflage hat.

"That's far enough," barked Jeff.

"Delivery from Grady and Sons," replied the man, holding his hands up to show no bad intent.

"You're not the regular driver," replied Jeff.

"Artemus is sick," replied the man. "I'm Brad Grady; I'm the one who owns the business."

Jeff slowly emerged from his bunker, rifle still pointed at the man. Brad stood, watching him as he approached.

"Art told me about you," stated Brad, "I figured you would be hold up when someone new arrived. If you'll allow me, I'll show you a copy of your order."

Jeff nodded as Brad slowly placed his hand under his vest and pulled out a yellow sheet of paper. Brad slowly unfolded it and read Jeff's order back to him as Jeff mentally checked his list.

"I had everything you ordered except the peaches," stated Brad. "I hope you don't mind, but I substituted some cherry preserves, free of charge. Art had told me that you had enjoyed those the last time we had them."

"Thank you," replied Jeff, lowering his gun.

"Would you like me to place the supplies here or somewhere else?"

"Here's fine, I hope you don't mind, but I like to check the order as I unpack it in the open..."

"Smart move," replied Brad. "Allows you to check it and keep an eye out for anyone who might be trying to find out what they don't need to know."

Jeff nodded, recognizing a kindred spirit.

"You been listening to the radio?" he asked.

Brad nodded, his expression serious, "Won't be long now. I hope you got what you need because I figure on closing down tomorrow or the next day, it won't be much longer than that and then all hell is going to break loose."

"That's how I figure it," replied Jeff. "I should have enough to keep me for at least a few years..."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it," replied Brad, moving slowly towards the back of the truck. "I'll start unpacking if you don't mind. With Art out, I need to make a few more deliveries today and then, I'm done."

In silence Brad unloaded the truck and then collected his money and left. He was back at the compound in less than an hour. Entering his office, he looked at the jar of cherry preserves sitting on the counter next to his brother and thought of Jeff. It felt good to do another survivor a favor.

***

Jeff looked up at the darkening sky and retreated to his home, setting his traps as he went. It could happen any moment now from the stuff they were reporting on the radio and he wasn't going to take any chances. Locking his doors behind him, he entered his kitchen and mentally reviewed what was in the cabinets. Opening an MRE, he ate his solitary dinner listening to the radio and checking his monitors. After his meal, his eyes fell upon the jar of cherry preserves he had brought in with him. If the world was going to end, he might as well enjoy one last treat before placing himself on rations. Opening the jar, he stuck his spoon in and placed a dollop into his mouth. The cherry's tasted sweet and tart and just about perfect. Staring at his monitors, he felt himself growing sleepy. It was late and it had been a long day. He took another spoonful, he would miss luxuries like this when the big one hit...

***

Officer Frank Reynolds entered the building after the assault team had given the all clear signal. Feeling the heat from the smoldering door, he carefully maneuvered himself passed the wreckage and entered what appeared to be an office area. A sickening stench filled the air above and beyond the smell caused by the explosion. Glancing into the dark room, he saw a man seated at a desk with a fax machine to his left, a gaping hole in his chest and a rifle on the floor. The wound appeared to be self inflicted.

"That's Brad Grady," stated Reynolds. "I grew up in this area; I knew his family before..." he gestured around at the concrete buildings, "before all this."

"Over here, Reynolds..." called out Doctor Peterson, the medical examiner.

Reynolds made his way over to a decomposing corpse that stood leaning against a crude counter. Despite the decomposition of the face, he eyed the examiner, "That's his brother, Ted."

The medical examiner shook his head, "Sick bastard killed him and left him where he died, just leaning here."

An officer in body armor entered the room, scanning the wreckage and then addressing Doctor Petersen, "We got another body outside. Could be the friend, Errol McMasters, body is in pretty bad shape, been dead for a while."

Petersen stood and spoke to his assistant, gesturing towards Ted Grady's body, "You can take him."

"How did they die?" asked Reynolds.

"Can't be sure until I've done an autopsy, but it appears he poisoned him. I don't know about the other fellow."

"He was always talking about the end of the world," stated Reynolds, "how we were going to hell in a hand basket. They were always ordering concrete and steel..."

"There are booby traps all over this property," stated the armored officer. "Be careful; don't go anywhere an officer hasn't cleared."

Another officer stepped out of the office holding a book in his hand, "It's all in here. Sick, sick, sick... we're going to have to check his client list. He thought the world was ending, so he poisoned all his men and sent poison to all of his customers, hoping they would eat it, die and leave their provisions and stock piles for him to loot when the end came. We need to put out a bulletin..."

Petersen shook his head, "It's not going to help."

Reynolds nodded in agreement, "They think anything we tell them is lies. They'll never believe us."

The officer shrugged his shoulders, "Then we better get ready for a lot of corpses and demolition work." Holding up the book, he started turning pages, "Must be a hundred, a hundred fifty names here..."

Reynolds shook his head, "Ironic; spend their whole lives getting ready for the end and they were the first to go."

### Bonus Tales

Denial

The mayor was a small, squinty eyed, ferret faced looking man in a dark suit. In public, he had a certain charm and wit but in private he was a less appealing, extremely demanding individual. He stared at Sanders with a withering look of disdain. The ass kissers who surrounded him looked at Sanders with smug or vacant stares.

"Make it go away," barked the mayor, "make it go away. I have a press conference in two days and I want this matter to be something I can joke about it. Do you understand, Sanders?"

"Yes sir, not a problem. I meet with Mister Flynn this afternoon and we will straighten this out..."

"Whose Flynn?" snapped the mayor.

"He's the man who the press is talking about, sir..."

"I don't care what his name is," snapped the mayor dismissively. "It's a month until the election and I don't need this crap..."

Sanders nodded. The people were less than thrilled with the mayor and the polls were close, showing him with only a slight lead. Why had the opposition put up such a lame candidate? Anyone else would have wiped the floor with the mayor, but he suspected a backroom deal had made them take it easy... If the people were less than thrilled with him, his staff was less discriminating: they just hated his guts completely. He was a vindictive bully, but what could you do? Sanders thought of his family, if the mayor won the election he was practically forced to stay in his position. If he tried to leave, the mayor would use his contacts to kill any chance he had of getting a job in the outside world. Yes, a vindictive bully...

"I want him gone, Sanders. Speak to the union people and get it done, the man needs to be out of the education system. I have numbers to concentrate on and this moron comes out with reviews like this..." he sputtered angrily. "I've got parents calling, principals, news people, what the hell am I supposed to say? We employed a counselor who had a mental breakdown and scarred the children for life? Fix it, Sanders! You're the chief of staff, that's your damn job, deny it, spin it, do something but make it go away!"

"Mister Mayor, consider it done. I will speak with you this evening after the meeting; we can go over the results."

The mayor rose and marched out followed by his ever present sycophants. Sanders grimaced, he would have to make Flynn accept complete blame for all that had happened and then make him disappear. He opened the folder he had gotten from the Department of Education and scanned the man's file. Nothing seemed to lead up to this action; the man was a nonentity, a no body. He had been a school counselor for thirty five years, had a good record, nothing outstanding, no demerits, nothing. He was just someone who went to work eight hours a day, did whatever the hell it was he did and then went home to his two point five children and twelve hundred foot home. He was a cog in the machine, one of thousands the city employed, but he had somehow gone horribly off track.

Sanders reviewed the copies of the letters Mister Flynn had sent out to parents, reviewed the notes of the interviews that he conducted with them and their children. It was hard not to laugh at some of the suggestions despite the seriousness of the charges they supported. He would paint the man as a city employee who had lost his grip on reality, he was to be pitied, forgiven and forgotten.

Sanders had arranged to meet Flynn at a neutral location, the New York Law School on West Broadway. Though named for the city, there was no affiliation with the Department of Ed. Utilizing his personal friendship with the president of the college; he had arranged to meet Flynn in a private office away from prying eyes and media microphones. Slipping out of City Hall, Sanders walked the seven blocks to the college offices and made his way through a side entrance to the office assigned for the meeting.

After about fifteen minutes, a knock at the door brought Sanders' nose out of Flynn's file.

"Come in," he called out.

The door opened and a small, mild looking man with calm brown eyes and thinning hair peered into the room. "I'm looking for Mister Sanders?"

"I'm Mister Sanders," he said, standing and offering him his hand, "you must be Mister Flynn."

"Yes sir," smiled Flynn. "I'm sorry I'm late, sir, I got lost. I haven't been to Manhattan in a while, the streets confused me."

"Not a problem, Mister Flynn," stated Sanders, gesturing him towards a chair. "I'm glad we could have this little talk, just you and I."

Mister Flynn took the proffered seat and smiled at Sanders. "I hope we can clear this up, Mister Sanders. The media is certainly making a great deal about what has been said..."

"Well, Mister Flynn, it is a very important matter," drawled Sanders, retaking his seat behind the office desk. "You have to understand that when you give an opinion as a school counselor, you are acting not only on your behalf, or on the school's behalf, but on behalf of the mayor and the entire city counsel."

"I'm a great fan of the mayor's," stated Mister Flynn. "I supported him even when he wanted to limit the number of sprinkles on donuts. I know it wasn't easy for him, but I agree, we need to fight obesity!"

"I'm very glad to hear that you are a fan of the mayor's," said Sanders. "I want you to remember that as we speak. We both want to support the mayor, don't we?"

"Oh certainly," stated Flynn happily. "I argued with the staff at my last school, Mister Sanders. I told them, if the mayor believes that adults are responsible enough to drink unlimited amounts of liquor but shouldn't be trusted to indulge in oversized sodas, there's a point to it!"

"Yes," drawled Sanders, unsure of whether his leg was being pulled or not.

"As I said, Mister Sanders, I don't know what the fuss is about, I really don't. I have written reviews for over thirty years, but I have never gotten a reaction like this one. This, if you don't mind me saying, is a doozy!"

"Well, Mister Flynn, in all fairness, while you did write reviews previously, none of them contained the advice or recommendations that you've made in these reports," stated Sanders, gently touching the files in question.

"I've always tried to do my job to the best of my abilities," replied Flynn earnestly. "I mean, I follow the guidelines, Mister Sanders, I think you'll agree that I follow them to the T."

"The filing of the documents, the meeting of deadlines, all of those particulars are extremely well done," replied Sanders. "But Mister Flynn, do you think that your advice was consistent with the general welfare of the children in question?"

Flynn looked at him quizzically, "I'm not sure what you're insinuating, Mister Sanders. I gave what I could only consider to be appropriate advice to both the children and their parents. Perhaps if you were more specific..."

"Well, let's take these reports one at a time," offered Sanders. "Take this one, Lourdes Perez, age fifteen. She wrote in response to the question, "What do you imagine yourself doing in five years?" that she imagines herself as a model slash actress or a singer. In your follow up comments, you wrote the following and I quote, "The subject has a desire to become a model slash actress or a singer. Given her capabilities, educational aspirations and background, I would suggest that she be encouraged to become a pornographic actress in the hopes that she will make enough money to support herself and provide some level of benefit to society in general."

Flynn nodded intently, "Yes, I did write that, Mister Sanders. Again, I do not understand the problem..."

Sanders smiled, the man was serious. "You don't see the problem with suggesting to a fifteen year old that she become a pornographic actress?"

Flynn considered it, "Did you read the entire file, Mister Sanders?"

Sanders raised an eyebrow, "What?"

"Did you read Miss Perez' file?" he asked softly. "I did. I read it thoroughly. Miss Perez possesses a third grade reading level, is failing five of eight subjects and is barely passing the other three subjects. Do you know what her parents purchased for her for the celebration of her fourteenth birthday?"

