 
### UNREQUITED LOVE

# A Romance Novel by

# WILL DECKER

Copyright 2016 by WILL DECKER

Smashwords Edition

WILL DECKER has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

**All rights reserved.** No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased, or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

**UNREQUITED LOVE** is a work of fiction. The resemblance of any characters to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Names, characters, places, brands, media, situations, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

This eBook may not be re-sold or given away except with written permission from the author or as otherwise permitted through special promotions.

A special thank you to everyone that has made this story possible. My beta reader, my proof reader, and to you the readers. I sincerely hope you enjoy this work of fiction.

Will

More Fantastic Stories by Will Decker:

DRIVEN

FIRE BABY

HYBRID KILLERS

The 'HEÄLF' Collection:

MORTALITY REVISITED

CLONE WARS

DAY OF NIGHT

REGENERATIONS

HORSPAW

The 'Mac" Collection:

THE WITNESS

TOXIC RAIN

BETRAYAL

RECORD KEEPER

DEATH IN THE DUNES

WIT-SEC FAIL

SIMPLY PERFECT BINDING 2ND Ed.

If you enjoyed this book, please take a moment to leave a review.

Table of Contents:

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

More by Will Decker

# Chapter 1

# Present Day

Even a dog doesn't deserve to die like this. The roughhewn, dirty plank floor tastes like burnt motor oil and stale urine on my swollen tongue, a nice change from the coppery taste of my own blood. In the back of my mind I'm thinking how I need to clean the floor more often, especially if I'm going to wake up on it anytime again in the future.

The night before is a complete blank. In fact, the days and weeks and even years leading up to this moment are little more than a fuzzy blur. Somewhere along the line between being medically discharged from the force and ending up a rum soaked pile of bones and bruised flesh, the world went terribly wrong; a world where my life is nothing more than memories of drunken brawls, rage, disappointment in myself and others, and the longing for something that will never be, the love of a woman.

But not the love of just any woman. What I need more than even my next drink, is the love of the woman that didn't quite make it into my life almost eighteen years ago. A woman that stole my heart forever after nothing more than a one night stand. In the time since, I've come to the conclusion that she must have been using a fake ID that night to get into the bar where we met, and being the fool that I am, I didn't even have sense enough to learn her real name. The connection between us was instant and strong, the rest of the place, the sounds, the voices, the music, quickly fading into oblivion, as nothing existed but her. She was and still is the reason for my being where I am today, and she doesn't even know it.

Sure, I've met others since then, but I've always found myself comparing them to her. Or at the least, the memory of her, and they've always fallen short, far short. From the moment our eyes met, I was lost, destined to be a restless soul searching for the one thing I can't have, the woman that set the bar so high for every woman that came after her I can never be satisfied again. Not until I once again find her, a quest that has shaped my life over the years until I no longer have any direction.

But that was a long time ago, almost eighteen years now, and though I haven't given up the search, I've given up the hope and resigned myself to what I've become.

Yet, for just a few hours in time, she was mine, and for that, I will always be grateful.

# In the Past...Sue

The bar was a hangout for the preppy crowd of young attorneys, stock brokers, private consultants, and college kids with fake IDs impatient for the life just ahead of them. I was out of college, had done my ROTC training while there, and was getting ready to ship off to basic training in Fort Leonardwood, Missouri, before heading to Massachusetts for Advanced Individual Training in the Army Security Agency. To say I was anxious and looking forward to my future would be an understatement. To say I was looking for love would be a lie. I was looking for a one night stand to calm my nerves and leave the city of Minneapolis, Minnesota, my birth place, on a high note.

Sitting on a stool near the end of the bar that provides me a view of the front door as well as the dance floor off to my right, I'm working on my first tumbler of chilled rum, a drink the bartender doesn't have to put much thought into aside from putting a bottle of rum in the freezer when he sees me come in.

Because I have nothing better to do for the rest of the day, I showed up early, before the evening crowd starts filing in after a day behind their desks poring over paperwork, working hard to make a living. The college crowd, which doesn't particularly interest me, is already dribbling in, their weekend ahead of them.

Being tall, around six-feet, two-inches, with a short cropped, military cut of rusty blonde hair, clean shaven face and blue eyes, my rugged good looks have always appealed to the fairer sex, and all through college, I've never had a problem finding a willing participant to spend some raunchy time with. So when I feel something soft pressing into my back that feels familiarly to a woman's breasts, I'm not immediately surprised. It isn't uncommon for women to hit on me, even if this is a new approach.

Moving slowly, I rotate around on the stool and come face to face with the most beautiful face I've ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. We are mere inches apart as she looks back at me, her arm stretched out across the bar in an attempt to wave down the bartender. My eyes meet hers and a shy smile turns up one corner of her mouth.

"Hi," softly slips out of my mouth, as I'm unable to tear my gaze away from her doe brown eyes with hints of green shot through with sparks of gold. They're mesmerizing and I suddenly grow conscious of the time slowly dragging by as I stare into them.

Breaking the silence that is stretching out between us, she says equally softly, "Hi. I'm sorry if I disturbed you."

My body is subconsciously missing the feel of her breasts pressing up against me as my eyes slowly move down to her smiling lips, and then on down to a pair of firm looking breasts before self-consciously turning back up to her face, a slight warmth rising up the sides of my throat as realization dawns that she is enjoying my perusal of her.

"Do I meet your approval?" she whispers, the smile stretching across her face with just a hint of shyness to suggest that this is not how she would normally behave.

"No, not at all," I stutter, confused and chagrined by my nervous response. When her expression quickly changes to one of surprise, I realize what I've said and quickly attempt to correct myself. "No, that's not what I meant. Yes," Now I'm spouting like an idiot before quickly trying to explain myself. "I meant no to your bothering me. Yes, yes indeed you meet my approval," I blurt, watching her smile return accompanied by a nervous laugh.

Taking a breath and getting control of my nerves, I try to act calm while expressing my apologies. "I'm sorry. That didn't really come out right either." No woman has ever had such an effect on me and with our faces so close, it takes all of my self-control not to reach out and twist my fingers in her auburn, shoulder length hair while pulling those sensuous looking lips to mine and taking a deep taste of her.

My reply only makes her laugh harder, which sets me off too, as I realize she was just teasing when she asked if I met her approval, and that she didn't really expect an answer.

When she finally stops laughing, she moves back a step and extends her hand out to me. "Let's start over," she says, as I automatically reach for her hand, enveloping it carefully within my much larger, stronger hand. Only then do I realize just how petite she is. Her head is almost on the same level as mine, while she's standing and I'm sitting.

Feeling like a cad for not standing and offering her my stool sooner, I drop my feet to the floor and rise to my full height, towering over her by at least a foot. Still not releasing her hand, I notice that she not only has mesmerizing eyes and a beautiful smile, but her petite body is proportioned perfectly, and I feel an instant desire growing in the lower extremities of my own body.

Not wanting to make a complete fool of myself, I'm torn between sitting back down before my lust for her becomes painstakingly obvious, or letting go of her hand, which has become a conduit for the charged current passing between us.

Clearing her throat, she looks down at our hands and the grasp that I have on hers, as if she is a life preserver and I a drowning man. Understanding suddenly crashes over me and I drop her hand while profusely apologizing, "Sorry."

Yet, even while I'm stuttering out another apology, my second in less than as many minutes, I can't help notice the disappointment flash briefly behind her eyes at the broken contact.

Taking a deep breath, she smiles warmly and says, "Okay, that didn't work so well. How about we give it another shot. My name's Susan McDonald. Everyone just calls me Sue."

Reaching out for her hand again while smiling warmly at her, I quickly say, "Vic, and it's not short for anything, it's just, Vic. Nice to meet you Sue."

"Vic, that's a nice name." A puzzled expression causes her brows to furrow as if in deep thought before she adds, "I have a friend who has a brother named Vic." Before I can respond to her comment, she hurriedly shuts her eyes, reopens them and states with determination, "But that's another life and we're not going there tonight."

Not caring to dredge up whatever bad mojo just caused her to react the way she had, I decide not to pursue it. Instead, wanting to change the subject and see the smile return to her face, I ask her what she's drinking, as I begrudgingly release my hold on her hand before it grows awkward again, and turn to the bartender.

"Whatever you're having is fine with me," she states, her smile still not returning.

I make a mental note right then and there to do whatever it takes to bring that beautiful smile back and to make sure it never fades again. The world just seems a brighter place when she's smiling. At least, my world is.

"Are you sure," I ask, smiling down at her, and then without even realizing what I'm going to do, I put my hands on her waist and gently pick her up, placing her on my stool and sliding up to the bar beside her. "Two more of the same," I tell the bartender, as he throws me a knowing wink before turning away to pour our drinks.

With a smile lighting up her whole face, she turns the stool to face me, placing a knee on either side of my legs as if it's the most natural thing ever. "You know how to sweep a woman off her feet," she says with a smirk turning up the corner of her mouth.

Giving her my thousand watt smile that usually makes women swoon, I hesitate for a moment while trying to come up with an appropriate response that doesn't sound worn out. She deserves better than that. In fact, she deserves more than a one-night stand, and I suddenly feel guilty as I realize that's all I have to offer, what with my orders in hand to report to Basic Training the next day.

When my smile fades and a dark cloud passes behind my blue eyes, she senses the change immediately. It's almost as we'd been together forever and she's able to read my thoughts.

"What is it? You just had a sad thought."

The concern in her eyes rocks me to my core. No one has ever cared enough before to take notice of my inner thoughts, and here she is, showing concern for a man she doesn't even know.

"I'm sorry. It's nothing really," I softly reply, cursing myself for causing that room lighting smile to fade.

"There you go again," she chides me, laughing softly. "Do we have to start over again?"

"No," I cry out, before softly adding, "No, we don't have to start over. I promise you, I won't apologize again." With a physical effort, I force the thought of leaving tomorrow out of my mind, surprised that it had even entered my thoughts. After all, this beautiful woman with the rocking hot body sitting on my stool is supposed to be nothing more than a distraction for the night. Tomorrow, a new chapter of my life begins, one that I've been preparing for and looking forward to since before I can remember.

So why am I suddenly having second thoughts?

"Good, because I like my men able to think for themselves, take action, and then own up to it."

"No one ever called you bashful, did they?" I laugh, sensing a hint of mischief sparkling in her eyes.

Just then the bartender places a couple of coasters in front of us before setting our drinks down and collecting my empty tumbler.

In unison, we turn toward the bar. I nod my thanks to the bartender as Sue lifts her drink to her lips and gingerly takes a sip. I suddenly wonder if she's as old as she looks or if she's in the place on a fake ID, like most of the kids that hang out here. Though she appears too young to be here, at the same time, she appears to be all woman.

I'm about to ask her if she really is Susan McDonald, when she spins the stool back around and catches my legs in a scissors grip with her own while holding the tumbler of liquor precariously in the air between us. Catching her breath, a startled expression on her face, she asks, "What the hell is in here?"

Liking the feel of her legs wrapped around mine, while not missing the fact that her pencil skirt is riding up her thighs, I smile at her and simply state, "Rum."

Taking another sip, only larger this time, she asks, "Rum and what?"

"Nothing," I smile. "Just rum. Barkeep here puts a bottle in the freezer when he sees me come in. Chilled and unadulterated, clean, just the way I like it."

"Ooh," she purrs, giving me a smirk that sets off warning bells. "A man that isn't afraid to talk dirty, and we just met." Taking another swallow, she rocks back on the stool, her legs wrapped around mine the only thing keeping her from falling before I reach forward and pull her back upright by the upper arms.

I realize immediately that touching her is a mistake. The softness of her skin is more than I can handle, and as she comes toward me, I don't stop until her face is within mere inches of mine. When she turns her eyes up to meet my gaze, I can see the need there, and my lips drop down to meet her upturned ones.

We kiss softly, tasting each other before pulling back. When she turns back toward the bar, I almost apologize again for being so forward. Setting her tumbler down, she turns back toward me, grabbing my shirt with both hands and pulling me down to her level. Just before our lips meet, she huskily whispers, "You better not be thinking of apologizing again."

She brushes my lips with her own, then pulls back just enough for me to see the passion burning in her eyes as she studies my face before moving in closer again and searching out my lips with her own.

My first thought is to wonder how she knew what I was going to say. But then all thoughts are quickly replaced with the sweet taste of her lips mixed with that of the spiced rum. Her hair is fragrant with the scent of shampoo and I move my hands to cradle her head, my fingers taking in the silky feel of her hair. Rarely have my senses been so acute and tuned in to a woman.

Just as her hands run over the stubble of my military haircut and I'm acutely aware of the sensation of her petite breasts pressing against my chest through the cotton fabric of my shirt, there's a loud rapping on the bar top. "Hey, this is an upstanding establishment. Take it outside or get a room."

Knowing the bartender is half teasing and half serious, I move my hands from her arms up to her face, tenderly enveloping her cheeks before reluctantly breaking off the kiss. We are immediately bombarded with a chorus of raucous laughter, clapping, and cat calls. Glancing around, I notice that the bartender has already moved on to other customers and the crowd is already turning back to minding their own business.

"Is it getting warm in here, or is it just me?" she grins, reaching for her half empty tumbler.

Taking a sip from my own tumbler, I comment with a questioning look, "No, I think it's getting warm in here. Even the chill is off my drink. But then, it might just be all the heat coming off you."

"Are you suggesting I'm hot?" she asks, giving me a shy smile.

"Baby, there is none hotter than you."

"You sure know how to sweet talk a woman, mister."

"I won't apologize for telling the truth."

"Whew, now it's really getting hot in here," she says, fanning herself dramatically with her free hand while dropping her legs from around mine and setting her empty tumbler down on the bar with a little more force than she intended.

"I'd love to offer you another," I begin, when she waves me off.

"No, no. I think that'll do me for tonight," she slurs, leaning precariously on the stool as the raw alcohol hits her petite system.

Though it breaks my heart to say it, I offer to call her a taxi to take her home, as she's in no condition to be driving. And for me to take her home isn't an option either, even though I would never take advantage of an inebriated woman, I'm not sure how far my self-control with her will last. No woman has ever stirred such desire in me as her. And even though I can't shake the thought of flying off to Missouri in the morning, I also can't shake the feeling that she could be so much more than just a one-night stand.

When I begin explaining to her that she needs to get home and sleep it off, she looks at me cross-ways and mumbles drunkenly, "Do me. Do you get it?"

"You need to get home and go to bed. You'll be fine in the morning and feel like a fool if you remember tonight at all," I tell her, suddenly concerned that she might need more than a cab to make it to that bed safely.

And just as I wonder why it's any concern of mine what happens to her, she slips sideways on the stool and it spins around in a circle, her head swinging toward the edge of the solid wood bar top at a dangerous speed.

Before her head can strike the bar top, I sweep her off the stool and pull her in close to me before setting her gently on her feet between the stool and me. It dawns on me then that since I was the one that gave her the drink, I'm also the one responsible for her getting home safely.

With my right arm holding her securely against me, I awkwardly pull a few bills out of my right front pocket with my left hand and lay them on the bar. Catching the bartender's eye, he sees the cash on the bar top and nods in acknowledgement.

Glancing down at Sue, she looks up into my gaze and smiles flirtatiously. "Are we going home now?"