"No," replied Sanders, struggling to follow the discussion.

"Breast augmentation surgery," stated Flynn, leaning back in his chair. "She lives in a two bedroom apartment with eight other people, is sexually active, has received at least two abortions during which she stated that she could think of at least a half a dozen boys who might be the father. Further down in her report, you'll notice that she has come to school on several occasions so completely intoxicated that she became sick in homeroom. She possesses no job skills, has no intention of gaining any and dreams that she will become a model slash actress despite the fact that she is, despite copious amounts of makeup and the aforementioned breast augmentation, a large breasted, plain faced girl. Now, upon reviewing the case, I think that I made several rather logical conclusions. First, the environment in which Miss Perez lives places great emphasis on the physical characteristics of the individual while completely negating any educational or even emotional aspirations. Secondly, if you can manage to have as much sex at her age in a two bedroom apartment shared by eight other people as she has had and still be unable to identify with any degree of accuracy who the father of your child is, you must be willing to engage in sexual relations often and more likely as not, in front of others. Third, someone, at some point, is going to have to support her growing alcoholism, so why not suggest to her an occupation that she can engage in that fulfills all of her physical and emotional needs and provides some benefit to at least a portion of society?"

Sanders blinked.

"Take that second file, the next one on the pile there. What was wrong with that one?"

Sanders shook his head as if clearing his thoughts, "Teshaun Johnson Woody. Mister Woody wrote on his evaluation that he wanted to be a super hero, like the Flash because he runs fast. Your evaluation reads, "Teshaun would be best employed in a car wash where he could hope to at least contribute in some small measure to the cleanliness of society." Did you write that?"

"Of course," smiled Flynn, "of course... Did you read the rest of the file?"

"I'm afraid I didn't," stated Sanders.

"Well, the reason Mister Woody wants to be a super hero, particularly the Flash, is that he's been arrested fourteen times for robbing local stores. He is terribly consistent, his main problem being his get-away; you see, he runs too slowly... He has a second grade reading level and to his credit, failed every subject but one last semester, physical education. The only reason that he did not fail that is because he enjoys swimming, but he is too slow and lazy to become an athletic swimmer. Given his gifts and preferences, I suggested the car wash because he will be in water, which is something he likes, he doesn't have to run, which is something he is poor at, he can use a scrub brush, which they make him use in juvenile hall and he can make society a cleaner, better place."

"Mister Flynn, you can't suggest someone work in a car wash," replied Sanders.

"Why?" asked Flynn. "Where do you think people who work in car washes come from Mister Sanders? They're people just like you and me, making an honest living and providing a service. If the child has the ability to do that job and possibly make something of himself why shouldn't I encourage him to do so?" Flynn suddenly laughed, "You don't mean to tell me you think he could become the Flash, do you?"

"Mister Flynn..."

"What is the problem with the next one?" asked Flynn.

"Erica Hillary Thomas," replied Sanders. "Miss Thomas is an excellent student, maintaining an A plus average and is interested in languages. She writes that she would like to be a translator at the United Nations and work with diplomats in the service of world peace. Your recommendation is, and I quote, "Miss Thomas should leave the United Nations alone and work at the Department of Motor Vehicles where her abilities with languages would be an asset and her lack of personality will not impede her advancement." Now Mister Flynn, we're talking about an A student..."

"Who has the social skills of a muskrat," replied Mister Flynn. "It's all in the file, sir; right there...The girl has the personality of a wet cigar, Mister Sanders. She does well at school because she relates to books, not people. She doesn't like people and they, on the whole, don't like her. She's an opinionated know-it-all who has been beaten up in gym class consistently since fourth grade because of her faith in her own unerring judgment. Now, I concede that she does have a gift for languages, but she should not be allowed to truly speak to people because she has the conversational skills of a fruit bat. What's the sense of speaking multiple languages if you have NOTHING to say in any of them? So I put on my thinking cap and thought, where do you find a lot of people speaking different languages where personal interaction is minimum but the need to speak languages well is important. And then it hit me, the Department of Motor Vehicles. Anyone can get a license in this country; I was almost run over by a man from Uzbekistan on my way over here. He had a license even though I'm quite certain that he can't read the road signs. I know because right after he almost killed me he rammed into a taxi and I saw his license just before the ensuing melee broke out. Apparently people from Uzbekistan don't like Mongolians, which is what the taxicab driver was; it was quite the ballyhoo, but I digress..."

"You don't deal with people at the Department of Motor Vehicles; you deal with processes, do this, go there, submit form A and fill out form B. You are always right and you don't need a personality, you need to offer instructions clearly in a multitude of languages and keep the lines moving. With her unbearable personality, Miss Thomas will probably leave this planet a lonely old spinster, but at least she'll be able to support herself and provide a useful service to humanity."

"Mister Flynn..."

"Yes, Mister Sanders?"

Sanders sat back a moment. Reaching for the next file, he cleared his throat, "Robert Preston Hodges. Mister Hodges is a solid B student, enjoys sports and dreams of a career in politics. Your recommendation is that he becomes a bartender at a gay bar."

"It suits him..."

"Mister Flynn..."

"Mister Sanders, read the file. Mister Hodges is a solid B student because he memorizes answers. When you speak with him, he doesn't truly understand any of his subjects, he just memorizes what is in the book and spits it back. There is no thought process, just mental regurgitation, sir. He dreams of becoming a politician because he wants to be popular. When I asked him about becoming a politician, he could not even name a political party. When shown a picture of the Republican presidential candidate wearing a button with an elephant on it and asked to identify the individual, his guess was that it was the head of Disneyland because he had been there recently and had seen an elephant symbol which he believed advertised their new Dumbo ride."

"On the plus side, he is a nice looking young man, physically fit, with an excellent memory. If he worked at a gay bar, he could utilize his memory to remember drink orders and the proper ingredients to be used in a variety of cocktails. Being attractive, he would make good tips and despite being mentally dull, with the inclusion of alcohol to dull the minds of those around him to his obvious mental limitations, he would make many friends. Without wishing to sound as if I support stereotypes, I find that gay people, as a group, are amongst the most appreciative of attractive but mentally negligible young men. He would provide a service to society and make friends, Mister Sanders. Life does not have to be lonely, as it will be for people like the aforementioned Miss Thomas..."

"Mister Flynn," replied Mister Sanders with a shake of his head, "you can't be serious. This is the New York Department of Education! We are here to inspire young minds, to coax greatness out of humble beginnings..."

"Humble beginnings aside, Mister Sanders, you can't coax a grapefruit out of a walnut," smiled Mister Flynn shyly. "I have offered multiple opinions for serious students, for those who are interested in progressive education, for those who are more gifted in the mechanical arts than in the cultural expansion of their minds and those recommendations have met with no compliant. I sit in judgment all day long, Mister Sanders and after over twenty years on the job, well you begin, just begin, mind you, to learn things."

Sanders could not contain his curiosity, "What sort of things, Mister Flynn?"

Flynn relaxed slightly and smiled, "You begin to realize that the cup is never half empty, Mister Sanders. The size of the container does not matter, not in the least. Whatever is in there, is in there and THAT is what you have to work with, you see...You could put Einstein in a fifty-five gallon drum and he would have overflowed it, figuratively speaking, but some of the students I see would be hard to find in a thimble. To tell them they are destine for adequacy, never mind greatness, is to lie to them and is that what education is about? They come to me with dreams and aspirations that they are totally unsuited for and I'm the one who has to speak the truth to them. I understand it, I really do. It must be difficult for a parent who has invested so many dreams of their own to face the reality that their child isn't all they had hoped they would be. It must be painful as a teacher who has invested so much in their own education to sit back and realize that in spite of your best efforts, the tree stump in front of you is not going to grow. I am the safety valve, Mister Sanders; I'm the one who deflates the pressure..."

"We have parents calling us outraged..."

"Oh, they may BE outraged," chuckled Mister Flynn, "but it isn't because their children are scarred, it's because what they thought was a secret is out. If I were you and of course I'm not, I would call the parents in one by one along with the teachers and their neighbors. Then, in a closed meeting, have the neighbors and teachers tell the parents what their impressions of their children are truthfully. Oh, some will get upset to be sure, but that's because they were failed by the system into thinking they, themselves, were destine for greatness. It just doesn't do to keep lying to them, Mister Sanders...Why do you think the world is so full of frustration now a days?"

"Why?" asked Sanders.

"Because we were never meant to fit round pegs into square holes," replied Flynn happily. "We try to make all the different shapes fit square holes, you see. The same people who would look at a twisted tree and speak of its survival and growth in heroic terms will look down on a postman because he doesn't sit behind a desk. They accept that the trees grow in all shapes and sizes and then teach that they are all beautiful, but a person making an honest living working in a grocery store or as a security guard is valued less than a person in suit. Why is that? I've been short changed a few dollars at the grocery store, usually without malice but because of ignorance, but it was people in suits who stole my pension fund, so why should they be looked up too?"

Sanders sat quietly for a few minutes.

"Mister Flynn, despite what you say, I was sent here to do a job..."

***

The mayor sat alone behind his desk, his usual sour expression highlighting his features. The knock at the door annoyed him, but then again, everything annoyed him.

"Come in," he called out in his nasal whine.

Sanders entered, a file folder in his hand and stopped at a respectful distance from the desk. The mayor continued to peruse the papers he was looking at for several minutes before finally looking up at Sanders with contempt.

"Well?"

"I took care of the problem we had discussed earlier," replied Sanders, opening the file for one last look before handing it to the mayor who promptly dropped it on his desk to be ignored.

"The union didn't give you a hard time?"

"No," replied Sanders with a shake of his head. "The union was all for it..."

"Good," moaned the mayor, "good. Did you take care of that other problem I asked you to look into?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I did," smiled Sanders. "Pity about losing Sheila..."

"She's on to bigger and better things," replied the mayor sarcastically. "I'm sure the governor will be pleased to have her as his new press secretary..."

"Would you like to meet your new press secretary?" asked Sanders.

"Are they here?" asked the mayor in surprise. He was sure that it would be weeks before a decision would be made...

"He's waiting outside to begin," replied Sanders.

"Show him in," snapped the mayor, returning his attention to the papers on his desk.

Sanders smiled as he opened the door and gestured for the new employee to come in.

"This way, Mister Flynn," he smiled. "The mayor will see you now..."

### Deserves Another

Hans awoke, the angry sound of the battle roaring in his ears, forcing him to consciousness. Blinking hard, he forced his eyes to focus and his mind to assess his situation. A battery of heavy artillery opened up about a hundred feet from where he laid, the brilliant white flashes illuminating the area like a powerful strobe light. Hans raised his head and peered downward, encountering a view of his body in the flashing light that did not correspond with what he was feeling. The right side of his body appeared whole and normal but the left displayed a different view entirely. From the waist down, his left leg seemed to ooze dark liquid into his uniform pants which were dark and shattered, torn and spattered with mud. His leg, his shoe, his pants were revealed as a torn and mangled jumble, each flash confirming the growing realization of his true physical state.

"But I feel nothing," he muttered, "how odd."

His mind raced, detached and objective. This must be shock, he thought, the idea bursting upon his mind like the flashes that continued to rent the black night. His training instructions echoed in his head, summoning him to action.

"Yes, yes, I know what to do," he grumbled.

Removing his belt, he wrapped it tightly around his upper thigh to make a tourniquet. A piece of wood, he thought, a handle or a stick...As the guns flashed again, he spotted his shattered rifle lying next to him a short distance away. With the aid of his two arms and his good leg, he began to drag himself towards the largest piece that remained of the stock, the movement awakening the sensation of pain that the shock had blocked. Crying out, he struggled, obtaining the piece of wood and thrusting it beneath the belt. Twisting it, he felt his leg surge with heat and pain, throbbing, screaming pain, voicing its objections to his growing cognizance. For a few minutes the pain increased and then slowly, ever so slowly, it subsided to a dull, monotonous ache.

The ground around him erupted as the enemy began to return fire, each explosion, each jolting of the ground an increasing experience in agony. An enormous explosion rocked the earth and he peered to his right as an enormous fireball illuminated the sky. One of the artillery pieces had received a direct hit, shattering steel and mangling bodies and touching off multiple explosions as the ordinance caught fire.

"I will die here," said Hans quietly, a simple realization of a fact. He felt pain, but was not anxious. Death would find him as it had countless men on the battlefield; he need only wait a short time longer.

One of the remaining batteries began to fire defiantly, a last gasp against a superior enemy. As the flashes illuminated the area, Hans saw a small figure weaving its way towards him. With each flash it emerged from the all encompassing darkness. He stared as it drew closer, it couldn't be...

"Hans, we have to go."

Hans stared at the little boy's handsome face. He was seven, maybe eight years old, his clothes worn but clean, his blonde hair carefully combed, his blue eyes grave but friendly.

"Francis," whispered Hans, "what are you doing here? How did you..."

"Hans, we have to go," repeated the young boy. "Do you think you can walk?"

Hans shook his head, "My leg..."

The boy peered down at the leg and then around at the surround area. Spotting something off to the left, he darted off into the darkness.

Hans shook his head, how had the boy gotten here?

Francis emerged from the darkness just as the gun began to fire again, "Take this, I'll help you up. We have to go now."

Hans took the large piece of wood and struggled to rise, the boy pulling and pushing until he was upright. With one hand on the boy's shoulder and the piece of wood acting as a cane, Hans slowly made his way back towards the area that Francis had come from. Suddenly the air around them was a blinding white light and Hans felt himself thrown to the ground. Turning back, he saw pieces of the second artillery battery floating towards earth, steel and fire raining down. Nothing of the battery or of the area in which had been was left undamaged. He felt small hands grabbing his tunic and turned to see Francis, his face calm.

"We have to go, Hans."

They struggled again to get Hans to his feet and the two limped back into the darkness. The ground they were on began to sloop downwards, and the sky began to be obstructed by the branches of trees. Earlier in the day, fierce fighting had taken place in this area, destroying the forest and shattering the men who had been here. Hans could see images in the star light; grotesque images of men twisted in death, of body parts and machines, of broken ground and displaced greenery. Francis picked his way forward carefully over the ruins as they continued to flee the battle raging behind them. After a few hours, they came out on the far side of the forest to a clearing near a small stream.

"Do not drink of the stream;" said Francis softly, "it has been poisoned." Pointing across the stream, he said, "Safety is over that incline. We don't have much further to go, let's rest."

"Yes," said Hans, breathing deeply. "I need to rest."

Looking about, he found a large rock which he lowered himself onto, the pain in his leg almost intolerable. For a moment, all was pain, and then he looked again at the young boy.

"Francis, how did you get here?" he asked.

"I came to get you," replied the boy. "Mama needs you."

For a moment the pain was gone and Hans allowed himself to think of Maria. He had never wanted to be in the army, but when they had come to his village they had discovered his older brother John. John was slow and the SS men decided that one such as he had no right to life. As his parents watched, the SS men prepared to take away their oldest son, could do nothing to help him and then Hans had stood up and asked for the privilege of serving the Fuehrer. If he could take his brother's place, he stated enthusiastically, then his brother could stay behind and help his parents run their store.

"How old are you?" asked the officer.

"Eighteen," lied Hans. He was but seventeen, but he was tall and strong. The SS men had smiled and John had lived. Hans had gone into the army, had fought in Poland and then France and then Russia. He had seen his friends killed, had seen men freeze to death and starve to death, had seen them die in a thousand different ways. This boy who had never wanted to be a soldier, had never wished harm to anyone, had never wanted to kill.

In Russia he had been injured and sent home and then had been reassigned to a small village in Poland. He had earned his stripes and had men to command and orders to fulfill. He had been told to destroy a village, but had disobeyed, instead allowing the villagers to escape before putting the town to the torch. The reason for the order was because one of the villagers was married to a Polish Airman who had escaped to England. His name was Witold; his wife's name was Maria.

Maria was a year younger than Hans with large blue eyes and golden hair and a smile that made every day seem warm and filled with sunshine. When he had gone into her small home to seek her arrest, but really to tell her to run away, he had met a beautiful and gallant woman. He had tried not to show how he felt, had worked hard to suppress his feelings, but he had done all that he could to protect her and her young son, Francis. Twice more she had been in danger of capture and twice more Hans had interfered, getting her and her son to safety just in the nick of time.

Before he was reassigned to France to fight against the allied invasion, he had managed to get her a safe conduct pass under an assumed name. She had argued with him that he might be killed if they found out the pass was a forgery and she had gotten it from him, but he had insisted. She never asked him for anything, but had it been at his disposal, he would have given her the world. When he had left, he had hugged Francis good-bye and feeling that he would never see her again, had told Maria that he would most likely die, but that when he did, hers would be the last face he would think of.

He knew of the casualties, the long lines of refugees, the upheaval that the war had caused. How odd that Francis had found him, how odd that Maria would need him again. He doubted he would be able to do much for her, discipline was breaking down, panic was setting in, but if he could, he would do his best for her, he would do anything for her, even if it meant losing her to her husband once again. Looking down at Francis, he had so many questions to ask.

"How did you find me?" he asked.

"We followed the war in the newspapers," replied Francis softly. "We knew where you were, we prayed for you, just as we prayed for Papa."

Hans smiled, "Have you heard from him?"

"I was taken away," said Francis softly. "We were hiding and Mama and I got separated. They found me, but Mama got away. They took me away and I escaped and when I escaped, I found Papa. He was able to find out where Mama was... she needs help. I knew that you would help her, I knew you cared about her, and that you were a good man forced into a bad uniform. I told Papa and he said that we must find you."

"Where is your Papa?" asked Hans, looking around, expecting to see someone making their way out of the darkness.

"Papa escaped," replied Francis softly. "Come, we must go now, there are patrols in these woods."

Slowly the two made their way across the field, carefully picking their way through the broken earth until they had reached the crest of the small hill. A line of vehicles was moving slowly along the road; Hans could hear it more than see it in the dying star light.

"This way," said Francis, picking his way down the hill.

Hans felt the surging pain in his leg, the incline making it more painful and difficult to move, but he continued to follow the boy until they had reached the edge of the road.

"HALT!" bellowed a rough voice.

Hans turned towards the voice, unsure of what to say or do.

"PUT YOUR HANDS UP!" ordered the voice, but Hans just looked at the man, unsure of what he was saying. Slowly the man moved towards him while others dropped down from the trucks and circled Hans, who finally understood and put the arm not holding the supporting piece of wood up in the air.

"He's wounded sarge," yelled one of the men, shining a light on Hans.

"Do you speak English?" asked the sergeant, drawing closer and speaking deliberately.

"American?" asked Hans softly.

"American," nodded the sergeant.

"I speak little English," replied Hans, oddly not frightened by his captors. "The boy bring me."

"What boy?" asked the sergeant, flashing his light around the area, but seeing nothing.

"Francis," called out Hans. "Francis!" There was no response. "He may be frightened, he bring me this way."

"Put him on the truck," said the sergeant, "I think he's crazy, loss of blood. Get the medics to take a look at him."

The other soldier nodded and gestured Hans towards the back of a truck. Hans hobbled to the back where a group of G.I.'s sat along the truck's two sides. Pulling him up onto the truck, they laid him down in the middle as they searched his pockets.

"He's got nothing on him," they shouted as the truck took off back down the road.

What would happen to Francis, thought Hans. He was probably scared, he might think that Hans was angry with him for leading him here, but that wasn't true. As the truck bounced along the road, the pain in Hans' leg grew until it was almost intolerable and then, it suddenly seemed to stop. Suddenly, Hans no longer cared what happened to him. He wished he had been able to help Maria, he would search her out and Francis and Witold. He would be their friend after the war, he thought, all of them friends, all of them at peace. Yes, he loved Maria, but he wanted her to be happy. They would all be happy together, all happy...with that, Hans blacked out.

***

Hans awoke slowly, his thoughts disjointed, his eyes heavy. It took what seemed like hours for him to wake up. He was in a bed and in a room filled with beds, filled with men, some of whom milled about quietly, some nervously, some slowly. A doctor made his way to Hans' side and felt his pulse. In bad German, he asked him how he felt. Hans shrugged, unsure of how he felt.

"My leg hurts a little..."

"You had a lot of shrapnel in your leg," replied the doctor. "You were lucky, if you had been out there much longer, you would have died."

"How long have I been here?" asked Hans.

"Three days," replied the doctor.

"Did they find the boy?" asked Hans.

The doctor looked at him, his eyes serious, "I don't know anything about a boy. You were the only one they brought in. They were on their way to the front; there was no boy with them."

Hans nodded. He would need to find out where he had been picked up and then he would have to try and find Francis and Maria and Witold. He would have to find them all.

"Is the war over?" he asked hopefully.

The doctor smiled, "Soon, I think. Forget about the war, you won't be going back to it."

Hans smiled, "I hope you are right. I pray you are right."

***

It was a month since Hans had arrived at the hospital. The war was over, a fact that he rejoiced in, even though he felt a fear of all that would be new. It seemed they would let him leave, but who knew if the victors were as truly generous as he had been led to believe. He spent more and more time in the garden, his leg growing stronger and less painful each day. An American officer had come to him and taken down his information. He had explained about Maria and Francis and Witold and the officer had said he would make inquiries, but so far, he had been unable to provide any additional information. Hans had received a letter from his mother. His father had been badly injured in an air raid, but she and John were fine and they hoped that the Americans would release him soon and allow him to come home.

The officer whom he had spoken to arrived one day and explained that he would be processed and prepared for release.

"Do you know where you are going?" asked the officer.

"I was hoping that I would be allowed to go home," replied Hans. "My father has been injured and our store has been damaged. When I am strong enough, I could assist my mother and father and my brother."

The officer nodded, taking down the information.

"I'll see that you are processed shortly," he replied. "From what the doctors tell me, you will be able to go soon. I can tell there is no reason to delay your release when you are certified healthy. We had several inquiries regarding you and several sworn statements regarding your kindness and generosity towards those of whom you were placed in charge."

"I never wanted to be a soldier," said Hans softly.

"Those who don't usually make the best kind," smiled the officer. "I'll send the processing people by in a day or two."

"Thank you," replied Hans, touching the man's arm as he rose. "I am sorry, but have you heard anything about the people of whom I had spoken to you? The little boy, his mother and father..."

"There are so many displaced children, I'm afraid we haven't tracked down the boy you had asked about," replied the officer, checking his paper work. "I do have some information regarding the mother..."

"You have found Maria?" asked Hans excitedly.

"Yes, sort of," replied the officer. "She is in a medical camp about fifteen miles from here. She was freed from a concentration camp about two months ago. I can't be sure that she is still there, but I can make further inquiries..."

"Yes, please if you could," replied Hans. "I know that her husband, he escaped and was with her son, I am sure she is very worried. If I could tell her that I had seen them, or maybe they are with her already..."

"I'll contact the people at the camp and see if I can't get more information," replied the officer. "In the meantime, relax and try to feel better."