Though I've taken many women home, some of them drunk at the time, I've never felt the way I do about this one. Unlike the others, my feelings for Sue are somewhere between lust, protection, and something more that I'd never experienced before. It feels foreign and more than just a bit scary.

"Yes, I think it's time we get you home," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel, because even though Sue only had the one tumbler of rum, I had two.

"If we make love tonight, are we going to change your name from Vic to Victory?"

If I had any thoughts about getting her into bed, they just went out the window.

"No, Sue. It will always be Vic," I sigh heavily, steering her toward the door.

"Darn," she suddenly pouts, her face looking even cuter than before.

Whether she is disappointed because I just told her in my own way that we aren't going to be making love tonight, or that we aren't going to play her name game, I'm not a hundred percent sure. But I strongly suspect it's the prior and not the latter, even if it is just wishful thinking for the sake of my ego.

Coming out on the street, the warm muggy air of the early night hits us full in the face after the cool of the air conditioned air inside the bar. Instead of reviving her, she turns to butter in my arms and I feel her sliding downward. Without giving it a thought, I scoop her up and cradle her petite little body in my arms, acutely aware of each soft curve and fold against my chest and arms through the thin pieces of fabric keeping us apart.

With a snuffle, she smiles and rolls her face into my chest, completely at peace with the world. Looking down at her, I'm overcome with a need to hold her and protect her that rocks me to my core. It's not sexual, though I still desire her tremendously, but something much deeper. Something I've never felt before and will probably never feel again with another woman.

I'm shipping out tomorrow. Embarking on a new life. The logical side of my brain is screaming that I don't have time for this new, unidentifiable feeling that this woman is bringing out in me.

Standing out on the sidewalk, the night traffic light, a few people coming and going, no one really giving us much more than a casual glance as they stroll by, either heading home from a late night at the office or out and about, getting a start on their weekend.

Weekend! That's right, this is Friday night, I think excitedly, glancing down at the most contented face I'd ever laid eyes on, a little drool slipping out of the corner of her mouth where it's against my shirt. Maybe I can get my orders changed and not have to report until Monday. After all, what could be so important that I'd have to show up on a Saturday? That would give us two days to get to know each other better. And more importantly, for her to sober up and see if she still likes me or not.

My car, an old Plymouth Valiant, has already been put into storage with my few belongings locked in the trunk. Everything I need to catch my flight and report to basic training is in my pocket. Tonight was just supposed to be to cut loose and then head out. So why am I letting this girl mess with me the way she is? We don't even know each other. It's not like we have any history together or anything.

When she squirms a little to make herself more comfortable, her butt cheeks become real familiar with my left forearm, suddenly reminding me what I need to do.

Stepping toward the curb, I nod at a cabbie parked just a short distance up the street, waiting for departing customers from the bar. His lights immediately come on and he pulls forward. Leaning down, I pull the door open and carefully slide in, trying hard not to jostle the sensuous woman cradled in my arms. With her balanced securely on my lap, her butt pressing against my groin, it's impossible to stop the flow of blood from my brain to my lower extremities. Acutely aware of the erection growing just beneath her curvy rear end, it startles me when the cabbie suddenly turns in his seat and says with an authoritarian voice, "Before I move this cab, she needs to have a seatbelt on."

"No problem," I huskily reply, struggling to slide her onto the seat beside me.

"Where to?"

Oh shit, goes through my mind. I have no idea where to take her, and without waking her, I can't find out.

She has a little clutch strapped to her wrist, but there's no way I can take the liberty of opening it in search for an ID with her address. And what's more, she might only have a fake ID anyway, which could put us anywhere in the greater metropolitan area and nowhere near her real home.

"Sue, can you hear me?"

Putting my face near hers, I whisper softly, not wanting to startle her, "Sue, we need to know where you live so we can get you home."

Her eyes flutter open and she looks at me for a second before recognition sinks in and a warm smile turns up her lips. "You're really cute."

"Thanks," I say, smiling back as the cabbie fidgets impatiently. "If we're going to get you home, we need to know where you live."

"Come on, man. If this is going to take any longer, I'm going to have to start the meter whether we're moving or not."

"Start the damned meter," I growl back at him, not wanting to push Sue any harder than I already have.

Giggling at me for growling at the cabbie in her defense, she shimmies on her seat to pull her skirt down before putting her face up near the back of the seat so the cabbie can hear her and says, "2120 NE Vermont please. You'll have to forgive my friend, I think he's had a little too much to drink tonight," she adds with a giggle.

Falling back into her seat, she struggles to adjust her seatbelt and then looks over at me watching her. "What?"

Smiling, I simply shake my head and find my own seatbelt as the cab pulls away from the curb.

We make the 5-minute drive in silence while I begin to wonder if I should simply walk her to her door and leave, or if she's going to invite me in for coffee or something. It surprises me when I discover that I won't be satisfied simply seeing her to her door. And not because the bulge in my slacks is still doing my thinking for me, but because I really want to enjoy more of her company and a chance to get to know her before I head off to Missouri.

As the cabbie pulls up to her curb, I pull some bills out of my pocket and hand them through the screen separating the front from the passengers. Not getting any sign from Sue one way or the other, I'm about to ask him to wait for me, when she unbuckles her seatbelt and turns toward me, "Want to come in for a cup of coffee or something before you head home?"

In a rush of relief that surprises even me, I throw off my seatbelt and reply, "Gladly," the excitement combined with the relief evident in my voice.

Throwing open the door, I hurry around to her side of the cab and get her door for her. Taking my extended hand, she smiles shyly and asks, "How did we get in this cab? I don't seem to remember leaving the bar."

Laughing lightly, I reply, "I carried you."

The answer surprises her more than I expect. With the cab pulling away, I keep her hand in mind, which seems perfectly fine with her, as we make our way up the steps to a two story craftsman style house.

"Do you really live here?" I inquire, surprised that she can afford such a nice house in an upper-middle class neighborhood so close to the white collar district and the college campus.

"It's temporary. A friend has been putting me up, but that's about to come to an end," she replies, her demeanor suddenly sobering, and I kick myself for causing her apparent distress, even though I'm not sure how I did it.

"Where are you going then?" My question is serious and not just small talk. I really want to know what her future plans are, even if the thought of going to Missouri in the morning is overwhelming almost everything else.

Her demeanor suddenly changes again, this time from sober to nervous. Something is clearly bothering her and I find myself wanting to help her, protect her from what's worrying her.

When she doesn't immediately answer, I let the silence hang in the air between us while we slowly make our way to the front door, a door that she's now approaching with what appears to be dread and maybe even a growing amount of regret at having brought me back here, and furthermore, invited me in.

Not wanting to make things any more difficult for her than they already appear to be, I hesitantly suggest an alternative. "Look, Sue, if you've changed your mind about inviting me in, we can walk down the street to the coffee shop that we passed on our way here. I won't blame you if you don't feel comfortable bringing a complete stranger into your home."

"No, no, I'm sorry. No, that's not it at all." She pauses for a long moment as if debating something before continuing, "You don't feel like a complete stranger at all, Vic. It's strange, but I feel as if I've known you forever."

"Look who's apologizing now," I tease, trying to lighten the foreboding air that has descended around us.

She turns a forced smile up to me. Then, her mind suddenly made up, she pulls a key out of her clutch and turns toward the door. "Please, come in. It's alright. Really."

"Seriously, Sue, if you're not good with this, I can leave," I tell her, my heart not beating while it waits for her answer, knowing I'll be crushed if she turns me away.

"No," she blurts. "I'm," and then she catches herself before she can mouth the word 'sorry', and breaks out that beautiful smile of hers that lights up the world. "No, I would like nothing more than to have coffee with you."

Turning back toward the door, she twists the key and pushes the heavy door in with determination. Following her in, she steps aside to let me pass and then closes and locks the door behind me. When she secures the chain and flips the deadbolt catch, I can't help wonder what she's afraid of.

"If you're afraid I'm going to try to escape, you don't have to be. I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself," I softly whisper, not sure if there is anyone else in the house and not wanting to disturb them.

Reading my thoughts, she quickly replies, "Old habits from living alone."

"Good habits to have," I reiterate, speaking softly, but no longer whispering. "So, I'm assuming you currently live alone," I throw out there, trying to learn if there's anyone else in the house or if anyone might be coming home anytime soon.

Her hesitation gives me pause and I quickly try to explain myself, "I'm not asking because I'm harboring immoral thoughts, if that's what concerns you."

Smiling nervously over her shoulder, she moves toward what appears to be the kitchen, turning on a light in a dining room on her way. "No, Vic. It's nothing like that. Just a memory. Yes, I live alone. The owner of the house stops by sometimes, but he's out of town this weekend, so we shouldn't be surprised."

"Generous man," I say without any conviction as I stroll into the kitchen behind her, a bone of jealousy coming to life somewhere deep inside me. This is the second new emotion this young woman has brought out in me tonight. I can't even claim to know this woman, and I'm jealous of her landlord.

"Yeah, sure, if you say so," she responds with just a hint of anger in her voice as she turns the light on the back of the stove. "I'm going to run upstairs and get out of this dress if you don't mind. The coffee maker is there and everything else you'll need is in the cupboards. Just make yourself at home and I'll be right back."

"No problem," I reply to her back, not sure she even heard me as she moves quickly through the dining room as if running from something or someone. The sound of her feet on the stairwell doesn't slow as she continues up a flight of stairs to where most of the bedrooms are in these older homes. "That girl has problems," I mumble to the empty kitchen as I look through the cupboards, gathering up everything I need to get the coffee going.

With the smell of fresh coffee hanging in the air, Sue slowly re-enters the kitchen to find me sitting at a corner table reading through an outdated newspaper. She's changed into a pair of tight-fitting, faded jeans and a thin satin blouse of a peachy color. Her new attire does nothing to hide the sweet shape of her hips and butt while accentuating her proportionately sized breasts. I quickly swallow, trying to moisten my suddenly dry mouth while fidgeting uncomfortably on my seat.

"That smells delicious," she says softly, noting the two cups still setting empty by the pot. "How do you take yours?"

"Black is fine," I reply, setting the paper aside while studying her face for clues to what is bothering her. When she comes across the room with a cup in each hand, both black, I use my foot to slide out the only other chair and nod for her to sit down. "How you feeling?"

Picking up on the sincerity in my voice, she gives me a weak smile and takes the proffered seat. "Still a little light-headed, I think."

Not sure what I should say for fear of bringing up a sore subject, I simply remark, "The coffee will help."

Suddenly a small laugh breaks out of her and she gives me that shy smile that makes my heart miss a few beats. "Did you really carry me out of the bar?"

Loving the expression on her face, I take a moment to respond. Smiling back at her, I confirm that I carried her like a baby out of the bar and into the cab.

"I even have proof," I tease, suddenly remembering where she drooled on my shirt. Taking the now dried mark on my shirt between my fingers and pulling it up for her inspection, I add, "See right there. You did that."

A small squeak slips out of her mouth as a bright crimson color rises up her throat, settling in her cheeks. "No. Really? I drooled on you? I'm so embarrassed."

She is so cute when she's embarrassed, I can't think of anything to say.

Before I can move, she jumps up off her seat and comes around to stand next to me. "Give me your shirt. I'll put it in the laundry. I have a washer and dryer that I can use in the basement."

Turning on my seat to face her, she slips in between my legs to get closer and sets to work on the buttons. Not wanting to stop her, but knowing that if she gets my shirt off I might not be able to stop myself, I grab her tender little hands in my much larger, work hardened ones and hold them steady just inches from the next button. The top three are already open and she is staring at the blonde curls of hair between my breasts. If it were any other woman, I would have felt self-conscious. But with her, it feels natural.

Or maybe it's the electric current flowing through our hold on each other, as she turns her hands outward and pulls mine with hers until her hands are laying flat against my chest.

"You're solid," she whispers, seemingly unaware of the effect she's having on me.

"Daily regimen of work," I growl a tad breathlessly.

"You're different," she continues, moving her hands out to cover my breasts.

"How's that?" I whisper unsteadily, my heart racing.

"You're kind. You're strong. And I trust you."

Her words almost bowl me off the little wooden seat. In the short time that we've known each other, she pegged me as someone I'm always trying to be, even though it doesn't appear that way all the time.

Swallowing again, I stutter, "We still going to wash my shirt?"

"If you let go of my hands so I can finish undoing the buttons."

Her face is only inches from mine when she looks into my eyes. Her own eyes are lit up with gold flecks and desire and I hope she recognizes the same desire in my eyes gazing back at her. When she leans forward, I know she sees that I want her as much as she wants me. Our lips tenderly touch and I'm immediately swept away by the sweet taste of her on my mouth.

As she pulls back, a sensuous smirk turning up the corners of her mouth, I release her hands and cup the cheeks of her ass, slowly pulling her to me until she's straddling my left leg. Slowly, I slide my hands up her jeans until they are under her blouse and touching bare skin. Her breath hitches momentarily at the contact and she leans back into my hands, savoring my touch on her while finishing undoing the last of the buttons down the front of my shirt. Gripping the loose fabric in both hands, she jerks upward, pulling my shirt out of my slacks.

As I move my hands up her back, I grow acutely aware of the fact that she isn't wearing a bra. Pulling her toward me, she pushes my shirt off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor at our feet while running her hands down my back. Our bodies come together and I can feel the hardness of her nipples through the satiny fabric as they press against my bare chest.

Licking her lips, her breathing growing more ragged by the second, she suddenly pushes her moistened lips against mine, the passion having been ignited and threatening to engulf both of us.

Pressing my lips back against hers, I force her mouth open with my tongue as she nibbles on my lower lip. She willing complies and our kiss deepens, our tongues tasting and teasing each other into a heated frenzy of lust and passion that will not be denied. There is no stopping the fire that is flaming to life and threatening to consume us.

Her hands brush over my jaw as I slide my own up and down her back, slowly working them around to the front. When my thumbs press up under her breasts, she momentarily tenses and I worry that I might have gone too far. But when she rocks forward on my thigh, the heat of her core hot and moist through the fabric of her jeans against me, I continue my advance on her, rolling the taut nipples beneath my thumbs before cupping her breasts in my hands.

Arching her back while rocking the core of her heat back and forth on my thigh, I release her breasts and slide my hands around to the small of her back, pulling her tighter against me. She responds by moving her lips down to my throat and then up to my ear where she grabs it between her front teeth and pulls, the sharp pain adding to the heat of the moment.

When my fingers slide down to the waist band of her jeans, I realize they're too tight and my progress is momentarily halted. Continuing down over the denim fabric, I cup the cheeks of her sexy ass in my hands and rise from the chair, carrying her backwards toward the kitchen counter. Setting her down, I pull back as she unbuttons her blouse and slips it over her shoulders, letting it fall on the counter behind her.

I am momentarily taken aback by the sheer beauty of her. She is perfect in every way. Her breasts are petite, yet in proportion to her, the auburn aureoles surrounding her taut nipples matching the color of her hair. Unable to resist, I place my mouth over her right breast and suckle the rock hard nipple, loving the feel and taste of her on my lips while she runs her hands over the stubble of hair on my head, her breath rasping loudly in my ears.