"Thank you, sir," replied Hans warmly. "That is good news, GOOD news!"

***

The army truck bounced along slowly moving east, the soldiers joking and relaxed. Hans sat in the middle of the group, smiling at his former captors, many of whom had come to view him as a friend.

"You boys put up a hell of a fight right up until the end," remarked a tall, thin soldier with a southern drawl. "I was glad when your Fuehrer shot himself in the head, sped everything up right nice!"

"He was a bad man," stated Hans. "He fooled many people. Thank God he is no more..."

"Hey, Hans, this is it, Sector A Medical, this is your stop," stated one of the other soldiers cheerfully.

As Hans made his way out of the truck, the soldiers handed him candy and cigarettes and wished him well. He thanked them all and jumped to the ground as the truck slowed to a crawl. Once he was out, it sped up and he waved to all of his friends as he stood in the middle of the road. Looking up he saw the large green and white sign, Sector A Medical Unit. Moving towards the gate, he was stopped by a large MP.

"Major Walters called for me," stated Hans, feeling about his tunic and finally finding the papers that major had given him. "He said I may come and see my friend."

The MP frowned as he read the papers, finally opening the gate and waving Hans through.

"Go to the first building on the right," snapped the MP. "They'll tell you what to do there."

"Thank you, mister," replied Hans. "I go."

Walking down the dusty road, he made his way to the first building. At one time, it must have been a school, thought Hans, but it had been taken over by the victors and now it was being used as a hospital.

Entering the building, Hans found a woman at the front desk dressed in an American Army uniform. Handing her the papers, he asked if Maria were still there. Checking her list, she nodded and directed him down the hall to Unit Three.

As he grew closer to Maria, he noticed that his breath was more rapid and his heart had begun to race. He would see her again; finally, he would see her again. A nurse appeared in the hallway and confronted him, but he quickly explained that he was there to see one of the patients and she let him go with a grimace. Upon reaching Unit Three, he found a desk with several nurses busily working behind it. In a moment, they directed him to Maria's room, a large room at the end of the hall that she shared with six other women.

Tentatively, Hans entered the room and slowly walked down the main corridor between two rows of beds. In the far corner on the right hand side was Maria, sitting up in bed, her eyes closed. Hans made his way to her bedside and silently sat down, not wishing to disturb her. After a short time, her eyes fluttered open. For a moment, she stared at him as though looking at a ghost and then she broke into a radiant smile.

"Hans! Hans, it is you!"

He smiled at her and rose, leaning down to give her an awkward hug.

"How are you?" he asked, holding her tightly for a moment and then forcing himself to release her.

"Much better," she replied, "much, much better. How are you? How did you know where I was?"

"I was wounded in the last days," he replied, standing next to her bed and holding her hand. "I almost died; I WOULD have died if Francis had not gotten me to the Americans. They patched me up and I made some inquiries..."

"Francis?" she asked. "Francis who?"

"Your son Francis," replied Hans. "He came to me and told me that you needed me. He helped me to walk to the American line..."

"You SAW Francis?" she cried. "Where? Where did you see my Francis?"

"He came to me on the battlefield," replied Hans. "Didn't you send him to me?"

She shook her head, "I have not seen Francis in almost a year. When we were arrested, they put us on a train and sent us to the camp, but at the camp, they separated us. I tried to look for him when the camp was liberated, but I was too weak, they had starved me almost to death."

"He said that he had escaped with his father, that Witold had escaped..."

Maria's eyes filled with tears, "No, Hans, no, he could not have escaped with his father. I received a letter just before they arrested us...Witold died in the air over France. He was shot down..."

Hans shook his head, flustered, "Maybe I am wrong, Maria, maybe I misunderstood. Please, I don't mean to upset you, please remember I was hurt when he came to me, my leg, it was very bad and there had been the most frightful explosions, my hearing might have been compromised..."

"Have you seen him since?" asked Maria.

"No," replied Hans. "I have made many inquiries but no one has seen him. There are many children who have been misplaced, we will find him..."

Maria swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and then took Hans' hand in her own.

"Thank you, Hans, for coming to see me. They say that I should be well enough in a week or so to go back home, whatever is left of home now..."

"I have heard from my mother. My father is ill but she and my brother are well. I will write to them and tell them that I am stopping here with you until you are able to leave. We can travel together that way and in the meantime, I will make inquiries about Francis."

"Oh Hans, I couldn't impose..."

"It is no imposition, I will do it gladly," smiled Hans. "Now Maria, why don't you rest a bit, I will wait here until you fall asleep."

He watched as she leaned back in the bed and waited until her breathing indicated that she was sleeping. He looked at the beautiful face, pale and perfect. He felt ashamed of his feelings, she is just a widow and you think of courting her, he scolded himself. The world is upside down and you want to try and make a life? Shaking his head, he rose and made his way out of the ward.

***

The officer looked up at Hans and Maria and shook his head. He had come to like both of them very much which made what he had to say so much harder. Closing the door to his office, he walked slowly to his place behind the desk and then silently pulled out several papers from a folder. Leafing through the pages, he pulled out a photo and pushed it across the desk towards Maria.

"Is this your son?" he asked quietly.

Maria's eyes filled with tears as she looked at the photo, "Yes, yes this is Francis; this is my little boy..."

Hans looked over at the photo and smiled, such a fine boy, always such a fine boy. He owed him his life and now...

"Your son was killed the day after you arrived at the camp," stated the officer, casting his eyes downwards. "The Gestapo records are quite complete, there can be no doubt. I am sorry Maria, with all my heart, I am sorry..."

Maria stared at the officer as if he had gone mad.

"But he was with Hans..."

"He couldn't have been with Hans," he replied. "He died over a year before Hans supposedly saw him..."

"I know what I saw," snapped Hans suddenly. "It was Francis! He helped me up, he told me to come, that Maria needed me! I know it was him!"

"I'm sorry Hans," replied the officer. "It could not have been Francis, here, look at the papers. You can read German; it's all here in black and white."

Hans looked at the writing, ashamed that he could read it, ashamed that it was written in his native tongue, that the words were in the language that he had sung hymns in and had told jokes in.

"I'm sorry," repeated the officer as Maria began to cry.

Standing, Hans put his arms around her and held her as she wailed at the loss of her son.

"You are sure," he said softly to the officer.

The officer shook his head, "I'm sorry, there can be no doubt..."

***

Maria sat just inside the door of the store, watching as Hans helped his brother John remove more rubble from the ruined interior. The communists had closed off Poland to her and now, she had nowhere to go. The army had offered to send her to America, but she knew no one there and without her husband and son, there was no point in going anywhere. Life had lost its meaning, it had to be lived but why, she had no idea.

Hans sauntered up to her and smiled, his face glistening with sweat.

"We're almost done clearing out the place," he remarked happily. "It was once the finest store in the country and it will be again, once we fix it up and get some supplies."

She forced a smile, "I am happy for you Hans, you deserve to be happy. I wish you and your family all the happiness in the world."

Taking a seat next to her, he spoke softly, "You deserve to be happy also, Maria. It is what Witold and Francis would have wanted for you."

She nodded, "It is not so easy, Hans. I have no family and now, I have no country. I can go back to nothing and I have nothing to go forward towards. In time perhaps something will show me what I should do, but for now..." She lifted her hands and dropped them helplessly.

"You are a good woman, Maria," he stated, taking her hands into his own. "You must give yourself time to heal. It has been a terrible trial and it will not be easy now, but the dawn will rise again, you will see, you will see..."

***

Han's mother was a tall, thin, stern looking woman with an unsmiling face who spoke very little. Despite her formidable demeanor, she was a kindhearted person who noticed all that took place around her. Maria had been staying with them for a month now and even a mother could not help but notice how he looked at her. She had waited until they were alone, when the men had gone to the market to look for supplies to reopen the store and it was just the two of them. Now was her chance and she would speak her piece and then, she would mind her business.

Maria was sitting near the fire knitting when Hans' mother entered the small living room and sat down on the small chair next to her. The two women sat together for a few moments before the mother spoke in a firm, quiet voice.

"I believe my son," she stated.

Maria looked up, unsure of what the elderly woman meant.

"I believe him."

Maria shrugged, "Believe him about what?"

"I believe my son saw your son," she stated quietly. "Hans was wounded, I know this and I understand it, but I believe he saw your son just as I am seeing you here and now."

Maria looked down, "My son died almost a year..."

"I did not say that your son living amongst us," replied the older woman. "I do not doubt what you have been told and I have no wish to give you false hope, that would be cruel and I have no wish to be cruel to anyone, especially to you." Maria looked up, unsure of what the older woman could be trying to say. "I believe that your son came to my son to repay a kindness. You have said that my son was kind to you and I believe it to be true. I have never been prouder of him than to learn that he worked to save people during what happened, never have I been prouder. When he was in need, your son came to him to repay that kindness. Your son said he and his father had escaped and I believe that as well. When we die, we escape this life, escape to a better place, I believe that most of all. I believe that is where your husband and child are and I believe that they wanted to save my Hans for a very important reason. They wanted to save him so that he might care for you for the rest of his life. They could not rest until they knew that your future was secured and that is why he saved my Hans. Francis saved my son so that you could save one another. That is what I believe with all my heart."

Maria shook her head, "Hans has always been my friend..."

"And who better to have as a husband than a friend?" asked the mother. "You cannot be unaware of how he feels..."

Maria looked at her, startled, "How he feels? He has said nothing..."

"It would be improper," replied the mother coldly. "You have been a widow for so short a time, you are vulnerable and alone, it would not be right to press his suit now, but I tell you, a mother knows and if you were not so distracted, you would have seen. You are a smart woman, a good woman." She lowered her gaze, "I am pleased with my son's choice, especially if you are pleased by it. I have never had a daughter; it would be nice to have another woman in the house, someone who could understand..." Looking up, she offered Maria the briefest of smiles, "If I have spoken out of turn, I am sorry, but you need to know how things truly are, you have a future to plan, a life to live. The worse thing in the world is to believe you are alone. You are not alone, Maria. You have a family, this family, if you want it."

Again, she offered the younger woman a slight smile and rising, she retreated to her bedroom and closed the door, leaving Maria alone by the fire.

***

Hans stood on the deck of the ship between his mother and his wife and watched as the shores grew smaller in the twilight.

"First England and then to America," he said wistfully. "It won't be easy, we will have to work hard, but I cannot wait to get there."

Maria smiled at him and snuggled closer to him, "We will be fine. With all of us together, we will make a life there and we will have enough."

"We have the money from selling the store," stated the mother. "We are not afraid of hard work and the Americans have always been kind to us. Most important, we are not alone, that is most important of all."

Hans hugged his wife closer and staring up at the sky, began to see the stars as dusk began to give way to night.

"Thank you, Francis," he murmured softly. "Thank you and your father. I promise to do my best for her always..."

He smiled as he listened to the sound of the waves wafting from the side of the boat. Listening closely, he could almost hear a voice say, "You are welcome..."

Don't Speak

Joe Atkins sat in the driveway, waiting for his upstairs neighbor Alan Sampson. He hated Alan Sampson, hated the fact that he lived in what should be his house, hated that he and his wife were friends with his father-in-law, the landlord. There was no man he hated more and that was saying a lot in regards to Joe Atkins because he hated everyone. Running a shaking hand through his gray beard he took another swig out of his ever present beer bottle and peered down the driveway through the growing haze of evening. It was so hot, why the hell did it have to be so hot? He'd make that fat son of a bitch pay for making him wait outside in this heat, make him pay...wait, was that a car door?

Alan Sampson appeared at the head of the driveway, a large, balding man with thick glasses. He moved slowly down the driveway, head down searching for his house keys.

"You fat bastard," spat Atkins. "You fat shit!"

Sampson looked up and moaned, "Oh God, what do you want now you old drunk?"

"I saw what you did!" snapped Atkins. "You didn't cut your recycling boxes small enough!"

Sampson shook his head and continued to make his way towards the stairs leading to his front door. If he could just get inside, away from this drunken idiot all would be well. It had been such a long day, the car had given him trouble, his boss was being an ass and now this stupid old drunk was screaming at him again. He looked at Atkins, as he struggled to rise from the beach chair he had placed in the driveway. He was tall, about sixty, with dirty gray hair and a gray beard that turned yellow near his mouth, the result of his incessant smoking.

Atkins staggered down the driveway, blocking Alan's path, his eyes trying to focus their hatred on him. He pointed his shaking finger at him and began to swear.

"Bastard, shit faced bastard! What are you going to do about those boxes?" he screamed, his beer soaked breath stinking in Alan's nose.

"I'm not going to a damn thing about it," replied Alan, losing his temper. "I'm tired of you and your complaints, I don't cut the boxes small enough, I use too much water, I park my car near the house, well screw you! You have a problem, take it up with the landlord; he's your father-in-law, not mine!"

Pushing past Atkins, he continued toward the stairs leading to his apartment.

"You fat bastard," screeched Atkins, stumbling to pursue. "You fat asshole, I'll get you thrown out! I'll see you on the street!"

Alan slipped inside his door and slammed it shut, taking the stairway up to his second floor apartment. He would have to run the gauntlet yet again when he went to pick up his wife in an hour. He hated that man. Opening his apartment door, he saw his wife's picture on the wall across from him. He smiled, he had been lucky; he had married the love of his life. Shaking his head, he stared at the apartment, if he only made more money, he'd take them away from here; take them away from the drunks downstairs and the constant arguments over nothing...

Alan prayed softly, "God forgive me, but I really do hate that man..."

***

John Morrow sat at his kitchen table, eyes down, listening to his son-in-law's drunken ranting once again. John was a nice man, a good fellow who had raised his children, worked hard and tried to do the right thing. His life had been long and hard and while he had many happy memories to think back on, his daughter marrying Joe Atkins was not one of them. He could not understand why she had married the old braggart, could not fathom the attraction between them.

Rising, he peered out his window as his son-in-law continued to stand outside his tenant's door, screaming obscenities at him. He thought of his daughter, Jill. She had been a quiet girl, overshadowed by her older sister and brother, but always affectionate, always loving. She had been a wonderful daughter until she had hit her teen years and the drinking started.

Jill had spent many hours in the local bar, hours John couldn't understand, what was the attraction? He and his late wife had done everything they could think of to keep her interested in the world outside of the bar, but she always ended back there, hanging out with older losers, making bad decisions and then she met Joe Atkins. He was a loud mouthed drunk who thought the world owed him a life. He worked as a security guard at the local mall, smoking cigarettes and telling his colleagues that he had retired from the police force. What was true, what wasn't true, who could tell? John had caught him in so many lies... what had she been thinking? Almost twenty years older than she was, he was closer to John's age than Jill's...

Peering out into the growing darkness, he heard his son in law stagger back into the house. No sense trying to talk to him now, he was too far gone. Wait until morning; he would wait until morning...

***

"But Daddy, he started it," whined Jill, lying for her spouse yet again. "All Joe did was ask him to cut the boxes smaller..."

"Enough," snapped John, finally losing his temper. Turning to the two men who stood glaring at each other, he raised his voice, something he rarely did, "I've had enough of you two, and I'm tired of all the fighting!"

"If you're tired of the fighting then throw him out," snapped Joe. "I'm your son-in-law. How do you think it makes me feel when you keep taking his side..."

"Enough!" repeated John. "If I hear one more word, I'm selling the damn house and don't think I won't!"

Both men gave him their full attention. Alan and his wife had lived in the house for fifteen years and while they genuinely loved and respected John, they also needed the apartment. There were no other apartments on this side of town at this price, if John sold the house, Alan knew the rent would go up and he would have to move to an even worse neighborhood.

For his part, Joe knew that the house had been promised to his wife upon her father's death. Part of the reason he had married her was so that he could finally own a house and now, that fat bastard was putting that all in jeopardy. Besides, John paid all of the bills in the house, if they had to move, it would be more than he could afford.

"From now on, I don't want the two of you to speak to each other, do you understand?" asked John. "Not one word, not one syllable. If either of you is on fire, I don't want the other to say so..."

"If he were on fire, you wouldn't hear a peep out of me," stated Joe.

"Fine, not one word then," stated John angrily. "If I hear either of you say so much as "Hi" to the other, I will sell the house, do you both understand?"

Both men nodded.

"Very well," said John.

"Very well," said Alan softly. "If that's all you wanted, John, I'll be going home."

"That's all," said John.

Alan turned and left, leaving John with his daughter and son-in- law. Joe moved to open his mouth, but John stopped him with an upraised hand.

"Not a word," he said seriously. "Not a syllable or I WILL sell the house."

***

It had been three months since he had to exchange words with the drunk downstairs and Alan could not have been happier. John asked him every month when he went to pay rent if there had been any words exchanged and he reported truthfully that though seeing each other was unavoidable; they had not exchanged a word since that night. Alan was a happy man, silence was indeed golden.

In contrast, Joe Atkins was a very unhappy man. There was no outlet for his ever growing rage and he wanted nothing more than to scream at his adversary, to tell that fat bastard what he would do to him if he could, but every time he was about to lose his temper, he looked at the house and shrank from it. He wanted the house, wanted it badly. He had married his whining, stupid wife to get the house and he wasn't going to lose it by saying something stupid, even though it was his natural inclination.

Sitting in his favorite chair, drink in hand, he stared across at his wife and grimaced.

"I can hear that fat son of a bitch walking around upstairs," he began. "I can't believe your father took his side..."

"Don't get upset Joe," she began soothingly. "Daddy just wanted peace and quiet, he really didn't take his side..."

"Why don't you shut up?" he roared. He watched her cower, head down. "You're father took his side, stupid bastard. He had the perfect opportunity to throw him out, to get rid of the problem, but no, he can't do that to his "friends". No instead we have to suffer; we have to put up with their fat asses..."

"You want another beer Joe?" she asked softly.

Rising unsteadily, he peered down at her in anger.

"I'm going to the bar," he grumped. "At least you can have an intelligent conversation there..."

Rising, she put on her coat and met him at the doorway.

"Go ahead," he grumped as she opened the door and headed towards the car.

***

Upstairs, Alan's wife Gale looked down at the couple through the curtains, careful not to be seen.

"It's not Wednesday," she remarked casually.

Alan looked at her, "I'm sorry dear, what?"

"I just said it wasn't Wednesday." Alan looked at her, not comprehending. "They just went out, usually Wednesday is bar night."

"Oh," he replied with a slight chuckle. "Yeah, usually Wednesday is bar night because Thursday is pay day. Drink what ever is left over from the prior week's paycheck I guess..."

"Has he been bothering you?" she asked softly.

"Best three months of my life," replied Alan. "Haven't heard a peep out of him; still it's been tough on John I'd imagine."

"I hate that he's caught in the middle," agreed Gale. "It's so sad, I used to really like Jill, now she won't even look at me never mind talk to me."

"She's too afraid of him," he replied. "I wonder if he abuses her, she just cowers whenever he talks to her..."

"Do you think he does?"

Alan shrugged, "I don't know, he looks like every wife beater I've seen in every movie EVER, but I've never heard anything and these walls are as thin as paper."

"True," she replied. "It's an unpleasant thought though. I don't wish anyone harm, but the world would be a better place without him in it."

"Just keep your voice down when you say things like that, we can't afford to move, not yet."

***

"Why don't you go home, Joe," asked the bartender for the tenth time. "Jill left over two hours ago..."

"Fuck her," he slobbered, "stupid bitch. She's such an asshole, don't know why I married her, always whining and complaining..."

"You married her for the house," laughed the bartender. "Everyone knows it, you've said it often enough."

Joe suddenly looked panicked, "Keep your fucking voice down, her old man might hear you..."

"He ain't here," laughed the bartender. "Good lord, you really are a drunk, ain't you?"

Joe reared back, venom in his eyes, "Fuck you! No one calls me a drunk, NO ONE! That fat fuck calls me a drunk and I'm gonna get that bastard!"

"You ain't gonna get nobody," laughed the bartender. "You're always talking about what you're gonna do, but you don't do shit."

"Yeah," snapped one of the other patrons, "you're always talking shit. You ain't got the balls to fuck with that guy."

"Fuck you, I'll take him out right now!" snapped Atkins. "I'll kick his ass right here, right now!"

The others just kept laughing as he struggled to his feet and staggered out the door.

"What do you think, Bob?" yelled one of the men. "You think he'll finally grow a pair and do something?"

"Well, his beer muscles are in place," laughed the bartender, "but I'm sure he'll sober up enough not to get his ass kicked by that guy when he gets home. He'll come up with some excuse, AGAIN!"

The bar broke into a huge round of laughter that trailed Atkins down the street.

***

Staring at the weaving lights of the oncoming cars he felt the unsteadiness of the sidewalk as he struggled to make his way home. He would knock on that fat fucks door and punch him dead in the face, POW, right in the face! God, he couldn't wait to see the look on his face as he fell back with a broken nose and hit the floor. He'd get up on that fat stomach of his and start wailing on him and he'd damn near kill that fat prick. His eyes blinked as he tried to focus on the sidewalk, it seemed to be moving all over the place, stupid sidewalk.

"Where the fuck is the house?" he spat to himself. "Stupid bitch must have moved the house...it's supposed to be my house, damn it!"

Finally, he arrived at the front gate. He could see that the lights were out in both the upstairs and downstairs apartments. Good, good, Jill had gone to bed so she wouldn't hear anything. If "Daddy" asked her anything, the stupid cow could truthfully say that she didn't hear her Joe say a word, not that she would ever say anything, she knew better than to open her mouth. Staggering through the back gate, he headed towards Alan Simpson's door. He would surprise that fat shit, he'd be half asleep and he would just punch him right in the face when he opened the door. That would teach that piece of shit not to talk to him: that would teach him!

Staggering up the stairs, he leaned hard on the buzzer and waited. Nothing happened. He punched the buzzer again and waited, again, nothing happened.

"Fat fuck sleeps like a log," he grumbled.

Staggering backwards, he stumbled out into the yard and began looking for rocks to throw at his adversary's windows. Finding a good one, he reared back and launched it through the back window. Suddenly, an alarm went off, he had forgotten about the alarm system that John had placed in the house last year. He and Jill never used theirs; it was too much trouble to operate when you couldn't see the number pad to shut it off. The sudden noise caused him to stumble backwards and pitch onto the lawn. He could see the lights turning on in the apartment upstairs.

A few moments later, he heard footsteps running down the driveway, a flashlight waving a beam of light that grew larger and larger as the footsteps drew nearer.

Peering down at the crumpled figure, John shook his head and then raised the flashlight, examining the damage that had been caused to the window. He saw Alan peering out the window and down at his son in law lying on the lawn.

"What the hell is going on?" snapped Alan.

"Just stay inside," replied John. "I'll handle this..."

Within a few minutes, a police car pulled up and he went to meet the officers.

"What's the problem?" asked the cop in the passenger seat.

"Some kid threw a rock through the window upstairs, triggered the alarm," explained John.