Pulling back for another look at her, she moans softly in disappointment, her hands reaching out to me. Smiling at her, she reaches for my belt. When her fingers lock behind the leather material, she yanks me toward her with a mischievous grin. I instantly set to work on the snap and the zipper of her jeans as she undoes the belt and button of my slacks, the zippers of our respective clothing moving down in unison.

With the waist of her jeans loose, I slip my hands down her backside, forcing her jeans down until she wiggles out of them. My slacks have already pooled around my feet and I kick them aside without thinking. Her hands are inside my briefs, encircling my engorged member.

"You keep that up and it'll be over before we even get started," I growl through gritted teeth, my heart racing faster than if I had just run a marathon.

Moving toward her, I start by nibbling on first one nipple while messaging the other breast with my right hand and then switching my mouth to the other nipple while sliding my left hand over the exposed breast, massaging it tenderly and rolling the taut nipple beneath my thumb. Her breath is coming in short gasps while her heart beats against her chest with such force I can feel it through my lips.

Releasing my hold on her nipple, I float soft moist kisses down her stomach, pausing momentarily to run my tongue into her naval before continuing downward. As I draw closer to the soft hairs covering the mound between her thighs, she spreads her legs wider in anticipation, her hands gently pushing my head down. With my left hand, I tenderly spread the folds of her already moist core, exposing the sensitive nub for my tongue.

"Oh babe," she moans loudly when my tongue lavishes over the tight little bundle of nerves. A tremor shakes her body and her breath catches in her throat. Her voice husky with passion, she whispers softly, "Oh Vic, you feel so good."

With my right hand on her inner thigh and my left fingers messaging her tender folds, I suckle on the nub of nerves with my teeth, pulling gently while working my tongue around it, thrilling at the way her body tenses and relaxes with each movement of my fingers. Slowly, I can sense her body working up to a climax as she puts more pressure on the back of my head, trying to force more of me into her wet core.

"Oh baby, you taste so good," I purr, continuing to bring her closer to the edge.

"Ahh, Vic," she suddenly cries out, her body going rigid, followed immediately by a series of convulsions.

"Oh yes, baby, let it go," I growl softly, raising my head up to take in the beauty of her expression as she falls over the edge, giving into the bliss of her orgasm.

When she opens her eyes, I see moisture pooling behind the lids, threatening to run down her cheeks. Concerned, I tenderly ask of her, "What's wrong, baby?"

She attempts a forced smile while mouthing the words, "Nothing." But she fails miserably at the attempt and is unable to hold back the flood of tears.

Pulling her in close to my chest while gently rubbing my hands up and down her back, I whisper in her ear, "It's okay, baby. It's okay. You're in a safe place."

Wiping the tears off her cheeks with my thumbs, I gently brush my lips across hers before tenderly asking again, "What is it, baby? What's wrong?"

She swallows and takes a breath before answering. "This is the first time anyone has ever put my needs before their own. No one has ever made me feel as special as you do."

"But baby, you are special," I whisper, kissing her softly on the side of her throat, my heart soaring over her words. No woman has ever felt what I did was anything special. At least, not like this.

"You want to come up stairs? I'll show you my bedroom," she says, suddenly self-conscious of her nakedness.

Reaching around her, I pick up her blouse and drape it over her shoulders, hating the sudden awkwardness that came out of nowhere. "We don't have to," I reply, more than content just being with her.

"No, I want to," she replies softly, taking my hand and slipping off the counter to stand before me, my erection now pressing into her belly.

"Only if you're sure that's what you want."

Without a word, she leads me around the kitchen as we pick up our discarded clothes. Her hand holding firmly to mine, she leads me through the dining room and up the stairs. As we ascend the steps, I find it impossible to tear my eyes away from her beautiful ass as it swings from side to side with each step upward. For just the briefest of moments, I feel like a pervert, even though the sight of her is enough to bring me dangerously close to the edge.

Reaching the top of the stairs she leads me down a short hallway where there are two doors on the left and a single open door on the right.

"That's the bathroom," she says, indicating the second door down on the left.

Turning toward the open door on the right, I am immediately taken by the sight of a king-sized, four poster bed up against the far wall to the left, a sliding door that must be a walk-in closet to the left of the bed on the same wall, and a long bureau positioned along the wall to the right, stretching from just a few feet inside the door to the front of the house that has three windows overlooking the street out front. The windows are covered with sheer fabric that would probably make anyone up here visible from the street at night if the lights are on in the room.

Without pausing, she leads me into her bedroom, slowing at the bureau to set our clothes down before releasing my hand and continuing on toward the bed. Before she reaches it, she drops her blouse to the floor, no longer moving as someone that is looking forward to what is coming, but more like she is going through a practiced routine.

I'm suddenly overcome with the feeling that it's a routine she has performed many times before.

"Sue," I start, still standing naked in the doorway, my member having gone soft at the thought. She is on top of the covers and turns to look at me, her expression perplexed by my sudden lack of interest. "Maybe I should be going."

Though I mouthed the words and heard them with my own ears, I can't believe I was saying them. She isn't drunk. Or at least, I don't believe she is under the influence of alcohol. And I haven't witnessed her taking any drugs. So what is wrong with me? The most beautiful woman that I've ever met is lying on a king-sized bed with no clothes on waiting for me, and I'm telling her I should be going.

Maybe I'm the one on drugs!

At the least, I should have my head examined after tonight.

Slipping off the bed, she stoops to pick up her blouse and slips into it as she comes to stand in front of me. Her eyes look hurt and confused by my sudden rejection of her. Her fingers reach out and touch my arms sending a hot current through my body. Our gazes meet and I can't help but lean down and place my lips over hers, when the sound of a car door slamming out front makes her body jerk away from mine and I can feel the rigidness of fear run through her.

"What is it?" I ask, watching her run toward the window.

Something outside causes her to panic as she runs back toward me, grabbing my clothes off the bureau and pushing them into my hands. "You must go. Now!"

She's on the verge of panic and I start toward the window to see what has set her off, but she grabs me by the arm and says, "I'm so sorry, Vic. But I lied to you. I have a boyfriend and that's him outside. You have to leave now. If he catches you here, he will kill us both."

The protector in me quickly rises to the surface, and though I take only seconds to slip on my drawers and pants, when I look into her eyes, I get the feeling that she isn't being completely honest with me.

Though I feel a strong desire to stay and deal with this man that has her so afraid, I realize in the back of my mind that I am going to be on a plane in the morning and when I'm gone, he might come back and do something bad to her. I would never be able to live with myself if I caused her pain.

Making a quick decision, I agree to leave. For her sake, I convince myself.

"Quick," she says. "Come this way, I'll show you out the back."

Even before we reach the bottom of the stairs, there is loud banging on the front door. The force that the man is using against the door can only be indicative of his anger at not being able to get in since she slid the deadbolt when we arrived.

"Hurry," she whispers, pulling me by the hand through the kitchen and out onto the back porch where she unlatches a screen door before stepping aside to let me past.

"I'll be back for you," I breathlessly profess, trying to see past the fear in her eyes.

"No, you can't. Now go. Please, just go."

She is on the verge of tears and it tears my heart apart to see her this way. But I don't know what is going on and I have to trust her. Though I fear for her, I fight the need to stay and protect her, forcing myself to turn into the night and walk away, swearing under my breath that I will be back.

My foot is barely off the top step when she hurriedly closes the screen door and resets the latch.

# Chapter 2

# Present Day

Rolling over onto my back, every joint in my body protesting at the movement, I notice daylight seeping in past the sacks tacked over the broken and missing windows and I absently wonder how many hours or maybe even days I've been lying here on my office floor. Moving my hand slowly down the front of my stained and faded jeans, I gingerly feel the crotch to see if I've wet myself recently. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I vaguely recall that having been the case more than once before.

Wow, still dry, I surprisedly think to myself. That means it's been less than a day that I've been lying here. Not bad.

My foggy thoughts are interrupted by a loud hammering on the paper thin, hollow-core door that separates my office space from what was once a bustling warehouse, but is now just another abandoned building in a rundown industrial section of town. The building is owned by a corporation that I did a small job for. The business administrator for the corporation took pity on me and has since let me use the partitioned off space for an office in exchange for security, keeping the homeless transients from taking it over. The corporation also keeps the electric on, though I suspect that's more for the security lights than any consideration for me.

The hammering on the door echoes in my head, bringing forth a splitting headache. Gee, thanks.

Somewhere in the back of my alcohol pickled brain, I wonder how whoever it is got into the warehouse, and why they're knocking on my door unless they're connected to the corporation that owns the building and have a key to the side door. It's either that, or... Shit, I probably forgot to lock the side door when I came in last. It wouldn't be the first time.

There isn't a lock on my office door, so I know that isn't why they're taking the time to knock. It can only be someone that doesn't know me well enough to realize I don't deserve the respect they're giving me by announcing their arrival. But damn, I wish they would just stop with the freaking noise all ready and come in, it sure would be a lot easier on my head if they did.

Rolling over to my side, I fight down a bout of nausea while planting my hands palms down on the dirty floor so it looks like I'm about to do a pushup. Yeah, right, like that's going to happen anytime soon. Haven't done a pushup since before the shooting.

Actually, I haven't done pushups since basic training, almost eighteen years ago, down in Fort Leonardwood, Missouri. But that was another life and another time.

# IN THE PAST...Basic Training

It's late summer, the leaves not yet turning, but the heat high and the humidity higher. Minneapolis is more than ten-thousand feet below as the pilot turns the plane south toward Missouri. I'm nervous, I'm excited, and I'm worried about a woman that I had to leave behind, a woman that I can't seem to get out of my mind no matter how I try. There's no doubt that as soon as I get through basic, I'm going to take some leave and go back to check on her. Nine weeks. That's how long basic is. In the scheme of things, the blink of an eye. But in my mind, it might as well be a lifetime. Or so I think while staring out the window over the wing, watching the ground so far below as the fields change color the farther south we go.

The landing is uneventful, as is the bus trip out to the base. Offloading, we are hustled into a non-descript wooden structure and issued a padlock, field jacket, some toiletries, and a small cash advance against our first month's pay from a man behind a desk that's flanked by two armed soldiers, before being moved into a line leading into another building for a haircut, and a shave too, if the barber deems it necessary. And, oh yeah, it's not free. Understanding for the cash advance blooms in my mind as I stand in line.

That was just the beginning of my in-processing, a feat which drags on for several days before we're bussed off to our regular units and offloaded in front of a large red-brick building where we're assigned a tiny room with four bunk beds that we share with three other mates. After that, every day begins at oh-five-hundred with inspection out front of our barracks. It isn't bad. The comradery quickly develops in the platoons and we fly through the training. One day it might just be a timed obstacle course, the next it might be out on the rifle range playing with different weapons and/or ammunition, tracer bullets, grenade launchers, we got all the fun things to play with that civilians only see on TV.

And then there are the nights.

On rare occasions at night, you can hear whimpering and crying because someone didn't pull their weight during the day and got a blanket party thrown in their honor. Or someone else is just plain homesick and crying because he wants to go home. I didn't have patience for those that were missing their mommies. But during the day, if I could help someone with their load, I did. During my nine weeks in basic, I never received and I never participated in a blanket party. To my shame, I never intervened in one either.

But whatever distraction some nights might bring, most are just long and dark. Those nights my thoughts are filled with Sue, wondering and worrying about her. Though she doesn't know me from Adam, I meant it when I told her I was coming back. I've never meant anything more in my life.

With nothing to do but think on those long, silent nights, I analyze and re-analyze the night I met Sue over and over. We are still down in the kitchen when something changes. The gold sparkles that had lit up her big brown eyes previously, suddenly fade into the recesses. If anything, she reminds me of someone about to perform a dreaded chore, nothing like the woman filled with spirit and desire that approached me that night in the bar.

She is beautiful. Her skin so soft, the sensuous curves of her five-foot four-inch frame in perfect proportion. The scent of shampoo or soap mingled with the scent of her desire is a fragrance I will never forget. Or the taste of her on my lips. I will keep and hold onto many fond memories of that single night when all else slips into the fog of forgetfulness.

Before I finish basic training, I acquire several medals, not the least of which is my Marksman Medal for accurate shooting with an M-16 assault rifle. My prior experience and interest with weapons helped. My cocky attitude with the Drill Instructors, not so much.

# Chapter 3

# Present Day

The hammering on the cheap door isn't letting up, so after struggling to my feet, I stagger toward it, swinging it inward. The person standing there looks familiar, but it takes my addled brain a moment to place him, and when I finally do, I almost collapse. Not from the heavy drinking I've been subjecting myself to for so long, but from the surprise of realizing that it's my brother standing there staring back at me.

He's put on some weight and his once chiseled features that could set a girl's heart to pattering, have gone soft from too much easy living. Yet, his cold blue eyes haven't changed at all. While the disdain is evident in the hard set of his mouth, his eyes show me nothing but contempt and hatred, though I've never understood where the hatred comes from. I've always seen it there, even when we were young boys. If he felt threatened by me, he never had any reason to. Our father always preferred his first son and I was just a spare that he eventually decided he didn't need.

"Long time no see," I mutter, turning away from him. Though I detest him with the same angst that I have for my father, it still bothers me that he is seeing me like this, and I attempt to stiffen my back before reaching the single office chair and dropping heavily into it so that I am facing him from behind the large rusted steel desk.

"You haven't changed much," he says, his nose wrinkling up at the stench of my lacking hygiene.

He is wearing an Armani suit, perfectly pressed and tailored to hide his burgeoning middle. His shoes are shining as if they've just been polished, not even the dust motes in the warehouse daring to land on them.

"I am my own constant in this ever changing world," I reply, attempting to sound witty and failing miserably.

He's still standing outside the door, his eyes taking in the entirety of the small space, obviously hesitant to enter for fear of catching something.

"Who died?" I ask, figuring he wouldn't be here if it weren't a matter of life and death, and ruling out my life, opted for death. When he doesn't respond, I add, "Come on in," sensing that he isn't going to make the move on his own without a little push. "I swear brother, despite the rumors to the contraire, I'm not contagious."

Hesitantly, he takes a step forward, looking cautiously around the small space. Though there is an old metal foldup chair leaning up against the wall directly beneath the only exterior window that while not broken, is covered in the same fashion as those out in the warehouse proper, he doesn't acknowledge it and I don't offer it.

"I'd offer you a cup of java, but as you can see, I don't have a coffee pot," I say with a sweeping motion of my hand. When he doesn't say anything and the silence begins to grow awkward, I finally remark, "Now that we've gotten the niceties out of the way, want to tell me what you're doing here? And how the hell did you find me?"

"I have fairly extensive resources," he says, his eyes betraying indecision. It appears that he's second guessing his decision about coming here, which has my interest piqued, though I hide that expression from him. Maybe he needs a kidney and he thinks he can buy one of mine. Whatever it is, he needs something in a bad way or he would never have come in person.

"That explains how you found me, but it doesn't explain why."

"I heard you left the Army, went to work for the NSA before becoming a cop. A detective to be precise."

"Yep, that's me. You obviously know a lot about me, so you're probably aware that I'm no longer with the force."

He continues as though I haven't spoken, "You have a PI license, though according to your tax statements, you don't take many cases. You prefer drinking up your pension to working for a living."

"You've done your homework. That still doesn't explain what you're doing here."