"You see which way he went?"

"He ran out the back towards the street on the other side," replied John.

"Is everyone okay?" asked the cop who was driving.

"Everyone's fine, I'm the landlord, my daughter lives downstairs..."

As if on cue, Jill appeared in a tattered bathrobe at the front door, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

"Is everything okay?" she whined.

"Yeah, fine, go back to bed," replied John. Holding up a remote control, he showed the officers, "I got this, it shuts off the alarm." With a push of the button, the house grew still. "I'll have to go up and fix that window, then I'll reset the alarm, sorry to trouble you guys."

"No problem," replied the cops. "Have a good night."

John waved as they left and then retreated to his house down the block. He had a piece of wood in the garage that would just cover that window. Returning to the house, he knocked on the door to the apartment. Alan opened the door, his eyes filled with hatred and frustration. He stood with a broom in his hand.

"I've got a board to cover the broken window," stated John. "Tomorrow, I'll have the guy come and fix it; it's too late to do anything else."

Following Alan upstairs, he nodded to Gale who stood in her bathrobe glaring at him. As he put up the board, he peered into the darkness, barely able to make out the outline of his son-in-law on the ground below. With a shake of his head, he finished his job.

"Well," said Alan quietly when he had finished.

"Look, I know it's upsetting," replied John, "but there is nothing I can do at the moment. Give me the evening to think about what I'm going to do..."

"We should have told the cops the truth," fumed Gale. "Let them take his drunken ass in. I'm sorry John, but this is ridiculous..."

"I'm sorry too Gale," said John sincerely, "I don't know what to do. Please, give me the night to think it over and we can talk tomorrow..."

Alan just shrugged, too frustrated to speak for a moment.

"Fine," he stated angrily. "Fine, we'll talk about it in the morning."

He followed John down the stairs to lock the door. Lumbering down the stairs, John reached the outer door and looked into the backyard. He was going to apologize again to Alan when he heard a drunken, disoriented voice, slurring softly to him.

"Helf me, helf me..."

Turning his flashlight on the sound, he could see his son-in-law laid out in the grass. The left side of his face appeared as if it had melted, the eye lid and the corner of the mouth drooped downward making the face staring at him look lopsided.

"Helf me," repeated the face, the eyes unable to focus. "Helf me you faf fup..."

John stared at him a moment and then turned back towards Alan. Glancing back at the house, John could see that all of his daughter's lights were out; she had gone back to bed. Alan moved to step out of the door when John stopped him with an outstretched hand. Turning back to the figure, he hesitated a moment.

"Go back to bed, Alan," he said over his shoulder.

"But he's..."

"I told you not to speak to him," stated John. "Go back to bed..."

Alan stood, unsure of what to do.

"Go to bed," replied John. "If you speak to him, I'll sell the house."

Alan stood, unsure. After a moment, he backed into the hallway and closed the door, leaving John on the stairs alone.

John looked down at the figure in the grass and made a decision. Shutting off the flashlight, he walked up the driveway as the voice swore weakly at him. Closing the gate behind him, John headed home.

***

The funeral was poorly attended, besides some distant relatives looking for a free meal, there was John, Jill and a few of the bar crowd present and no one else. Jill sat in her black sweatshirt and black stretch pants, crying piteously as her friends got up to leave her father's house where the buffet after the funeral had been served. John sat at the head of the table saying very little, just hoping that these people wouldn't steal his silverware when they left.

An hour later, Jill returned home to mourn and to leave John to clean up the mess her friends had made. As he began clearing the table, he heard a knock on his back door. Sauntering over, he opened it, a bit surprised to see Alan standing there with an envelope in his hand.

"Hey John," he said softly as John gestured him in. "We didn't think it would be right to go to the funeral, but we wanted to give you this, it's a mass card. I'm sorry for Jill and for you..."

"Not so much for him, though," replied John wistfully.

Alan entered the kitchen and took a seat, looking at his friend, "I won't insult you, John. You know I didn't like the man. I didn't wish him any harm, but at the risk of being disrespectful, I'm not going to miss him either."

"Well, I don't know if I'd be too upset over losing someone who'd broken my window and called me names for the past few years," replied John as he pulled out a bottle of Seagram whiskey and poured a shot. "Like to join me?"

"I'm more of a vodka man when I drink," replied Alan.

John moved to the sideboard and pulled out a bottle of vodka and poured out a shot, handing it to Alan. Raising his glass, John offered his friend a slight smile, "Here's to not speaking..."

### Kriminals for Kids

"And of course, the donation is tax deductible," stated Susan, her voice enthusiastic and chipper.

"I don't know, miss," replied the man on the other end. "Would it be possible to get some information sent to me? I'm sure you do good work and all, but I've never heard of you..."

"Certainly, I'd love to send you out an information package," replied Susan. "Here at Kriminals for Kids, we love to let people know what we are up too."

The man's voice softened, "Thank you. I look forward to reading your material."

After obtaining the man's information, Susan hung up. A hand gently tapped her shoulder and she looked up to see Martha, her boss and the company founder standing beside her.

"Susan, I hate to ask, but could you take the desk for an hour? We're a little short handed today..."

"Not problem Martha, sure thing," smiled Susan as she removed her headset and placed it gingerly on the desk. A moment later she was at the main reception desk, peering out the plate glass windows that looked out onto Main Street.

A few minutes later, a gruff looking man of about fifty entered the door. He wore a baseball cap and had a thick, red face. Short and stocky, he looked like he might have been a prize fighter in his youth and he still appeared to be a pretty tough customer. Marching up to the reception desk he peered down at Susan, who offered him a lovely smile.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I'm curious," he stated. "I've been past this place a hundred times and I don't know what the hell it is, so I decided today I'm coming in and finding out. What the hell is Kriminals for Kids?"

Susan beamed at him, "Well sir, Kriminals for Kids is a non-profit organization created in order for career criminals to give back to the community. A lot of career criminals don't feel that their time in prison was a true payback to society for the wrongs they did and often, they feel that they can do a lot more good now that they have been reintegrated into society, especially for the weakest members of society, the children."

"So you've got to have been locked up to work here?" he asked with a laugh. "What did you do time for?"

Susan laughed, "No, sir. We raise money here for various programs that enable former criminals to create new opportunities for neighborhood children. If you look at the wall over there, you'll get an idea of some of what we do from the pictures. See the first one, the people there are having a fundraiser. Those were taken last year at our annual barbeque, we raised six thousand dollars. Our volunteers, all former criminals, donated their time and using the six thousand dollars to purchase materials, they rebuilt the Lititz Park Playground."

The man's heavy face broke into a small smile, "That's wonderful...and they all volunteered their time?"

"Yes sir, all sixty members of the work team volunteered their time and services to make the world a slightly better place for children."

The man nodded, peering at the pictures, seeing the stories they told. There were some guys who must have once been bikers from all the tattoos they leading a group of little kids to a new swing set that it appeared they had built. And there was another set of photos showing some pretty tough looking customers cleaning up a vacant lot. By the end of the pictures, there was a huge group of kids skateboarding in the same location.

"You know, I'm glad I stopped in," he stated. "Can I make a donation here, with you?"

"Certainly," smiled Susan. "How much would you like to donate?"

"I'm sorry, it ain't much," replied the man. "I got ten dollars, will that do?"

"Certainly," replied Susan. "We appreciate any amount you can spare."

The man opened his wallet and took out the ten dollars and handed it over the counter.

"I'm going to tell people about what you're doing," said the man with a smile, "I think it's great!"

"Let me give you a receipt," replied Susan. "All donations are tax deductible..."

"Naw," said the man with a suddenly shy wave, "you keep it. Take care now..."

"Thank you sir," she replied. "Have a great day!"

The man walked out of the building feeling pretty good; after all, he had helped both children and people who were looking to rejoin society. Not a bad deal for ten bucks, he chuckled. He never saw the two large men who wandered into the lobby of the building after he had left.

The two men were dressed identically, black boots, black jeans, black sleeveless t-shirts, black bandanas wrapped around their heads. They wore dark sunglasses and their skin was decorated with violent cartoons in dark, green ink. Sauntering up to the reception desk, the taller of the two smiled.

"Hey Susan," he said in a voice that betrayed a lifetime of smoking, "the boss lady in?"

"Martha was just headed back to her office last I saw her," replied Susan happily. "Why don't you and Skull go on back?"

"Thanks," replied the taller man.

The two men made their way back past the reception desk and through the doors that led to a corridor that took them to Martha's office. With a respectful knock, they waited for her to reply, which she did a moment later.

Entering her small, tidy office, the two men stood before her desk, hands clasped in front of them as Martha finished her phone call. Gesturing them to chairs, she nodded and then wished the other party a good day before hanging up and breaking into a large smile.

"Ratt, Skull, it's so nice to see you both again, how are you?"

"We're doing good, Martha, thanks for asking," replied Ratt. "We were wondering if you had any more work for us."

"You finished the last batch all ready?" she asked, obviously surprised.

"We don't like to take too long to do things," replied Ratt, "especially for the kids."

"That's wonderful," replied Martha. "Thank you both so much. I hope you know how much we AND the children truly appreciate all that you do."

"It's no problem, really," replied Ratt. "We're just glad to help."

"Well, if you're sure it's not a bother," replied Martha.

"Absolutely," replied Ratt.

"Well then," laughed Martha. "Here's a list I got from Susan this morning. I would ask you to pay special attention to the first five on the list, from what she told me, they really seemed to want to help us out."

"Fantastic," replied Ratt. "Skull and I will get on these right away."

"The next time you boys come in, we're going to lunch," replied Martha.

"It's a date," replied Ratt.

With that, he and Skull rose and left.

***

Thomas Muldoon sat in his easy chair, staring at the crossword puzzle, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible. His wife Gina sat a mere three feet away from him, her face clenched in an angry scowl as she looked at the weekly circular.

"Damn pork chops went up twenty five cents this week," she crabbed. "Well you can kiss having those good-bye anytime soon!"

Thomas shrunk down behind his puzzle and tried not to be noticeable.

"Oh," she suddenly snapped, bringing him to full alert. "I was going through the checkbook yesterday and I came across a check made out to something called Kriminals for Kids..."

Thomas felt his heartbeat quicken, but he said nothing.

"WELL?" she snapped.

"It's a charity for children," he replied softly. "I just thought..."

"You sent some stupid charity ten dollars?" she roared. "Pork chops are up twenty five cents and you piss our money away to some charity you never even heard of???"

"It sounded like they did..."

"I don't care what the hell it sounded like," she replied. "You don't touch the money, do you understand???"

"I earn the money," he replied. "I was brought up to believe that you should give back..."

"You were brought up to be a moron and you learned your lessons well," she interrupted. "Now I'm not telling you again, if I catch you giving our money away, I'm gonna give you away, in small, separate boxes, do you understand me???"

Thomas shrunk even smaller in the chair, "Yeah..."

For the next hour she sat, peeling through the paper and complaining to no one in particular about how her husband wasted their money on retards and rejects while she hadn't had a new car in almost two years. The stream of abuse was momentarily checked by a knock at the door. Thomas moved to answer it, but she jumped up, worked up over the loss of the ten dollars and ushered him back to his seat.

"Probably a freaking Jehovah Witness and you'll buy that damn paper of theirs as quick as you open the door!"

Stamping her way to the door, she threw it open, prepared to give one of those people a hard time.

Thomas heard a pop and then two more in quick succession and then the sound of something falling to the floor. Rising, he called out to her, but she did not answer. Waddling towards the door, he stared for a moment at his wife's body, sprawled out on the floor in front of the door, blood from three bullet holes gushing out onto the carpet. By the time Thomas thought to call the police, it was already too late. His wife was dead.