"I'll get right to the point and then I'll be gone," he finally blurts, having made his decision to go forward with whatever it is that made him hunt me down. Removing a thick manila envelope from his inside suit coat pocket that is just the right size to contain a wad of bills, he steps forward and drops it on the desk in front of me, his demeanor that of a germaphobe. "I have a case for you."

# IN THE PAST...DORA

Nine weeks later, I'm back on a plane returning to Minneapolis from Fort Leonardwood, Missouri. Wearing a full dress uniform and carrying a duffle bag with everything I own slung over my back, I depart the airport, catch a cab, and head straight to 2120 NE Vermont. With my car in storage and no apartment to return to, as I let the lease expire when I left for basic training, I figure on finding a motel for the short time that I'll be in town. But first I have to settle what has occupied my mind almost constantly since last time I was here.

Dropping a few bills over the back of the seat, I send the cabbie on his way, figuring if she isn't home I can find a coffee shop to kill some time and then come back later. Eventually, she has to return, and I'm determined not to head anywhere else until we resolve what we have between us, for better or worse.

It's not like I have anywhere else to go, anyway. The relationship with my father is rocky at best and physical at other times. My older brother, a chip off the old man's shoulder, isn't any better. Though my father owns and runs a fairly large and profitable corporation, I have no interest in it or his money, while my brother does. They get along famously and I sincerely wish them all the best, so long as they leave me out of their lives and the fuck alone.

Standing over six-feet tall, it hasn't escaped my notice that I've put on a little extra weight while in Missouri. But it isn't fat and I feel better than I ever have before. Wearing my dress uniform and standing tall, I can't help but notice the heads turning in my direction, especially the female ones.

Watching the cab accelerate down the street, the rush of wind from its departure kicking up a litter of early fall leaves, I'm suddenly nervous. For the first time since leaving here, I begin to question if the feelings I'd developed for her that night aren't all one-sided on my part and when she sees me, she's either going to laugh in my face, or worse, tell me to get lost. With a major life-altering change hanging over me that night before leaving for Missouri, it's very possible that my imagination was in overdrive and she never expects or wants to see me again. She'd had her fun with me and moved on, while I'm stuck imagining all kinds of wild scenarios with me rescuing her from an abusive boyfriend and living happily ever after with her. A regular hero complex.

Hell, she might even call the cops when she sees me standing at her door thinking I'm some kind of stalker.

But, would a stalker be in full dress uniform from the U.S. Army?

Shrugging off my doubts, I march up to the front door and knock three times. Without actually hearing any sounds, I sense movement coming from inside and my heart begins racing with anticipation.

Slowly, the door opens a crack and I see an unfamiliar woman's face peeking out, the safety chain preventing it from opening any further. "Can I help you?" she timidly asks, studying my uniform before looking at my face.

Smiling from ear to ear, I quickly reply, "Yeah, I'm looking for Sue. Sue McDonald. Is she in?"

With a look of confusion, the lady, approximately forty-years of age, her hair tied up and wearing a modest pant suit, the overall appearance putting me in mind of a college professor, possibly from the Literature Department, kindly replies, "I'm sorry, you must have the wrong address. There's no Sue here."

"Sue," I repeat, my voice growing anxious. "Sue McDonald. She lived here just over two months ago. About five-four, brown, shoulder length hair, early twenties, really cute."

My words bring a smile to her face, the uniform probably putting her more at ease. "No, doesn't ring a bell. I never met the tenant that was here before me so I wouldn't know what she looked like. But I used to get mail for her when I first moved in and I'm sure I'd remember if her name was Sue McDonald. That doesn't sound familiar at all. Are you sure you got the right house? They do kind of look a lot alike in this neighborhood," she adds.

Taking a step back, I study the house for a moment before glancing around the neighborhood. "Yes, I'm sure this is the right house," I mouth, confused and heartbroken.

"Well, I'm sorry I can't help you," she says. Seeing that I'm not moving away, she adds, "You'll have to excuse me, my husband will be home soon and I have to get dinner ready. It's getting late."

"Yes, yes, sorry to have bothered you," I say, as she closes the door on me even before can I turn away.

When I reach the street, I head in the direction of the bar where Sue and I met that fateful night just nine-weeks prior and put my newly acquired skill to work; I start marching.

With my head in a fog, my shoulders slumping with defeat, I haven't gone far when an elderly woman driving a burgundy colored mini-van pulls up to the curb and remotely rolls down the passenger's side window. Sensing she might be lost or need help, I saunter up to the open window, my duffle bag slung over my back.

"Everything okay, mam?" I ask, raising my voice louder than normal since she's elderly and might be hard of hearing, a common misconception with the aged.

"I saw you marching there in your uniform and it just brought back memories of my Harold. He was in the big war, you know. Passed away a few years back. You reminded me of him from the back," she reminisces, a faraway look on her face. "Can I offer you a ride?"

"That would be great, mam, but I'm not really going that far."

"Just throw your duffle bag in the back there and climb in," she firmly orders, ignoring my response. "We're obviously going in the same direction, after all."

"Yes mam," I reply, smiling back at her before sliding the door to the rear aside and setting my bag down on the floor before climbing into the passenger seat up front.

"You're a tall one, ain't ya?"

"Just over six-feet, mam," I reply, warming up to her open mannerisms.

"You live around here? I do. I don't remember seeing you around or hearing of any of my neighbor's boys going off to the military. What do you do for the army? My Harold was a cook. He sure could whip up some good food. The army lost a good man when they cut him loose. You been in long?"

"No mam, I'm not from this neighborhood," I begin, not sure I'm going to have time to answer all her questions before we reach the bar when she interrupts me.

"Please, my name is Dorothea, but everyone just calls me Dora. Mam makes it sound like I'm an old lady or something. What do they call you besides Specialist Smally?"

For an old lady, she was very observant. She not only recognized my rank, but also took in the name over the lapel.

"Vic, ma..., Dora," I correct myself.

Her smile at my addressing her by name lights up her face, taking years off her weathered appearance. Instead of being in her eighties that I would have guessed on first seeing her, I'm now thinking maybe late sixties or early seventies. A spry old bird regardless of her age.

Smiling at her, she glances over and smiles back before asking, "So, how long you going to be in port, sailor?"

For a minute, I wonder if she's senile, forgetting that I'm army and not navy, when she laughs at her private joke, saying, "You know, I've always wanted to say that. So, how long you going to be in town and if you're not from around here, where are you staying? I'm only asking because I have a spare room that I'd be willing to rent to you for a really good rate. I'm not much of a cook, but I keep a clean house."

Returning her smile, I'm taken aback by my own words as they slip out of my mouth before I even realize I'm considering her offer. "That would be great, Dora. It just so happens that I need a place to stay for the next nine days. After that I'm off to Massachusetts to continue my military training."

"It's none of my business," she starts a little hesitantly, her sudden sense of propriety catching me off guard. "But what were you doing in the neighborhood if you're not from around here?"

"Looking up an old friend that used to live around here," I reply, my spirit flagging at the disappointment of not finding Sue at her house, and there is no doubt that I have the right place.

The bar is just up ahead and I suddenly wonder what Dora will think of me asking her to drop me off at a bar. Briefly I consider letting her take me on past and then just walking back. But her honesty with me has me discarding the thought almost as quickly as it comes to mind. She deserves the same honesty from me in return, and if she has a problem with my destination, then I probably wouldn't make for a good tenant in her opinion anyway and we should just go our separate ways now.

"There's my destination now," I say, indicating the neon sign hanging over the granite veneer of a pub turned nightclub.

Pulling up to the curb, she says, "2140 Vermont." Gathering her purse up, she adds, "Let me give you my phone number."

When she pauses to catch her breath from the laugh that fills the cab, I smile at her and ask, "Let me guess, you've been looking for an excuse to use that phrase for a while now too?"

Writing her address and number on a small slip of paper that looks like it might have been a fuel receipt, she hands it over to me with a twinkle in her eye. "I think you and I are going to be great friends, Vic. If you need a ride later, just give me a jingle and I'll come and collect you."

Laughing with her, I nod my head acknowledging her offer. "That's really kind of you Dora. But it won't be necessary."

"Well, I'm a light sleeper anyway, so if you change your mind, your room will be the first one on the left at the top of the stairs. The bathroom is the next one down on the left. If you've ever been in one of those old Craftsman style houses, you'll know they all use the same floor plan. The front door will be unlocked, just lock it behind you and I'll give you a key in the morning. If you want, I can take care of your duffle bag for you. I'll leave it on the floor by the front door. It might be a bit much for me to carry up the stairs, if that's okay."

"That's fine, Dora. But we haven't even discussed a price yet."

"We can take care of that business in the morning. Now go on. Find your friend and have a good time."

Sharing her confidence that we'd come to a mutually agreeable arrangement in the morning, I thank her and slide out of the minivan. Glancing past the seat to my duffle bag lying on the floor behind it, Dora notices my hesitation at leaving it and says, "Don't worry, I'm not going to abscond with it."

"Thanks Dora. I'll see you in the morning. Now drive careful," I grin, nodding at her as I close the door and step back, making a mental note of the license plate number as she pulls out into traffic, even though there isn't enough of value in the duffle bag to really concern myself.

With the fall air turning brisk with the setting sun, I pull up my collar and head into the club.

The familiar face behind the long bar is a welcome sight and I head for the far end where I can get a view of the door and the dancefloor. Old habits die hard.

"Sorry, my man," the bartender says as he pushes his towel down the smooth surface toward me. "But it'll be a few minutes before the chill sets in."

"You know," I smile back at him. "I think I'll just take it straight from the bottle off the shelf. It's cool enough already, I don't feel a need for the chill, if you know what I mean."

"No problem," he says, turning and pulling down a large bottle of rum and a tumbler from the display rack where they're hanging by their bases. Filling it up, he brings it down and sets it in front of me. "Been wondering what came of you after you carried that little filly out of here a while back," he says with a knowing grin. "Didn't think you ran off to join the French Foreign Legion," he pauses to study my uniform before continuing, "But now I'm not so sure. What the hell did she do to you anyway?"

When I don't laugh at his attempt at humor, he turns serious and asks, "What's going on, man? Military drain your sense of humor?"

"You remember me carrying that woman out of here..."

Before I can finish, he cuts me off. "Hell, that's all anyone around here has talked about for weeks. Never seen anything like it before. You just scooped her up in your arms and strutted on out of here like she were your property. Probably won't ever see anything like that again either," he adds, chuckling.

Though I try to make light of it and give the impression that I'm just a soldier home on leave and trying to hook up with the last woman I had before shipping out, my breath is held tightly at bay while I wait for an answer to my next question, "Have you seen her around since that night?"

He pushes back from the bar and scrunches up his face in thought as he looks first up and then down at the floor before answering, the whole time the seconds are ticking off like hours to me and I'm afraid to take a breath.

"No, I can't say as I have. After the way you carried her out of here, I think I'd remember seeing her again if she had come back," he slowly replies. "Didn't take time to get her number, huh?" he laughs again.

Hiding my anxiety and disappointment from him, I take a swallow of the room temperature rum, and feign a mixture of humility and embarrassment while shaking my head side to side before choking out a reply, "No."

"Wow, that must have been some night," he smirks.

"Don't you have other customers to take care of besides bothering me," I growl, my voice sounding meaner than I'd intended.

"Hey, sorry man. Didn't mean to overstep my boundaries. I just assumed everything was cool with us," he says apologetically.

"No, it's not you. It's been a long day. I've been up since 3 AM and I'm running out of juice. Sorry man," I calmly apologize, realizing there isn't any point in waiting around the bar for someone that's more than likely not even in the neighborhood any longer.

Pouring the last of the tumbler's contents down my throat, I push off from the bar and get to my feet. Reaching into my front pocket, I pull out a small wad of bills and peel a twenty off. Before I can lay it on the bar top, the bartender waves off my money and says, "Don't worry about it man. Consider it the least we can do to thank you for your service."

"Thank you, bartend," I reply, pushing the bill back into my front pocket.

"It's Bob," he says with a smile.

"Thanks, Bob," I say, turning away from the bar before coming to a stop and turning back toward him. "The name's Vic."

"If I see her Vic, I'll be sure and tell her that you're looking for her."

"Thanks again, Bob. We'll see you around."

Heading out the front door and feeling the brisk night air hit me in the face, I'm even more appreciative of the fact that I didn't have Bob the bartender chill my rum. As it is, the heat of the alcohol is barely enough to offset the chill that's creeping into my bones at the realization that I'm probably not going to find Sue before I have to ship out.

Turning in the direction of Dora's house, I pull the slip of paper she gave me out of my jacket pocket and check the address she wrote on it. "2140 Vermont," I mouth out loud to myself. "That must be just up the street from where Sue lived. Same block even," I say aloud, putting one foot in front of the next as I head up the dark street, a light breeze blowing out of the east and bringing the threat of rain or possibly even snow with it.

To my surprise, Dora's place is right next door to the last place I'd seen Sue. In fact, the night I ran out and left her behind to face something that was scaring the hell out of her, I ran up the shared lawn between the two buildings.

Before going up to the front door of Dora's place, I pause on the sidewalk out in front of 2120 and look up at the windows on the second floor. They're dark now, but the night I was up there with Sue, there would have been light filtering in from the hallway. Could we have been seen? And if we were, was it the same person that came to the door while I was there? The same person that caused her to panic with fear?

While I'm standing there, I'm given the answer to at least one of my questions. The hall light on the second floor comes on and I can clearly see the shape of a woman through the sheer drapes adorning the windows. In fact, she is so clear with the light from the hall on that I can tell it's the same woman that answered the door earlier and told me she never knew a tenant named Sue that once lived there.

Shaking my head in frustration, I turn and head up the front steps to Dora's place. True to her word, the front door is unlocked and my duffle bag is setting on the floor right where she said it would be. A smile turns up the corners of my mouth when I think back on my encounter with Dora earlier. And then I begin to wonder if she might have met Sue while Sue was living next door. She might not know what became of the woman that stole my heart that night, but she could at least confirm that I didn't imagine the encounter.

After locking the door behind me, I pick up my bag and begin the ascent to the second floor and the room that I would call home for the next week. Halfway up the steps, Dora suddenly materializes on the top landing, a heavy bath robe pulled tight around her frail frame.

"I thought I heard something," she says, standing her ground.

Pausing uncertainly, I ask her, "Are you still good with this? I can always call a cab and go to a motel if you've had second thoughts."

"Nonsense," she loudly commands. "I put fresh linens on the bed and you can move the stuff in the bureau if it's in your way. You just make yourself at home."

"Thank you," I smile up at her, continuing on up the stairs.

When I reach the top landing, she turns aside to let me pass and I get a strong whiff of peach soap or shampoo, the effect feeling like a physical blow that causes me to stumble over my own feet as it makes me think of a younger woman, and not the elderly woman standing before me.

Catching my balance before I fall down, Dora reaches out and places a steady hand on my arm. Assuming that I might have had too much to drink, she says without judgement, "Harold never could hold his liquor either."

While she keeps her hand on my arm, I lower the bag to the floor and turn toward her. "I'm sorry, Dora. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea."