***

"Thank you, Mister Muldoon," smiled Susan as she entered the information into the computer. "By making your wife a legacy donor, generations will benefit by your kindness. Now, if you do not receive the tax deduction information within two weeks, please make sure to call me and follow up on it. I'll send it out in the mail today and again, thank you for your generous donation to Kriminals for Kids."

***

"What the hell are you buying now?" snapped Vincent Giando. "What do you think; I'm made of freaking money?"

"I was just ordering..."

"I was just ordering," he mimicked. "Well don't! We've got enough crap around here that we don't need. Between the damn infomercials and the charities, I don't have two nickels to rub together! I'm tired of saving the Indians, the whales, the dogs, the cats, the children, the soldiers; who the hell is saving Vincent, huh? I'm telling you Angela, if you don't stop giving my money away, I'm gonna give YOU away!"

Angela looked at Vincent, her large dark eyes sad. He used to be so generous, so easy, but now, every dollar spent sent him into a frenzy. She just wanted to help people, was that so wrong? Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Answer it for crying out loud," crabbed Vincent. "I'm watching the game over here!"

Angela slumped to the front door and opened it to find two men in black pants, black t-shirts, black bandanas and large black sunglasses staring back at her. The taller of the two smiled and asked her pleasantly if her husband Vincent was home. Not sure of what to do, she nodded.

"Might we have a word with him, Mrs. Giando?" asked the taller of the two men.

With a shrug, she asked them to wait and went to get Vincent. Vincent was not pleased.

"Son of a bitch, don't you know how to tell people I'm not home!" he snapped in a tight whisper. "Damn it to hell! Fine, fine, I'll go and speak to them. Make me a sandwich while I get rid of them..."

Angela listened to him stomping down the hall grumbling for a moment and then made her way to the kitchen to make him a sandwich. All they had was turkey, which Vincent despised, so she opened a can of tuna and got the mayonnaise out. After a few minutes, she finished putting the sandwich together and then returned to the living room, but Vincent wasn't there. Making her way to the front door, she saw that it was open. Gaining the door, she looked out onto the landing and saw Vincent at the bottom of the stairs. There was blood pouring from a large gash on the top of his head. Angela gave a little gasp and then ran for the phone...

***

"Thank you, Mrs. Giando," said Susan, her smile sympathetic and thankful at the same time. "I think it is a beautiful gesture, to make this donation in your husband's memory."

"Kriminals for Kids was the last thing we were talking about before his accident," she replied tearfully. "It seemed only right..."

Susan waited respectfully and then asked quietly, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Giando, but may I ask, where did you get that pendant?"

Mrs. Giando immediately stopped crying and smiled, "Do you like it?"

"It's gorgeous," gushed Susan.

Mrs. Giando became happily animated, "QVC had them on sale, I called within the fifteen minutes and got it for almost half off..."

***

The table at The Olive Garden was well away from the rest of the lunchtime crowd, off in a corner where Martha and the boys could speak freely.

"Thank you both for your outstanding work," stated Martha happily. "Thanks to you and Skull, donations have jumped almost fifteen percent in the last six months."

Ratt smiled, "We'd love to do more, Martha. Anything for the kids..."

Martha smiled and nodded, reaching into her purse and producing an envelope.

"Here's a little something for you both," she said, almost shyly. "I know you make a lot more normally, but it's just a token..."

Ratt took the envelope and slipped it into his pants pocket without counting the money it contained.

"I'm sure it is more than generous and besides, we hate to charge you, it's just that Skull and I have to eat..."

"Oh don't be silly," replied Martha. "If it weren't for you two, I don't know what we would do..."

Ratt and Skull grinned, genuinely flattered.

"Well, I'm sorry boys, but I have to get back to work. We're getting ready for a big event this weekend, did Susan tell you about it?"

Skull nodded as Ratt replied, "Yeah, she said you were having some sort of big barbeque over in Long Park..."

"We're expecting over a thousand people," stated Martha. "We're going to have rides and entertainment for the children, all free of charge and we'll have game booths and in the main tent, a few slots and card tables. We should make a few bucks this weekend. Parents love to put their kids on the rides and then sneak off to gamble a bit, it should be very successful."

"Who is running the show?" asked Ratt.

"You know that nice Mister DeLuca?" asked Martha.

Ratt shuddered, "Yeah, I know Carmine. Well, you'll make money all right, people will show up by the truck loads if they know what's good for them..."

"Will you and Skull be attending? Perhaps you could help out at one of the booths..."

Ratt smiled, a chilling display of teeth, "I'm sorry Martha, not this time. Skull and I like helping out, we'd do anything for the kids, but not at a barbeque. We wish you all the best, it's just we don't like that type of work." Martha raised an eyebrow and Ratt admitted sheepishly, "Sounds silly, I guess, but we don't like to get our hands dirty..."

### Paintball

"There's frost on the ground," grouched Rebecca. "I can't believe you drag me out her in the middle of nowhere to freeze my butt off so you could play stupid paintball."

Al eyed Rebecca, looking incredibly sexy in her plush, skintight, purple sweat suit with bare midriff clapping her little red hands together. She had the most amazing body and the face of an angel, but she bitched ALL the time. All the guys envied him, but the constant complaining was wearing a bit thin.

"How can anyone look so good and be so bitchy," he muttered to himself. "Come on, Becca, it's gonna be a lot of fun. You'll get to shoot Dana and at close range, these things really raise a welt."

Rebecca pouted, her pink lips bowing just enough not to cause a wrinkle.

"Why did she have to come along anyway?"

"She's Bobby's girlfriend..."

"She's always looking at you," she replied sullenly. "I know she wants you. Sometimes I think you want her too."

"Come on, Rebecca," he laughed. "I have you; you're ten times sexier than Dana! Look at you, I'd have to be crazy to look at ANYONE else! I mean, look at you, you're smoking hot..."

Rebecca gave him a slight smile, "You think I'm sexy?"

Pulling her closer, he kissed her hard and leaned back, "You know I think you're the sexiest girl alive. Dana isn't even close. Look, I'm nice to her because she's Bobby's girl, just like you're nice to Bobby 'cause he's my friend. I know he isn't your type of guy and believe me, baby, I appreciate it, I really do..."

"Bobby's not so bad," she replied, "I just don't like her. She thinks she's so smart..."

"Come on, let's hunt them down and you can shoot Dana like a hundred times and then we can go and get warmed up someplace nice and quiet, just the two of us..."

Rebecca kissed him back and then nibbled his ear a little to show that he had been forgiven.

"All right, show me how to work this thing and then we'll go and kick some ass..."

***

Dana sat on the ground, loading her paintball gun and staring at Bobby who stood on a rock keeping look out. Bobby was an attractive guy, not the smartest person she had ever known, but a good looking guy. He'd never be Steve, no one would, but it was nice to get out and do things once in a while and she liked being outdoors, so why not? Bobby always told her she was his girl, but she never considered herself anything but Steve's ex. Would she ever think of herself as anything else?

Bobby, for his part, was working his brain as hard as he could. He knew it wasn't the strongest muscle in his body, but he had to think and think hard if this thing was going to work out. He liked Dana, she was smart and fun and good looking, but let's face it, she wasn't in Rebecca's league and there was no real commitment here. Dana wasn't buying his, "you're my girl" line anyway, so it was time to test out this theory he had, if he could arrange it the right way.

"You almost ready, Dana?" he called out.

"Why don't you shout a little louder so that everyone can hear where we are?" she responded softly. "Yes, your gun is ready, you want to come and get it?"

Stepping down from the rock, he wandered over to her and picked up the gun, weighing it in his hand.

"Seems a bit light," he stated authoritatively.

"The only thing a bit light is your head," she responded with a laugh. "Come on, we've got to go and get Al and Rebecca."

"I got an idea," he said, kneeling on the ground and drawing in the dirt with a stick. "They're around here. Why don't we break up, you go to the left, me to the right and we circle in behind them? You know Rebecca won't be caught dead in the woods by herself, so she'll be with Al the whole time. As long as we find him, we find them both. If they decide to go down one side or the other, the one they don't run into can come up and get them from behind, what do you think?"

Dana laughed, "Not a bad plan. Okay, let's split up, I'll take the left, you go right and we'll see what we catch."

"Sounds good," laughed Bobby. "Let's go!"

***

"See, you don't have to do anything," stated Al. "I'll go down the right side and come up behind them as they come to find us. You sit here and I'll drive them into you and you just shoot them."

"I don't like being alone," crabbed Rebecca. "I'm gonna be freezing my ass off out here sitting on this cold ground..."

"But it will cut the time we're out here in half and then, we can go find someplace and warm up that hot little ass," he replied softly, holding her tight and kissing her neck.

She could not help but smile, "Oh, all right. Fine, but if I catch cold, I'm never speaking to you again."

"I'll be back before you know it," he laughed. "Now keep a sharp eye out, if they get past me, you keep them busy until I circle in behind them and then we'll wipe them out fast, okay?"

"Well hurry up," snapped Rebecca, holding her rifle and frowning.

With a smile, Al was gone.

***

Al picked his way through the bare forest, the leaves frozen to the ground, the bare trees and bushes offering limited coverage as he trekked forward to meet the enemy. He had always wanted to be a soldier, had dreamed of it as a kid, but upon growing up, had been forced to join the family business after his father died. He made a good living and he had a hot girlfriend, but he still needed to revisit his dreams once in a while or go insane. He had left Rebecca behind now about ten minutes ago and was making pretty good progress when he saw some branches move just up ahead of him. Crouching low behind a rock, he peered around it and could just make out a figure moving through the brush ahead. He couldn't be sure, but he thought it was Dana. Quickly he scanned the area around him, but he saw no sign of Bobby. Was he here and if so, was he behind or ahead of her? Lying low on the ground, he moved ever so slowly out into the open until he could see her cautiously moving forward. He listened, there did not sound like there was any other footsteps. Bobby walked like an elephant: there was no way he was around. This was perfect, if he could take Dana out, then he could circle back and get Bobby. Easing back behind the rock, he made it to safety just before the first paintball splashed the rock. Damn it, she had seen him!

Rolling back away from the rock, he heard her gun fire several more times. Peeking up from the gully where he had taken refuge, he could see her behind a large rock just up ahead, well covered and in good position. He opened fire, splattering the rock and causing her to duck down for a few moments. Sprinting to his left, he heard her fire again, but she was firing at his old position. Before she could adjust he was down below a fallen log. Looking up, he could see she hadn't moved and now he realized why. They were both pinned down. Damn it, he'd have to wait her out.

***

Rebecca sat behind the log where Al had placed her and blew on her hands. She was going to freeze to death out in the woods and for what? So that Al could say he shot his best friend with a paintball? Great, she thought, she'd be the hottest corpse in Long Island. Stupid Al, he was always thinking of himself, never of her. This was it, if she caught cold, they were breaking up and she'd find someone who would treat her right.

"Having fun?"

Rebecca looked up and saw Bobby pointing his gun right at her. How the hell had he gotten the drop on her like that? She thought of what Al said, that these paintballs raised welts and she there was no way she was getting a welt for someone as inconsiderate as Al.

"I surrender, I surrender!" she yelped, dropping her gun and standing up, hands raised.

"You're my prisoner," laughed Bobby, walking over and picking up her gun. "Come with me."

Rebecca looked up at him with an annoyed frown, "Okay Bobby, cut it out, I gave up..."