Her voice stern, she says, "It's too late for that. I've already made up the bed and everything. I even picked up some extra supplies so we don't run out of food while you're here. I imagine a boy of your size has a good appetite." She pauses for a moment, her hand falling to the knot at the center of her robe where she entwines it with her other hand. "It's only normal for a man to have a few drinks when he comes home from the Army. After such a long time of abstinence, I can only imagine what it must be like. But we can talk about it in the morning. You go now and sleep it off. Remember, if you feel like you might be sick, the bathroom is just down the hall."

Though she's making light of it, I can hear the disappointment in her voice and I feel a need to explain, though I have never explained myself to anyone before, including my dad.

"I'm not drunk, Dora..."

She cuts me off as though I'm just trying to make excuses for bad behavior and she's not a woman that buys into excuses. If you do it, own it.

"It really is okay, Vic. We'll discuss it in the morning. Get yourself a good night's sleep now."

"No, really Dora. I'm not denying that I had a drink. But that was it, just the one drink. I'm not drunk and I don't usually drink to excess." I pause for a moment while we study each other, the dim hall light casting shadows on her face, making it hard to read. Taking a breath and hoping that she doesn't think me a complete fool, I decide to be completely honest with her and take the consequences like a man. If she thinks I'm nuts when I finish, then so be it. "It was your peach scent that caught me off guard. It reminded me of someone."

"Was she someone special?" she says, a knowing smile lighting up her face despite the shadows.

The question catches me off guard and I have to think about my answer for a moment. I'd only known Sue for a few hours before we abruptly parted company. Is that long enough to really know someone, to fall in love?

The answer to that is obvious. You don't think of someone to the point where they're in your thoughts all day and your dreams every night unless you feel something bordering on love, if not love.

"Yes, Dora. She was very special," I softly mouth, my thoughts going back to that night and remembering every second with her from the moment we met at the bar with her breasts pressing into my back to the time I looked into her eyes and saw nothing but fear, and I left her like that. Instead of staying to protect her and assuage her fear, I ran like a school boy out the back door afraid of getting caught by a girl's father.

But the man trying to pound his fists through the front door that night wasn't her father.

After a long moment of silence, Dora says, "I can't sleep. That happens a lot when you get older. I'm going downstairs and put the pot on. Would you like a cup?"

The thought of a cup of coffee is more than I can resist. "I'd love a cup, Dora. Give me a few minutes to put my gear up and I'll be right down."

As she heads down the stairs, I pick up my bag and enter the room she assigned to me. Turning on the light, I chuckle softly at the sight of the bed and the superman sheet set and pillow cases. For a moment, I wonder if she has any kids or grand kids. That would explain the bedding.

Dropping my bag next to the bed, I decide that settling in can wait till later as I wonder if now would be a good time to find out what, if anything, Dora knows of or knew about Sue. Slipping off my uniform jacket, I head down the hall to the bathroom and then on down to the kitchen to see how Dora's getting on with the coffee.

When I walk into the kitchen, my eyes instinctively go to the breakfast nook where there once were two little wood stools and a table, but now is just a window looking out on the back yard. Despite the subtle difference from Sue's kitchen, it still takes me back to the night I brought Sue to the edge and the sweet taste of her kisses.

Dora turns away from the counter where she has laid out a plate of biscuits and a slab of butter with a knife. Seeing the far away expression on my face, she quietly sets the plate down and then turns back to the counter where she has another tray set up with two coffee mugs, sugar bowl, creamer and a couple of spoons. Setting the tray down next to the first tray, she asks, "How would you like your coffee?"

Shaking off the memories, I turn toward Dora. "Black is fine, thank you."

"I figured it might be," she says, studying me with a hint of curiosity. "She must have been something."

"Yes, that she was," I sigh resignedly, realizing that I couldn't hide anything from this woman if I tried.

"Sit down," she softly orders.

Unlike the kitchen in what was Sue's place, Dora has removed the small island and replaced it with a regular kitchen table and four chairs. It makes for less space overall, but the woman did say that she wasn't a cook, so the kitchen is probably used more for entertaining with coffee and scones than it is for fixing holiday meals.

Sliding out a chair across from the main counter and settling into it, I wait while Dora turns back around with the glass carafe from a standard drip coffee maker. She pours two cups and sets it back on the element before taking her own seat across the table from me.

Taking a sip of the hot brew, I'm mildly surprised by the rich flavor. For regular drip, it isn't half bad.

"This is good. Thank you," I comment, setting my mug down in front of me. I hadn't eaten anything except for a snack bar and some peanuts on the plane and the biscuits are looking pretty damned good.

Seeing me eyeing them, Dora pushes the plate closer, telling me to help myself. Taking one, I slather butter on it and take a bite. As if she waited for me to have a mouthful before asking me a question, she says, "You said you're not from around here, does that mean you're not from this part of the state, or just this part of town?"

Taking a sip of coffee to wash down the dry biscuit before I choke on it, I clear my throat and reply, "I'm actually from a small town farther up north, but I went to college here. Just up the street."

"Is that where you met her?"

She didn't have to explain who she meant when she said 'her'. There was only one woman on my mind and it was 'her'.

"No," I reply, shaking my head while wondering how much I should share with her. "Do you have any grandkids?" I ask, buying time while trying to figure out how to tell her about Sue without it sounding as sordid as it does in my own head.

"You noticed the sheet set, I take it," she laughs.

"Yeah, I did," I reply with a grin.

"My daughter and son-in-law, they moved to California a few years back, have a boy. He must be about six now. They don't visit that often, but when they do, I want the little guy to be comfortable." She stares at her mug as if in deep thought for a long moment before adding with a forced smile and a nervous laugh, "The little guy will probably be in college before they come back to visit and the sheets will be entirely inappropriate."

"I thought maybe with the 'Superman' theme you were trying to tell me something," I tease.

A soft pink blush rises into her cheeks, giving her face color and causing me to feel like I might have done something good. Sitting across the table from her, I feel comfortable for the first time in a long time. My own mother was never in my life and my father always treated me as though I were little more than a nuisance, and that was when he was preoccupied with my older brother, Perry. When he wasn't preoccupied with Perry, he could be a real mean asshole. Slapping a youth hard enough to cause a nosebleed was considered 'discipline' in his book, if you get my drift.

Yet, my upbringing taught me to be self-sufficient and hard. Although I had good grades and didn't participate in athletics or sports, I enjoyed work. Good, hard, physical work that separated the men from the boys. I spent a lot of hours doing everything from mowing ball fields, snaking city storm sewers, and moving freight on the loading docks to even iron girder work as I got older. If it was hard and physical, I was your man. My hands were calloused, my abs defined, and my pecks solid. But for all that, my old man taught me one valuable lesson that I take to heart with each breath, and that is to never back down. If you know you're right, then stand up and be counted.

"Harold always wanted a boy. He would be so proud of his grandson if he were still here."

"I'm sure he would," I commiserate. After a long comfortable silence, I finally decide the time is right to bring up Sue, and I begin by asking her if she knows her neighbors.

"Why do you ask?" she inquires, not suspiciously, but out of curiosity.

"There was a girl that lived next door. House number eleven-twenty. About five-foot-four, brown hair, cute."

"Your sweetheart," she says with no question in her voice.

"I'm not sure that would be a proper description of us." I pause for a moment before adding, "I'm not even sure you could really call our relationship an 'us'."

"The way your face lights up when you mention her tells me the two of you must be an 'us' as you put it," she smiles, making me feel something that I'm not sure I can describe. Maybe it's just having someone to confide in for the first time in my life.

"I was in the bar where you dropped me off earlier," I begin, deciding to share everything with her, because right now, I'm not sure what to do next. I have a week to find Sue before I head east for training. And if I find her, then what? What if it was just a one-night stand with her and she doesn't even want to see me again.

No, I refuse to believe that. We had something. And like a fool, I let it slip through my fingers.

When I finish with the mad dash through her side yard, she finally speaks after never interrupting my entire account of the night nine weeks prior. "Would you like a warmup on your coffee?"

"Please," I reply, pushing my mug toward her. Glancing at the plate of biscuits, I suddenly realize that they're almost all gone and Dora hadn't taken any. "I'm sorry about eating all your biscuits."

"They were made to be eaten. I'm glad to see them gone before they have a chance to get stale," she says with a smile as she pours us each another cup. Placing the carafe back on the element, she lowers herself back in her chair and starts, "I remember there being a young girl next door for the last six months or so. I never knew her name, young students come and go next door with the passing semesters. We have a professor living there now. But she doesn't have tenure, so there's no telling how long she'll be around."

"Yes, I met her earlier when I stopped by looking for Sue. That's where I was coming from when you were so kind as to stop and offer me a ride."

We sip the hot coffee in silence for a while, simply enjoying each other's companionship. When I look up, I see her studying me. "Since there is nothing I can tell you that will point you in her direction, is there something else you want to ask me that you're not sure you're ready for the answer to?"

"Dora, you're reading me like a book," I smile back at her, dreading having to ask the question that has been looming since we sat down. Taking a deep breath and meeting Dora's warm gaze, I finally find the strength.

"Was there a man that came around often?" I knew deep in my soul that there was just one. She didn't put me in mind to be the type to entertain a troupe of men. Why and how she found me is a question that I won't know the answer to until I find her and can ask her. Then she can tell me.

"Yes," she says, studying my face. "He was a little older than her, or at least that was the impression I got of him. I never personally met him, just saw him come and go. He always wore a fancy business suit and drove a fancy car to match." She pauses for a moment. "I don't think she really liked him."

"It's okay, Dora. You don't have to worry about hurting my feelings."

"No. I mean it. I've always thought myself to be a good judge of people. They never publically displayed any affection. She went with him, but it looked more like she went because that was what was expected and not because she wanted to or even really enjoyed being with him. Does that make sense?"

"Now I know you're just making it up to protect my feelings. But really, Dora. It's not necessary. I'm a big boy."

She laughs at my remark, but not in ridicule. She is laughing with me and it suddenly dawns on me that this old lady is really growing on me. Admitting that I like her in concert with the fact that I shared my recent past with her regarding Sue, comes as quite a shock to me. Because of my upbringing, it's never been easy for me to open myself up to people; to give them that piece of you that leaves you vulnerable. And here I am, baring my soul to an old woman that I'd met for the first time just hour's earlier.

Her face suddenly turns serious and she meets my gaze with her slate grey eyes and says, "You could be the son that Harold always longed for, and not just because of that uniform. You carry yourself with pride and the belief that you can do no wrong. But I'm going to tell you something that you're not going to believe until it actually happens to you. At some point in your life, you will discover that you're not as strong as you now believe yourself to be and you're going to fail yourself. When that happens, and it will, you must remember this, it's not the fall that defines the man, but the way he picks himself back up and continues forward no matter how much it hurts." Her gaze slowly lowering to her empty mug, she whispers tiredly, "Don't ever forget that."

Studying her for a long moment, I notice not for the first time just how frail and tired she appears. It has been a long day for both of us.

Rising from my chair, I say softly to her, "Let me clean up here. You go on and head back to bed. We're both falling down tired."

"Yeah, bed sounds good," she says, smiling weakly up at me. "Just leave everything for the morning. It'll give me something to do when I get up."

She pushes herself up from the table, her old joints protesting after having sat for so long. As she steps past me heading toward the dining room and the staircase beyond, she repeats with determination, "I mean it, Vic. Don't ever forget what I told you here tonight because at some point in your life, you're going to fail." Her voice ringing of resignation and her last words barely audible, she adds, "We all do."

Lying in bed, the little information that Dora provided me regarding Sue rolls on a loop in front of my thoughts. If Dora believed that Sue was being kept by someone that she didn't love, possibly even feared, than I could believe it too. Yet, no matter how many times it rolled across my thoughts, the end result always came out the same, leaving me with one big question, where is she?

They say there's no going back. Yet, I can't help second guessing myself and the actions, or rather the lack of actions, I took that fateful night. I trusted Sue's judgment and left her all alone to deal with the individual that was hammering violently on her front door when I should have stayed and faced him down.

But then what? I was heading off to the army. I couldn't stay and look after her and I couldn't take her with me. In the end, all I could do was trust that she knew what she was doing.

So where is she and what happened to her?

Exhaustion finally sets in and I doze fitfully through the night. The bed is comfortable, but my thoughts aren't. It never occurred to me that I would return here and she would be gone. I didn't expect her to wait for me, but I didn't think she would run from me either.

Rising, I notice immediately that the sun is shining outside and I grab a few toiletries from my duffle bag and slowly drag my tired ass down the hall to the bathroom. Dora's door is open and I see a made bed and the curtains pulled back to let the light in.

After a quick shave and a cool shower, I put on a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt that feels a little tight since adding new muscle to my frame. The smell of bacon frying and fresh coffee brewing assails my nostrils and I hurry down the steps, a hint of optimism in the fragrant air.

When I reach the kitchen, I see Dora with her back to me. Not turning around, she says, "I hope you like crisp bacon and scrambled eggs."

Turning around, a chef's apron adorned with a military unit crest on the front tied around her waist and looking much too large for her small frame, she pours me a cup and says good morning, smiling brightly at me. "I hope you slept okay. I've been told that bed is a little too firm."

Returning her smile, I quickly assuage her concern regarding the bed. "No, no. The bed was fine, much nicer than anything they provide in the army."

Before turning back to the stove, she scrutinizes me for a long minute before saying, "You don't look like someone that slept well."

"I just have a lot on my mind," I reply, rubbing my palms against my eyes before dropping into the same seat that I'd used the night before.

Placing a plate heaped high with enough scrambled eggs to feed my entire platoon and what must have been the whole package of bacon balancing precariously on the edge next to the mountain of eggs, she says, "Eat up, you'll feel much better with a full stomach."

Though it looks like much more food than I can possibly eat, within minutes the pile is little more than crumbs as I chew on the last strip of bacon.

Leaning back in the chair to give my belly room to expand, I smile across the table at Dora and say with sincerity, "You're absolutely right, I feel much better."

After placing my plate in the sink, we sit and exchange small talk while drinking coffee. It's like something I might have done with my own mom if she'd been around. But like me, she needed to get away from my father at the earliest opportunity too. Unfortunately for me, her opportunity came shortly after giving birth to me. I never knew her and I never had any desire to find her and get to know her. She bailed on me, enough said.

After working through a second pot of coffee, the time sailing by as we enjoy each other's company, Dora finally asks me what my plans are for the day.

"Well," I slowly begin. "I thought I might swing by the library on campus and do an internet search on Sue. If that doesn't give me any leads, I might try the admission's office and see if I can bribe some information out of them. It's possible she just moved to some place more in keeping with her budget. She made it sound like her housing circumstances next door were gratuitous and temporary at best."

Even while I say the words, trying to sound optimistic, I know I'm only kidding myself. But I can't just sit here drinking coffee and socializing with Dora all day, no matter how comfortable it feels.

"We also need to discuss the rent agreement. If I'm going to stay here, I need to compensate you for the room and especially for your food. As you can see, I eat like a horse." Before she can reply, I continue, "While I'm out today, can I pick up groceries or anything else you might need?"

"If you give me a minute to clean up here, I'll give you a lift," she says, rising from her chair and heading to the sink full of dishes.

"You don't have to do that, Dora. I'm pretty good at getting around on my feet. But we do need to discuss rent."

"Nonsense. You're stuck with me today. It'll be like going on a treasure hunt. I wouldn't miss it for the world." She pauses to rinse off the dishes in the strainer and then turns toward the front door. "We'll have lots of time later to discuss rent. Now come on. Let's get this show on the road."

There is no deterring her and I'm not sure I would have if I could have. Checking to make sure I have my wallet, I jump up from my chair and give chase. By the time I reach the driveway, she's already strapped in with the engine running.

"I locked the door," I tell her, climbing into the passenger's seat and securing the seat belt.

"Here," she says, handing me a key. "It's the one I normally leave under that dead plant on the porch in case I lock myself out. You can hang onto it till you leave."

"Thanks," I reply, accepting the key and slipping it into my front pocket.

Our first stop is the library on campus. To my surprise, Dora is quite familiar with a computer, even though I didn't see any evidence of one in her house. Within minutes, we've ruled out all the Sue McDonalds that the search spits out. Most are much too old and others don't meet her description for a multitude of reasons.

"That was a bust," I whisper down-heartedly.

"Are you sure of the spelling? Did she use a credit card to pay for any drinks at the bar?"

"I paid for the only two drinks she had."

"Well, that leaves only two options," she states matter-of-factly.

Meeting her gaze, I wait for her to expound on her statement.

"We pay one of these sites to tell us what we already know," she starts, indicating all the pay sites online that will do people searches for a fee. "Or, we concede to the theory that Sue McDonald isn't her real name and she was using a fake ID that night to get into the bar."

"Yeah, I'd considered that possibility too. I think I've been fighting it though because it only leads to a dead end for me. If I don't even know her name, there's no way I can find her," I grudgingly concede.

Seeing the defeated look pull down on my face, she lifts her gaze to mine and with a smile of encouragement suggests that we head over to the admissions office.

As we suspected, even after getting the girl behind the computer to sneak a peek into their files, the name Susan McDonald doesn't turn up any records. If we learned anything, it was only that our suspicions are correct and her real name isn't Susan McDonald, or Sue, as I've been thinking of her.

"If it helps, I don't think she left with the guy that she was seeing," Dora says as we climb back into the minivan.

"What did he look like again?" I ask, though I know it won't help me find her.

"He was tall, maybe a little taller than you, but thinner. Good looking in a preppy kind of way. Dark hair of average length and clean shaven. Unlike most dark haired men, I never noticed a five o'clock shadow on him." She pauses for a long moment while pulling the van out of the parking lot and slipping into the flow of traffic. "If there was any one thing that stood out about him, it would have had to be the way he carried himself. While some men have a swagger that can add to their sexuality, kind of like yours," she says, throwing me a wink and smiling when she sees the heat of my blush creeping up the sides of my throat. "His was one of dominance, like a man that struts when he knows he's the boss and he is holding all the power. Whether that power is over a woman or a company, I couldn't say. But he acted the part of the rooster, no doubt about it. I could just tell that if I ever met him, I wouldn't like him."

"You could have just described my father," I say, staring out the window at nothing in particular, my thoughts spinning in circles.

"Or a million other men," she says with a smirk. "Let's go shopping."

By the time we get back to Dora's place, the sun has gone down and the chill of night is back in the air. After spending several hours poring over fresh vegetables and other sundries, we stopped at a mom and pop restaurant that she obviously frequented on a regular basis, as everyone seemed to know her on a first-name basis. The food was good and she even allowed me to pick up the tab, though she created quite a scene in the grocery store when I tried to pay for the groceries.

If the truth be known, I think in her own way, Dora was showing me off at the restaurant as if we were on a date or something, though I would never accuse her of such. Despite her age, it's still flattering. And her company is second to none. She is a very interesting and entertaining person. Harold was a lucky man to have had her in his life.

The thin tee-shirt I'm wearing is no longer adequate and even Dora feels the chill of the night air through her light jacket when we climb out of the heated minivan, once again back in her driveway.

"You go ahead and get the doors open and I'll bring the bags in," I suggest, trying to limit her exposure to the cold.

"I'll put the coffee pot on and the doggie bags in the microwave so we just have to turn it on if you get hungry later," she replies, heading up the front steps with a little spring in her step despite the long day she's had.

Later on, after the groceries are put away and we're setting to work on our second pot of coffee, the conversation turns back to finding Sue.

"Where do we go from here?" she asks, just assuming that we're working together in my search.

"I wish I knew, Dora," I breathe out resignedly. "I was really hoping we would turn up something today that would give me some direction. But if anything, all we learned is that her name may not even be Sue, which puts me even further behind the eight ball."

"We'll come up with something," she says encouragingly. "If you want to stay up, please feel free to help yourself to whatever you need. I'm heading off to bed. Tomorrow's a new day and will bring new ideas after we get some rest."

When I remain seated, deep in thought, she comes around to what has become my place at the table and squeezes my shoulders encouragingly.

Placing my right hand over her left where it rests on my left shoulder, I say, "Thanks Dora. You have a good night."

"You too, son."

The next day begins a routine of Dora fixing breakfast while I go jogging around the neighborhood, stopping and talking to everyone I meet to see if they knew Sue, or better yet, the woman's real name. My last day before heading to Massachusetts arrives before I know it and I can see the sadness creeping onto Dora's eyes. In the short time that we've known each other, we've become fast friends, able to have discussions about almost anything and everything, and we usually did. Nothing seemed to be off limits. While she learned everything there was to know about my dysfunctional upbringing, I learned enough about her late husband, Harold to feel as though I knew him personally.

The morning I'm due to head out, I bring my duffle bag down to the kitchen with me. Dora has offered me a ride to the airport. She is sitting at the table, a damp hanky being tortured in her frail hands.

"Dora," I softly mouth, lowering my bag to the floor by my chair and moving around to her side of the table until I'm standing directly behind her, placing a hand on each shoulder. "You okay?" I finally ask, my throat tight with emotion.

Taking my right hand in hers, she weakly replies, "I know you have to leave and that isn't going to change. It's just like when my Harold went back after coming home on leave. With all my heart I didn't want it to happen, but you know there's nothing you can do about it. It's going to happen. That's just the way of it. Well that's how I feel now."

"I know, Dora. It isn't any easier for me. You're not only the best friend I've ever had, you're the closest thing to a mother that I've ever known."

"I wish my Harold was here. You two would have gotten on famously," she says, a smile momentarily lighting up her face.

"I wish he were here too. He sounds like a hell of a good man."

"Drink your coffee," she suddenly says, patting my hand before releasing it and taking a deep breath to steady herself. "We have a plane to catch."

When we reach the airport, I tell her to drop me off at the departure's terminal instead of short-term parking and walking in with me. Sitting in the van at the curb, I know I have to go in, but I'm having a hard time getting out.

"You know, Dora, we never did come up with a rental agreement."

"Trust me, you paid for your stay in more ways than you'll ever know," she smiles at me.

Leaning across the space separating us, I give her a long hug. When I pull away, I notice tears threatening to break loose from behind her eyelids and my own eyes are a little damp.

"Go on before you miss your flight," she suddenly orders, before adding. "And don't forget where you have a room when you next blow into town, sailor."

I almost start to remind her that I'm army and not navy, but catching myself, I say instead, "Something tells me you won't let that happen."

"Damn straight," she says with a smile and the first of many tears running down her cheeks.

Grabbing my bag from behind the seat, I slide out of the minivan and give her one last, long look before turning and heading into the terminal.

# Chapter 4

# Still in the Past

The flight hits some strong turbulence and most of the passengers are growing anxious by the time we land in Boston. As I debark the plane, I pause long enough to tell the captain it was a good flight. He smiles and reaches for my hand, "Thank you," he says with genuine sincerity in his eyes.

Advanced training quickly settles into a monotonous routine of marching to classes every morning followed by inspections and more inspections. There's no leave being issued for the duration of the classes except for humanitarian reasons and the nine-months seem to drag. While classes keep me preoccupied during the days, the nights are an entirely different story. Dora and I exchange letters each month. She hasn't given up trying to find Sue, but doesn't have any better luck than we had the week I stayed with her.

With a full month off after my advanced training before shipping out for a base overseas, I fly back to Minneapolis. Dora is waiting at the airport for me and we head straight to her favorite restaurant. Being in full dress uniform, I immediately become the focal point of all the other patrons the minute we set foot in the place.

"You don't look like you've aged a day," I tell her after we've been seated.

"Oh, be off with you," she says, waving her hand at me as if shooing away a pesky fly.

My being here has definitely put a sparkle in her eye and it makes me glad. With a good meal and a couple of glasses of wine under our belts, we decide to call a cab after I promise to collect the minivan in the morning when I go out for my jog.

When we get back to Dora's place, the place that I'm beginning to think of as home, she heads straight to the kitchen and turns on the coffee pot. Taking my seat, which feels right, we sit down and just take a minute to enjoy the moment of being together again like old friends.

When the pot gurgles the last of its water through the grounds, Dora gets up and pours two mugs. Setting them on the table between us, I reach across and pull mine toward me. "So what are your plans for the next month?" she asks, her expression suddenly serious.

"I've been giving that a lot of thought," I start, gripping the mug with a firm grasp. "You've looked into everything that comes to mind, so I'm sure I can cross those off my lists. And you've spoken to more of the neighbors around her than I possibly could have, also with no luck." I pause for a moment, giving her a grateful look. "You've done more than I could ever have asked of you and for that I'm deeply grateful."

"I'm sorry, Vic, but I don't know what more we can do."

"I thought about prowling the campus, throwing a description of her around and see if I can turn up anything, but being summer semester, there probably aren't many students on campus this time of year. It would be a long-shot at best."

"Until we think of another way to approach this problem, maybe you would consider working for me?" she tentatively puts out there for me to consider.

"If you need something done, Dora, all you have to do is ask. You know that," I quickly respond.

"I know, Vic, but I don't want to take advantage of you. I will gladly pay you."

"Sure, just like I pay you for rent. Seriously Dora, just tell me what you need and I'll take care of it," I say to avoid an argument, though I have no intentions of taking any money from her.

"Good. Are you okay with heights?"

When I break out laughing, she gives me a questioning look. "I've been jumping out of airplanes, Dora."

"You never mentioned that in your letters," she scolds.

"I didn't want to worry you," I chuckle, enjoying the concern on her face.

"What else haven't you told me?" she demands, trying to appear angry and failing at it miserably.

"Just sat in the barracks and studied the whole of my time there," I blatantly lie, trying to keep a straight face.

"Don't be insolent, young man," she scolds, getting up to refill our mugs. When she settles back into her chair, she slowly smiles, unable to resist my contagious smirk.

"Seriously, Dora. What do you need done?"

"If you're sure it won't be too much for you, I need the leaves cleared off the roof and the gutters need cleaning. There's also some paint in the cellar for touch-up on the trim around the windows, but they'll need a good scraping to get the loose and peeling paint off first. There's an extension ladder lying along the side of the house, but you might want to check it over carefully and make sure it's still safe before you go up it."

"That's only a couple of day's work, Dora. I'm going to be here for almost a month, if that's okay with you."

"Dear, please, just consider this your home too." When I start to protest, she quickly cuts me off. "I won't hear otherwise so just settle yourself in. If you want to use this for your address, you go right ahead. I know how the military can move you around a lot, so if you want, I can forward your mail whenever you settle into a new station."

"That's very kind of you. I'll check that ladder out tomorrow after I collect the minivan."

The conversation turns to small talk and the weather as we sit late into the night, just enjoying each other's company.

The next three weeks fly by and I find that tortuous time of departure suddenly upon us. Although I've spent many hours of each day asking questions of everyone I met, we never developed any new leads and it was beginning to like as if I should just put her out of my mind and move on with my life.

Despite the time that has passed since my brief encounter with Sue, I still have the memory of her beautiful face and funny wit haunting my dreams late into the night. And my meeting her was also the catalyst for my meeting Dora, and for that I can consider myself a lucky man. Despite the fact that I'm no longer a young kid, she still fills the void that my mother left in my life. She's an amazing woman with a lot of common sense and worldly experience. I couldn't have chosen a better mother if I'd been given that option in life.

# ...

The next year seems to fly by. My training in covert operations is expanded upon and I'm given many opportunities to work in the field helping out on different operations. Some more dangerous than others, but all carrying some degree of liability.

There are a few women that come and go in my life, but nothing serious. None of them ever compare to the woman I still think of as Sue, even though Dora and I have pretty much come to the conclusion that her name isn't Sue. Some nights when the darkness feels like an eternity, I wonder where she is and what she's doing. And most importantly, I wonder if she ever thinks of me. I also wonder about the man that hammered on her door that night. Who was he and what did he have over her that frightened her so?

Again, Dora collects me at the airport and we head straight to her favorite restaurant. This time, the owners and staff are clearly looking at me as her son. They know, thanks to Dora, that I've been stationed overseas and when we walk in, I get an applause. Although I blush, not sure how deserving I am of the accolades, it makes me feel welcome. For the first time in my life, I feel like I belong and that I'm truly home.

Dora stands back, her face beaming with pride before stepping forward and taking my arm. Over a lunch of grilled halibut and green salad, we exchange small talk, mostly covering what has happened in our lives while we were apart. The conversation only lends to dampen my bright mood at seeing her again as she brings up the topic of Sue and how she is still questioning everyone she runs into about the girl that used to live next door to her.

From our conversation, I learn that she has new neighbors living next door, as the English professor only taught for a couple of semesters at the college before receiving an offer from a university in California that offered her tenure as part of the contract. Her new neighbors are an older, retired couple that actually purchased the house.

"I should probably go over and introduce myself," I suggest, not really thinking about what I'm saying.

"If you're thinking you might learn something new, I can tell you what I've learned so far. The house was previously owned by a property management firm that is owned by a real estate conglomerate that does a lot of development in the greater Minneapolis area. So if you're thinking the prior owners might be a lead to our mystery girl, I can tell you that I checked it out and they have no record of the place even being rented for the time frame she lived there."

Sipping our coffees, we simply enjoy the silence for a long moment before something crosses my mind.

"Dora, I understand how you learned about the ownership details through your new friends and neighbors, they would have all that information. But they couldn't have told you that no one was paying rent for the time frame that Sue lived there. You didn't do anything illegal, did you?"

"Vic, you should know me better than that," she smiles mischievously.

"Dora."

"Nothing like that," she finally admits, taking another sip of her coffee. "I went to the property management company that took care of the place before Jack and Diane, my new neighbors, purchased it. The lady at the front desk was very helpful in answering a doddering old ladies questions. I simply explained that I lived next door and a young woman lived there for a while and left a few things she had stored in my garage. She pulled it up on her computer and put in the time frame that our girl lived there and it showed the place sitting empty. No one legally lived there during that time."

"That's kind of strange, don't you think? Someone had to be paying the rent, even if what she told me is true and that it was a gratuitous arrangement that didn't cost her anything." I pause for a long minute before rephrasing my last comment. "At least, not costing her any money, because the fear in her eyes that night told me she was paying a dear price to live there."

The sympathy in Dora's eyes speaks volumes when she meets my gaze. "I wish I had known what was going on right next door to me. I would have done something about it," she says with frustrated determination.

"It's all right, Dora. There wasn't anything you could have done, even if you knew."

"I had a spare room. I could have offered it to her, got her out from under whatever it was going on there."