"Come on," he said with a smile, motioning her back towards a set of rocks. "I'm going to keep you prisoner there until Al comes back and then I'll either shoot him or capture him too. Come on..."

Sullenly, she made her way back towards the rocks. The rock formation was about five feet high with an opening on the side away from the area where Rebecca had been sitting.

"Stupid Al should have let me sit here, at least I'd be protected better than behind that tree," she crabbed, sitting down on an outcropping of the rock within the walls.

Bobby sat down next to her and laughed, "You weren't even paying attention."

"I'm freezing," she griped, "I hate this stupid outdoor stuff."

Bobby removed his jacket and placed it around her shoulders, "Better?"

She offered him a pout, "Thanks."

"See, it's not so bad being a prisoner, is it?" he laughed.

She smiled slightly, "No, I guess not."

Sitting down next to her, he put his arm around her, "Isn't this better than waiting to shoot someone?"

Snuggling closer to him, she shrugged, "It's not bad."

"There are other ways to keep warm," he smirked.

Turning her face towards him, she was going to ask how when he suddenly leaned in and kissed her. It took less than a second for her to respond. There was more than one way to get back at that smart ass Dana...

***

"I can wait all day," stated Al. A paintball soared past his ear and exploded on the tree behind him.

"So can I," replied Dana as she huddled down to reload.

Sensing that she was reloading, he attempted to move to his left, but she was up and firing at him before he could make his move.

"I thought you could wait all day," she taunted.

"Just seeing if you were awake sweetheart, just seeing if you were awake..." God she was fast with that thing, he thought. She almost got me. Staring at her across the great divide, he could just see her face pop up to keep and eye on him and then duck down. She was careful not to develop a rhythm, he'd have to be damn near perfect to get her and if he did, it would be a tight shot to make. She was good, really good. Propping his gun up against a tree limb to steady it, he took aim and fired a few shots. Yeah, he could get her, but he'd have to time it right and she was quick, very quick.

She popped up suddenly and sprayed a few shots at him, causing him to duck down quickly. As he rose again, he could see her trying to back away from her position, but a few shots from him had her scrambling back behind the rock. Her problem was that the ground around the rock rose behind it, leaving her exposed if she attempted a retreat.

There were a few things that plagued Al as he sat behind the log. Rebecca would never leave the log where he left her, which meant that if she didn't pin down Bobby, he'd have to fight two of them at once and God knew where Bobby would pop out. He would have to do something to get Dana to move, but his position was no better than hers. There was no cover for ten feet in either direction and she was a good shot. Another paintball richochetted off of the top of the log, forcing Al to keep his head down as he wondered, what the hell was Bobby up too?

***

For someone who was cold, Bobby was amazed at how quickly Rebecca had gotten out of her clothes. With his jacket and pants acting as cover against the forest floor, he smiled as he heard her gasp as he entered her.

"Oh Bobby, oh baby," she moaned, pulling his head to her bare breasts and thrusting her beautiful hips upwards to engulf him.

He thought for a second about Al; his betrayal did not concern him at all, but instead he wondered how the guy could complain so much. This girl was hot and tight and ready and willing and all he had heard from Al was that he couldn't stand her bitching anymore. Who the hell cared what she said as long as she gave it up like this?

Finding his pace he began to rock up and down, in and out. It was incredible, he'd never felt anything like this, the way she reacted, the moaning, the swearing, it was freaking magic. He was almost there, oh God, just about there and then...

It felt like his head was caught in a vise. The pressure was enormous; incredible, hot skull crushing pressure was pushing in on either side of his head. He tried to scream, tried to yell and then he heard the crack and world went black.

On her back with her eyes closed, Rebecca felt Bobby suddenly stop and then he started to wiggle in the strangest way and she felt something wet splatter onto her stomach.

"You bastard did you..." she began as she opened her eyes. She stared in horror, he was suspended in midair, his head crushed almost flat, his ears touching. Looking down at her body she saw she was covered in blood and gore and then looking up saw Bobby's body with his crushed head suddenly flung high into the trees by some invisible force.

Her screams began to echo through the woods, long, loud, high pitched, blood curdling screams.

***

"Time out," snapped Dana.

Both she and Al stood and listened to the screams that filled the air. It was terrifying just to listen to them and then, suddenly in the middle of one, it just stopped, nothing, dead silence.

"What the hell was that?" she asked softly, slowly surveying the landscape.

"It sounded like it was coming from back where Becca was," replied Al quietly, peering out into the forest, afraid of what he might see. He had asked the guy they had rented the field from and he had sworn that there were no bears or mountain lions out here, so what the hell would cause anyone to make that noise.

"We need to check it out, Al," stated Dana, approaching him. "If that was Becca, she's in a shit load of trouble."

"I can't imagine anything human making that noise," responded Al. "Come on, let's go."

The two picked their way back in the direction that Al had come from, listening intently for any sound or noise. The forest however was silent, no birds, no bugs, no wind rustling the dead leaves, no sound at all. It was like being in a silent movie somehow, the bleak sky and dead landscape killing all sense of color and then there was the painful, terrifying, unnatural quiet that surrounded them.

"We're almost there," whispered Al, almost too frightened of the silence to speak.

"Look, over there," pointed Dana towards a rock formation off to their left. "What is that?"

Al strained to see, slowing his pace as they drew closer. The first thing he saw was the red streaks, the red especially bright and vibrant in this desolate landscape. The thing that the red was clinging too was what made the image surreal. It wasn't wood or rock or dirt, it was hard to imagine what it was until they got right next to it, until they could stare down at it while standing right above it.

It was a pair of nude human legs, connected to a set of nude human hips. The legs and the hips had once belonged to a female, but they were no longer attached to any other part of the female, they were here as if they had been sawed off her body and just left here. Too stunned to look away, Al looked down towards the feet and saw a small rose tattoo just above the left ankle. He felt his stomach lurch and he turned away and became sick.

"Good God in heaven," whispered Dana just before becoming sick herself.

Al leaned against a tree, gasping for air.

"It's Becca," he whispered, unable to look at what lay on the ground or at Dana.

Dana stood gasping nearby, spitting out the taste of vomit that was in her mouth after having wretched.

"How can you be sure?" she spat.

"The tattoo," he replied, motioning back towards the legs. "That's her tattoo, I've seen it a million times."

"What the hell happened to her?" asked Dana, trying desperately to keep from crying.

"I don't know," gasped Al, "I don't know...We need to get help, we need to get out of here..."

He started to pick his way back towards where they had left the cars. He could not tell if Dana was following him, he could not tell anything, he could not think or reason, he just knew he had to get away.

"Wait up," called Dana, "wait a minute..."

Al stopped but could not turn to look back at her.

"Where's Bobby?" she asked. "He was supposed to come down the other side, he should have been here by now."

"He's on his own," replied Al. "We gotta get out of here. What if the thing that did that is still around?"

He turned slightly and saw Dana. She had no coloring, she was completely white and her eyes were red. She swallowed hard.

"You're right, you're right," she replied, trying hard not to become nauseous again. "We need to go."

The two began to move forward when they heard something flying through the trees. They both looked up to see something large arching through the treetops, clipping the branches and suddenly slamming to the ground a few feet ahead of them. Al took another step towards it and then backed up in terror. Dana tried to step forward but he grabbed her before she could look.

"Don't look at it," he screamed. "It's Bobby!"

Dana looked at him, her eyes wild. Glancing at the heap of blood and flesh that sat crumpled a mere five feet from them, she began to run towards where the cars were parked. She could hear Al running behind her, his breath coming in short, hard gasps. She didn't see or feel or know anything, she was in a blind panic. The branches sliced at her and her clothing, whipping her as she ran, cutting her hands and face but she felt nothing. All she could do was push herself to run, to run as fast as her legs had ever run. She had to get out, she had to get out of this place...

Al's scream seemed to strike her as a physical blow, forcing her towards the ground, her head narrowly avoiding a rock, her hands skidding along the leaf strewn forest floor. Twisting she looked to see what had happened and froze. Al's body hung limply in the air, his head compressed flat, ear touching ear. It hovered above the forest floor as if suspended by wires, but there was nothing holding it, nothing keeping it up. Her terror mixed with fascination, how could it be...

Suddenly, Al's body jerked skyward as if it had been thrown over something's shoulder, but there was nothing there. Nothing seemed to move, the leaves didn't stir, but something had to be there, something large and horrible. Dana became conscious of the paintball gun in her hand and twisting onto her back, she began to fire rapidly and wildly towards where Al's body had been a moment before.

The paintballs spun out to about ten or fifteen feet and then hit something, something large and undefined at first. The more Dana fired, the more the balls exploded in the air, red, blue, green, yellow, filling the air with a mosaic of neon colors. Whatever they were hitting was huge, as tall as a tree and as wide as it was tall. The paint offered a glimpse of its massive arms, swinging slightly and legs, twisted and enormous. Dana just kept firing, the picture the paintballs were painting becoming more frightening as the seemingly open sky filled with color. At last the weapon was empty and she lay back on the dirt and stared at the horrifying picture the paint had made, the mad, incomprehensible outline that the paint offered her. Too terrified to move, she just lay there, staring up at the colors and then watched as they slowly dripped down to the forest floor, leaving the sky untainted once again.

Filled with animal fear, Dana tried to twist back onto her face, to gain her feet again, to run, run as fast as she could back to the cars, run now, RUN NOW! The terror kept her from thinking, kept her from realizing that the pain she felt, the enormous pressure growing against either side of her head would not allow her to run. She would never run again. She heard the crack of her skull and all was darkness...

***

The sheriff hung up the phone and began to swear softly to himself.

"Damn kids, why can't they play their games somewhere else?"

"What's the matter chief?" asked his deputy, Murphy.

"Some stupid ass kids went out into the field to play paintball and got themselves lost again. Same shit as last month..."

"I don't know why they let them use that field, they're forever getting lost up there," replied Murphy.

"Come on, let's go take a look," replied the sheriff.

The ride up to the field was about a half hour long and by the time the two men reached the field, it was late afternoon. The owner showed them the area that had been assigned to the group and pointed out their cars still sitting where they had been left. The sheriff nodded and with his deputy slowly wandered across the field and into the forest searching for anything that might suggest what had happened to the four players.

"Dumb asses probably got lost in the forest," crabbed the sheriff.

"Or they're humping over by Meadow Rock," laughed Murphy. "I can't tell you how many kids I've found over there..."

"Well if they're humping, they're gonna get a boot in their asses from me, I can tell you that," replied the sheriff.

"What's that?" asked Murphy.

The sheriff stopped and leaned over, picking up an empty paintball gun. Looking around, he gestured Murphy towards a bright line of paint on the forest floor. The line of paint seemed to be about six inches wide and ran about twenty feet across.

"Why the hell would they draw a line with all their paintballs?" asked the sheriff.

"Damned if I know," replied Murphy. "So what do you think?"

The sheriff shrugged, "We'll need to notify the state police. We'll have to comb the woods, the two of us ain't gonna be able to find them up here by ourselves."

Murphy nodded and the two men turned away, heading back towards the patrol car. Neither man heard the whispering breath of the creature they could not see sleeping not ten feet from where they had stood. The creature would sleep for at least a month; it always slept well once its stomach was full...

I would like to thank you for reading "A Tale or Two, The Ultimate Collection". I hope that you have enjoyed these stories, If you did, I encourage you to check out my other works at www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=mac+Zazski . I also invite you to let me know what you thought of this book by contacting me via my email at **maczazski@hotmail.com** . Thanks again for choosing "A Tale or Two, The Ultimate Collection"; I look forward to hearing from you!