"If she'd had you for a friend, she may never have gone out that night looking for someone to take her mind off her situation at home, and she never would have found me. And no matter how much it hurts sometimes, I wouldn't trade the memory of that night for anything, Dora."

She smiles knowingly at me before we change the subject. "I put the Superman bed sheets away, by the way."

"You didn't have to do that for my sake," I chuckle, secretly relieved that she had, even though there wasn't any chance of anyone else ever seeing them aside from me and her grandson.

"I went shopping this week and I think you'll like what I got to replace them," she replies, flashing me a knowing smile.

The waitress, Katrina, the youngest of the owner's daughters stops by the table and offers to warm up our coffees. In unison, we both decline the offer, anxious to get back home and settle into the comfort of our respective routines.

Despite being early evening when we reach Dora's house and the place that I have come to think of as home, Dora heads straight to the kitchen and turns on the coffee pot while I carry a few bags in from the van, some items Dora picked up at the store before picking me up at the airport.

Once we're settled into our respective seats, I break my biggest news to her, something I didn't want to share while we were in the restaurant. "My leave is being cut short this time," I begin, watching the disappointment flash briefly in her eyes. She is determined that she will make the most of my time home, no matter how long or how short it might be.

"Why is that?" she tentatively asks. "How long will you be home?"

"Their sending me to California for more training. I'll still be going out on covert operations, but with more of a backup role than lead. With this new training, more of my work will be for the NSA."

"The NSA? Isn't that the intelligence agency? What do they have to do with the army?"

"The army is downsizing its security role and turning more intelligence gathering operations over to the NSA. With everything becoming computerized, most of our nation's security has to do with Cyber Intelligence these days. I'm going to be trained in computer programming, code, and cyber intelligence."

"You haven't answered my question. How long before you have to leave and when will you be back again?"

This time, there is no hiding the anxiety on her face and in her eyes. "Four days before I leave." When she starts in surprise, I quickly add, "But I'll only be gone for 3 months this time before I return. It's just the start of more personalized training, learning new gear and stuff. Then the second part will be on the east coast, in Virginia. I'll get a break in between and be able to stop by here on my way through."

"Oh, Vic, I know it's your life and it's for the best, but I miss and worry about you when you're not here."

"But I won't be going out on operations now until I finish all of my training, so you don't have to worry quite so much."

"Yes, there is that. I just haven't worried about anyone the way I do about you since my Harold. Just like you, he never told me what all went on when he was gone, but I knew he was always in danger, even as a cook."

"I'll be fine, Dora. If there's anything you need me to do while I'm here, I'll get on it first thing in the morning."

"No." She firmly states. "I can afford to hire people to keep the house up. You need to enjoy your time off, not working on this old place."

"Dora, this old place is the home I never had and I look forward to working on it. I actually enjoy it. So if there's anything that needs attention, please, just let me know. If you don't want to tell me, I'll spend the day looking for things to fix, because it's like you said, this old place needs lots of attention."

"Only if you're certain."

"Yes, I'm certain."

# Chapter 5

# Present Day

"What makes you think I'd ever consider working for you?" I ask, glancing disdainfully at the heavy appearing manila envelope lying on my desk and feeling no desire to pick it up, or even touch it for that matter. "And why me when there are hundreds of other agencies that would be much more willing to take your money, no questions asked?"

"Because even though this is a simple missing person's case, I need complete discretion. You're the only person I know that couldn't care less about the family business, and that makes you the perfect candidate for the job." He takes a step back as if suddenly remembering that I might be contagious, and looks away before adding, "That is, if you're even capable of the job."

At the mention of a missing person that needed finding, I am bombarded by the image of the woman that disappeared from my life almost eighteen years prior and my futile efforts at finding her. His comment might be closer to the truth than he knows, as self-doubt suddenly makes me question if I really am capable of the job.

# In the Past...

The next four days fly by and before I know it, I'm sitting in a class room with twenty-eight other military members originating from every branch of the service known to the general public along with a few lesser known agencies that aren't. The main classroom sits on a slight rise affording a million dollar view overlooking the Pacific Ocean. There are twenty-six males and two females in the class. Because I don't seem to have the free time to chase the bikini clad girls that frequent the sandy beaches or hang out in the pubs at night like the other males in the class, I am immediately ostracized and treated like a leper, which is fine with me.

Instead of socializing like the others in my class, the next three months entail a routine of working out, attending classes, swimming, working out some more, and then getting up the next day and starting the routine all over again. Weekends are spent either in the gym, swimming in the ocean, or studying. It feels as if the instructors are trying to cram a full year's worth of training into 3 months.

The little time that I have to spend on the beach has me looking at all the faces of passing strangers. While my male classmates are checking out the bodies of bikini clad girls while sunbathing or swimming, my eyes are searching for a familiar face. Though the odds of seeing Sue's face among the many young girls that frequent the beach is beyond infinitesimal, I can't help myself; I can't stop looking for her, anywhere and everywhere I go and all of the time. It has become an obsession that I'm powerless to stop.

So it comes as a surprise when Tiffany, an athletic brunette with hazel eyes that stands almost as tall as me and one of only two female students in the class, approaches me during our lunch break Monday of the second week in and offers to be my study partner. Though I'm not looking for a study partner, I have to concede that despite this only being our second week of classes, she is already excelling beyond the rest of us where I seem to be in a constant struggle just to keep up. She has a head for numbers and programming code is more like a first language to her than our native English. And like me, she too isn't looking for a relationship, even if she is easy on the eyes and has a great, charming personality.

My time studying with her is well spent. When I have a hard time wrapping my head around a particular problem, Tiffany always comes up with a way to explain it that breaks it down into terms I can understand. We are soon spending most of our waking hours together, either in the gym working out and taking turns spotting for the other, or swimming in the ocean followed by many hours studying, even late into the night when the rest of the class is down at the pub winding down.

It dawns on me that the others in the class are probably seeing us as an item, and I'm okay with that because I know we're just friends. Moreover, Tiffany doesn't seem interested in taking our relationship beyond the burgeoning friendship that we have either. At least, based on the way we can talk about almost anything and everything without any embarrassment, I think I would know if she was looking for something more.

When she tells me that her parents, both DOD employees, are on assignments out of the country, I invite her to tag along with me to Minneapolis to meet Dora. She almost declines the offer until I explain to her that we will be going as friends and nothing more. Because I've shared so much with her regarding Dora, she actually seems excited to meet her in person. I've also been keeping Dora in the loop with our monthly letters and she in turn is looking forward to meeting Tiffany.

Tiffany knows as much about me as Dora does and I have a strong suspicion they're going to be exchanging notes. But that's okay. I have a thick hide and if they get enjoyment at my expense, so be it, I can handle it. I'll just have to be sure I'm wearing my big-boy pants when they meet.

If I hadn't believed that the two of them were going to get along, I never would have made Tiffany the offer of coming along to Minneapolis.

Dora picks us up at the airport and the two of them immediately hit it off. I feel lucky to get a quick hug from Dora before her and Tiffany are fully engrossed in girly talk. While I'm relegated to the back seat, Tiffany sits up front getting the full tour from Dora. I never realized there was so much to talk about.

I'm definitely in trouble.

At the restaurant, the owner's youngest daughter Katrina, is immediately drawn into the conversation with Dora and Tiffany. Although I've always managed to entertain myself and enjoy my own company, the two of them have me feeling like the third wheel on a hot date, and when Katrina stands between them, totally immersed in their conversation, I cease to exist. If it wasn't for Katrina's mother coming out to say 'Hi' to Dora and me, and had the forethought to bring a carafe of coffee with her, I might have died of thirst before they ever noticed me sitting there.

Just seeing the sparkle in Dora's eyes though, makes it all worthwhile. She is enjoying herself more than I'd ever seen her do before. Still, there can be no doubt that she misses her daughter and grandson terribly. In fact, since first meeting her more than two years ago, I can't think of a single time that she's mentioned them visiting in our monthly correspondence. Not even the holidays, when I felt bad that I couldn't come home to cheer her up due to the call of duty.

"Oh my God," Dora suddenly cries out, startling me out of my reverie. "We've been completely ignoring dear Vic."

"It's okay, Dora, we can catch up later," I say, hoping to stay under their radar as long as possible. Once they drag me into their conversation, I suspect things are going to become uncomfortable for me.

"No, it's not okay. Katrina, can you bring us each a glass of wine. I'd like to make a toast."

"Sure, Dora. I'll be right back," she says, almost running to the kitchen.

She returns shortly with a magnum of Pinot noir and a tray of fluted glasses.

"Oh my child," Dora exclaims. "I never meant for you to bring us an entire bottle."

Katrina's mother quickly assuages Dora's concerns, "It's on the house, dear. So just enjoy and celebrate. It's not every day we make new friends and have family reunions."

Although I'm not sure what Dora's real concerns are regarding the appearance of the bottle of wine, I make a mental note that if she is having any kind of financial problems, I will remedy them before Tiffany and I have to catch our plane for Virginia.

By the time we leave the restaurant, I notice that Dora is appearing more tired than usual for her.

"Let me drive, Dora," I say, with one of them on each of my arms.

"If you're sure it's not too much trouble," she says, reaching into her purse and retrieving a set of keys.

Any other time, she would have argued with me.

"You okay, Dora," I ask, unable to hide the concern in my voice.

"Oh yeah," she says, brushing off my arm before stepping aside to let me open the sliding door on the van. "I think maybe I had a little too much excitement tonight. I'm not as young as I once was."

"You can sit up front, Dora," Tiffany quickly says, holding the front door open for her.

"No, no. You go right ahead. It's much easier for an old gal like me to get in and out back here."

With a firm grip on her elbow, I help her climb into the back seat and make sure her seatbelt is secure before heading around to the driver's door and climbing in. On the drive back to her house, conversation is limited with Dora only occasionally bringing one of the passing landmarks to Tiffany's attention. Compared to the ride from the airport, Dora is much more subdued.

It also doesn't escape my attention that there aren't any bags of groceries in the back area like on all my previous visits. It makes me wonder if it's because she was too tired to go out before picking us up at the airport, or if her money problems are more acute than I initially suspected. Either way, I'm growing more concerned by the minute.

When we reach the house, I guide Dora to the front door with a steadying hand on her elbow. Unlike every time in the past when I came to visit and she would head straight to the kitchen, Dora pauses at the bottom of the stairs and turns to me.

Putting a frail hand on my arm, she says softly, "You take Tiffany into the kitchen and make yourselves some coffee. I'm just going to head up stairs and call it a night."

Giving her a tender hug, I meet her gaze. "If you're sure, Dora."

"Yes. I'm really tired and I'm afraid if I don't get to bed, I'm going to develop a headache. Goodnight, Tiffany," she adds, turning toward the young woman and extending her arms out for a hug. "Vic knows his way around the house, if you need anything at all, just ask him. Make yourself at home and I'll see you both in the morning."

Holding each other for a long moment, Tiffany slowly releases her hold on Dora and steps back to stand beside me. "Do you need a hand getting to bed?" Tiffany asks, when she notices the struggle Dora is having raising her foot for the first step.

"No, no. I'll be just fine. You two go on now."

Though it breaks my heart not to help her, I know what a stubborn streak the elderly woman has, and my insistence will only upset her. Turning toward Tiffany, I whisper softly in her ear, "The kitchen is right through there. You want to get us some coffee brewing. I'm going to wait here until she's safely up the stairs."

Nodding her head, Tiffany slips quietly into the kitchen and begins rummaging through the cupboards, looking for all the coffee fixings while I move back into the shadows of the dining room where I can keep an eye on Dora without her knowing I'm watching.

After a few long minutes, she finally reaches the top landing and without turning around, says over her shoulder, "I told you I'd be okay, son. Now go see to our guest."

"Yes, mother," I call back just loud enough for her ears. And though I can't see her face, I feel the warmth of her smile all the way to my soul, because as far as I am concerned, she is my mother.

By the time I reach the kitchen, Tiffany has found all the fixings for the coffee pot and is sitting at the table where Dora usually sits. Without even thinking about it, I drop into the seat that I normally occupy and look across the table at her. Meeting my gaze, she instantly picks up on the concern and worry in my eyes.

"She's even more special than you had me imagining," she says with a smile.

"Yes, she is quite the lady."

"You're worried about her. What aren't you telling me?"

Letting out a deep breath, I begin slowly, keeping my voice low. "You remember when Katrina brought out the magnum of wine?"

"Yes."

"I saw Dora flinch, as if she were suddenly afraid that she wasn't sure how she was going to pay for it. My first thought was that she must be having some kind of financial problems. And then when we got in the minivan, I noticed there wasn't the usual assortment of grocery bags that she picks up before coming to the airport to pick me up. In the past, she's always stocked up on groceries before I arrive, and I would have thought this time, knowing there were two of us coming, she would have gone overboard. That kind of confirmed my first theory and I was thinking that whatever it takes, I can resolve her financial woes before we leave."

When I hesitate, she urges me to continue. "But now you think it's something more serious, don't you?"

"Every time in the past, it's always been our thing to end the day here in the kitchen where we sit up most of the night drinking coffee and discussing whatever comes to mind." I pause to give her a conciliatory smile before continuing. "And I do mean anything. This is the first time we've returned from the restaurant and she's gone straight up to bed."

"She's tired, that's all."

"No. As much as I want to believe that, I know there's something more. She values this time in the kitchen enjoying each other's company as much as I do, and unless it's something serious, she would be here right now, sitting in that chair where you're sitting. I'm worried about her Tiffany."

"I'll talk to her tomorrow, girl to girl. If there's something wrong, I'll find out what it is and if there's anything we can do, by God, we'll do it. You and I. Whatever it takes."

"Thanks Tiffany. You have no idea how much that means to me."

"We're buds and that's what buds do for each other. Whatever it takes."

Meeting her warm gaze, I see nothing but honest determination in it.

"That coffee's going to burn if we don't drink it," I finally say, breaking eye contact with her.

After filling both of our cups, she sits back down, looking across the table at me with a mixture of sadness and something I can't identify in her eyes. "Do you remember when I sat down by you at lunch that second week in class?"

"Yeah, I remember thinking that you were going to throw me a pity party because everyone else had figured out by then that I wasn't very social, preferring my own company to theirs. Which didn't make much sense, because I'd also figured out by then that you were the smartest person in the class and would have figured out like the rest of them that I preferred being alone."

"Trust me, I never felt any pity for you," she laughs softly, her voice tender.

"We probably wouldn't have become such good friends so fast if it had started with you pitying me," I chuckle, meeting her warm gaze. For all the times I've looked at her, I'd never noticed what big, brown pools her eyes are. The thought that some lucky man is going to fall into them and get lost in their depths crosses my mind.

"I followed you out to that bench across the compound from everyone else because you had the cutest ass and I remember thinking at the time that you were either missing some lucky lady terribly, or I might just be the luckiest damn girl in the world." She pauses for a long moment, suddenly blushing and trying to hide her discomfort by keeping her mug in front of her face. "It didn't take me long to see that you were already spoken for. Even if you didn't know it, I did."

"I value your friendship more than you will ever know, Tiffany. But you're absolutely correct."

Now it's my turn to hold my mug up in front of my face as I feel the heat rising up the sides of my throat and into my cheeks. Though I know my next words are going to hurt her on some level, out of honesty and respect for our friendship, I have to speak them. "Until I find her, Tiffany, I can't even think about loving another woman in that way."

We sit in silence for a long while before Tiffany asks the question that's been on my mind since returning so long ago from basic training.

"What if you never find her? What then? How long do you keep looking?"

The sensation of treading on thin ice is growing in the back of my mind. It definitely feels like my future relationship with Tiffany is in the balance and dependent on how I answer her questions.

Yet, no matter how I wrack my brain, I don't have any answers. It's been over 2 years, and the pain of losing her is just as sharp now as it was that day when I found she'd left with no forwarding address.

"I honestly don't know, Tiffany," I reply, holding her heartfelt gaze in mine. "I wish it was as simple as giving you a date and time. But you know it's not." Looking away, I sigh heavily, "I just don't know."

Looking back at her, she looks deep into my eyes and says, "It's okay, Vic. If you were into the friends with benefits thing, I might be persuaded to jump on board. In fact, I know I would jump on board with it. But I also know myself well enough to know that it would only be a matter of time before I wanted more. And if you weren't ready to give me what I need when that time came, we would end up going our separate ways." She pauses to sip her coffee before adding, "Trust me Vic, it would be much worse than nourishing what we currently have."

Giving me a smile that lights up her face, she timidly continues. "Sometimes looking at you makes me all moist and warm down there. Yet, I would much rather be a little frustrated at times than ever have you not in my life. Does that make sense?"

"Absolutely." She has just put it out there that she would be open to a relationship of 'Friends with Benefits', and I basically turned it down. I just hope I didn't offend her pride.

Giving me an exaggerated wink, she laughs nervously and says, "So, with that cleared up, what bed are we sleeping in tonight?"

As it turned out, Dora had left a pile of blankets and an extra pillow piled on top of my bed. Leaving Tiffany in what I had come to think of as my room, I take the blankets and pillows downstairs and make up a pretty comfortable cocoon on the sofa in the front living room, a room that hasn't seen much use since I've been staying with Dora.

The following morning, I awake to the sounds of female voices, the smell of bacon, and the eye opening aroma of coffee brewing. Sliding out from under the pile of blankets, I head upstairs with my ultimate destination the bathroom, stopping only long enough in my old room to drop off the pile of bedding and collect my toiletries. It's comforting to notice that Tiffany has already made the bed and I pause long enough to neatly fold the blankets that I'd just dropped on it before continuing down the hall to the bathroom.

Shaved and showered, I head downstairs to the kitchen, my stomach growling loudly for food. Dora and Tiffany both turn to look at me, their faces alight with mischief. Returning their smiles, I can't help suspect that I've been the topic of conversation.

"Good morning, ladies'"

After they both say good morning in unison, Dora grabs the carafe and leans over the table to fill my mug.

"Tiff, would you care for a warmup," she asks, moving past her with the carafe.

"Please," she replies, placing a plate heaping with bacon, eggs, and toast in front of me.

It didn't miss my notice that Dora just called Tiffany, Tiff. It was warming my heart to see them getting along so famously considered they'd just met for the first time the evening before. In the short time that I've known each of them, they'd become the two most important people in my life.

It also does my heart good to see Dora looking like her old self again and I briefly wonder if Tiff learned anything about what's going on with her.

Reading my thoughts like a friend of much longer standing, Tiffany gives me a knowing wink as she settles into her chair on the side of the table to my left, facing toward where the breakfast nook used to be but is now just a window looking out on the backyard.

Taking a mouthful of eggs, I notice something different immediately. "These are delicious," I say while chewing. "You did something different to them this morning, Dora."

"Damned straight, I did. I let Tiffany fix breakfast," she smirks, adding, "Remember when I told you what a great cook my Harold was?"

"I sure do."

"Well, if you remember correctly, I also never said that I was."

We all break out laughing.

With breakfast nothing more than a fond memory and a full tummy, we sit around until almost noon drinking coffee and sharing past experiences. Dora seems to love hearing our stories about the military and what we have to look forward to in Virginia.

"So what are your plans for today?" Dora finally asks, noticing that Tiffany and I are growing restless from a combination of too much caffeine and having sat still for so long.

"We thought we might go for a run and then take you out for dinner and drinks at the pub later. Maybe shoot a game of pool or two while we're at it," I say, shooting Tiff a look so she doesn't contradict me.

"Didn't you mention once that they have a dance floor too?" Tiffany asks, returning my look.

"In fact, they do," I reply, giving her a mischievous look before turning toward Dora. "What do you think, Dora? Feel up to cutting a rug later?"

"Definitely count me in. I may not be up to cutting much of a rug anymore, but I will enjoy nothing more than watching the two of you out on a dance floor," she happily replies. "Now go on, both of you. Go burn off some restless energy so I can keep up with you all tonight."

When Tiffany collects the coffee mugs, Dora quickly shoos her away. "Go on. I can take care of these."

# ...

Like me, Tiffany makes a point of taking care of herself and staying in shape. We soon settle into a rhythm that has us eating up the miles. Unlike the other joggers we meet along the myriad of trails wearing their high end running shoes and stylish jogging outfits, we're both donned in combat boots and fatigue pants with a simple green tee shirt emblazoned with the letters 'ARMY' across the front.

Passing a street vendor selling a variety of beverages and treats, I slow down and then circle back, Tiffany staying right with me. I grab a couple of bottled waters and hand one to Tiff before laying a few bills in front of the old man tending the cart and telling him to keep the change. He gives us a tooth challenged smile as we slowly stroll over to a group of concrete benches aligned along the trail.

"This is nice," she says, taking a seat on the nearest bench. "I never realized Minnesota could have such nice weather."

"Hey, that's not fair. Just because you're from California doesn't mean you get to belittle my state."

She leans back and puts an arm over the back of the bench, relaxing and taking in the view, while I lean forward, stretching my calves and thighs to prevent them from cramping up.

"Did you get a chance to talk to Dora about what's going on?" I ask, sitting up and sharing the view of the Mississippi River with her.

"How long have you known her?"

"A little over 2 years. Why?"

"You've seen the size of that house, right?"

"Yeah. So where is this going?" I ask, perplexed by her questions.

"Well, you said you wanted me to find out what was going on with her, so I did."

"And you're going to tell me sometime in the next few years?"

"If you weren't so wrapped up in your own little world, you might have noticed a long time ago that financially things are beyond tight with her. When her husband passed away, he left her with a mountain of unpaid medical bills. The hospital worked out a payment plan with her so that she wouldn't lose the house, but it didn't leave anything for maintenance and repairs. In fact, it barely left her enough from her husband's little pension to pay utilities and eat." She pauses to sip from her bottle of water. "She's been subsidizing her living expenses by drawing on her savings, which are almost gone."

"Aside from me being such a self-absorbed ass and not contributing anything to the cause, now she's not sure what she's going to do when the savings are all gone. Is that what's been eating at her?"

"That's a large part of it," Tiff replies. And then laughs. "Not the part about you being such a self-absorbed ass. Dora adores you, she'll never see your many faults the way I do."

"Smart ass,"

"Hey, can I help it I'm not blinded by your charm and rugged good looks?"

We sit in silence for a long moment, trying to figure out how we can help Dora out of her predicament without injuring her pride, because we both know she is much too proud to simply accept a handout, no matter how we disguise it.

"I wonder if she's considered selling the house and finding something smaller, something that would be easier to maintain and with a lower property tax load. I can imagine she's paying quite a bit in taxes in that neighborhood," I think aloud, trying to come up with something.

"The house is all she has left of Harold and she's determined to leave it to her daughter, so that's not an option," Tiffany counters.

"I have quite a nest egg saved up. It's probably not even close to what would be needed to make the hospital bill go away, but it might take care of a few years' worth of payments."

"I have a few bucks set aside for a rainy day, too," Tiffany adds.

"You don't even know her, Tiffany. I can't expect you to put money in this kitty," I say, taking a new look at her and finding I really do like what I see.

"Down boy," she says, smiling from ear to ear. "I wouldn't be kicking into the kitty for you. This is about helping out a sweet old lady that I really like."

While we're talking, a few dark clouds roll in threatening rain. "If we hurry back, we might beat the down pour that's coming our way. But before we do, let's make a plan," I suggest, eyeing the impending rainstorm.

"Okay. What are you thinking?"

I think if we talk to the hospital on the QT, we might be able to work something out. Without that burden, do you think Dora can handle the rest of it?"

"It sounded like that's what's been pushing her over the edge each month. But until we talk to the hospital, we won't really know how much we're looking at, monthly or total."

"You did good, Tiff. I really appreciate you talking to her. She would never have told me all that and you just met her."

"I like her, Vic. I like her a lot."

Giving her a hand up, I smile at her and say, "She obviously likes you a lot too."

Holding onto my hand for a long moment, she returns my smile and asks, "How about you? Do you like me a lot too?"

"I do, Tiff. I really do," I reply, meeting her gaze and recognizing the raw desire within it.

When we return to the house, Dora is taking a nap in anticipation of a long night ahead of her. She left a note on the kitchen table not to disturb her, which works out perfect for us. We each take a quick shower and slip out in the minivan. Reaching the hospital, we go directly to the front desk and get directions to an office that says 'Billing and Accounts' on the door.

The door is half glass and we can see a counter and other people ahead of us through the glass part. Holding the door for Tiffany, we approach the counter and wait for someone to help us. While we're waiting our turn, I turn to Tiffany and comment drily, "What if this ain't the right hospital?"

Nudging me with her elbow, she whispers, "You don't give me enough credit."

Before I can reply with a snide remark, the man in line ahead of us turns away from the counter and heads toward the door. A young woman that had been helping him looks up from her computer console and asks if she can help us. After explaining that we are there on behalf of one of their customers with a payment plan for services rendered, she eyes us suspiciously.

"We can't divulge a patient's records, if that's what you're inquiring about," she flatly responds.

"Let me explain again," I say, hoping that she will work with us if she's aware of the entire situation.

After explaining everything to her, especially empathizing that we're not interested in any medical records, just financially assisting an elderly lady, she finally asks for more information, giving us hope that she might be willing to help us.

"Okay, although I cannot divulge the payment history of the party involved, or the total amount of the bill, I can accept payments from any party that wants to contribute toward the account," she says, smiling slyly. Before I can say anything, she looks around furtively to be sure no one is listening in, and continues. "But it doesn't make any sense that someone would make a payment if they didn't know how much of a payment to make, now does it?"

Again, cutting me off before I can say anything, she punches a few keys to bring up the current status of Dora's account on the computer terminal in front of her and then turns it so that Tiff and I can both plainly see the payment history. Not only does it show the monthly amount due, it also shows the payoff amount, or total balance due.

I am momentarily taken aback by both the total amount and the monthly payment due. "Can you give us a minute?"

"Sure," she smiles knowingly.

Tiffany and I take a few steps back so we can discuss in private what we are going to do. My savings alone isn't enough to cover the entire amount due, yet it is close enough that if Tiffany is serious about chipping in, we might be able to make it happen. It will leave me with nothing except my credit cards, but that doesn't bother me in the least. If it will make it possible for Dora to sleep at night, it will be more than worth any inconvenience I might suffer because of it.

After I tell Tiffany what I have, she quickly agrees to the balance and we turn back to the counter. Now we just have to figure out a way that the hospital can send a paid in full statement without it tipping our hand and showing an anonymous payer. "Since I can access her account, I'll take the payment in full, show it as an in-house credit, and then issue her a statement that shows only that the hospital has written off the balance in full. It won't be a problem at all unless she is determined to continue with her payments. But I'll cover that with a flag on the account so that no new activity can take place without checking with me first."

"Thank you, thank you so much," I say, clearly indebted to this young woman that is going out of her way for a complete stranger.

"Yes, thank you," Tiffany adds.

"I should be thanking you two," she smiles, handing us each a receipt for the bank transfers from our individual accounts. "Who gets the paid-in-full receipt, since you both contributed?"

Before I can speak, Tiffany says, "Give it to him. He's known her longer than I have."

"Oh, I just assumed she was a lifelong friend of both of yours. How long have you known her?"

"Just over two years," I reply.

"Just met her last night," Tiffany smiles.

"Wow, she must be some lady."

"You have no idea," I reply, smiling happily at her as I take Tiffany by the elbow and turn her toward the door.

On our way back out to the minivan, Tiffany says, "We need to get ready for tonight. It's getting late."

When we get back to the house, we're both in super good moods, and Dora suspects immediately that we're either up to something, or we've been up to something, the latter of which I think will make her extremely happy. Even though she knows I haven't given up in my search for 'Sue', she can see the bond between Tiffany and me, and she really likes Tiffany.

At the bar, I introduce Tiffany and Dora to Bartender Bob. He gives them both a huge smile and offers of personally making sure they get whatever they need before asking if he should put a bottle on ice.

"Not tonight, Bob," I tell him, surprising even myself when I decline his kind offer. I can't shake the feeling that it wouldn't be right drinking chilled rums when I haven't had one since that fateful night with 'Sue'. It's almost as if I'm going to save that drink for my reunion with 'Sue' and not before. Not that I need any more motivation to keep looking for her than I already have.

We all decide on tap beer and lots of quarters. Taking our drinks, we head down past the end of the bar and continue on through a couple of large swinging doors that are always locked open unless there's a special occasion going on in the dance floor part of the bar, in which case the doors are closed to cut down on the noise of pool balls smacking together.

"I'm going to let you ladies go first," I say, setting a couple dollars' worth of quarters on the edge of the table so no outsiders can cut in. This is a private party, after all. "The winner is all mine."

"It's been years since I've handled a cue stick," Dora says with a smile as she selects a short one from the rack and picks up the chalk to powder its point. "Why don't you go ahead and break, Tiff. I'm not sure I can hit the balls hard enough to move them around the table."

"You're being hustled, Tiffany. Next thing you know, she's going to be laying some serious money on the table," I tease.

"Don't worry, Vic. I ain't falling for her charms. I've been hustled by the best and I still have a few bucks in the bank," she retorts, throwing me a knowing smile.

"And here I thought I was going to hustle a couple of rubes," Dora laughs.

"Rubes! Really?" I cry out, feigning injured pride.

"She's got our numbers, Vic. We should probably just turn over our money now before it gets downright nasty in here."

The night moves along way too fast for all of us. We nurse our beers and order sandwiches and chips from the bar to snack on. It's a good night out and we all enjoy ourselves immensely. When the clock turns toward eleven PM, we head back to Dora's and put on our traditional pot of coffee. Sitting around the table, we continue ribbing each other about our pool shooting abilities. Only then do I realize that we'd never made it out on the dance floor.

"You know, I saw a radio in the living room last night when I was putting my bed together. If I can find a decent station, would anyone care to join me on the dance floor?"

Dora speaks up first. "You two go right ahead. I've been on my feet long enough already tonight."

"Come on, stud," Tiffany says with a mischievous grin as she rises and comes around the table. "You've been bragging about cutting a rug all day. Now you'll get your chance to show us just what you're really made of."

"You're on," I smile back, taking her by the hand and leading her into the living room.

Dora slowly makes her way into the living room and drops heavily into the recliner situated across the room from the TV while I search the radio for just the right music. It doesn't take long to find an oldies station that I think Dora will appreciate. Taking Tiffany by the hand, we move to the music while Dora claps in rhythm.

After the first complete song, a slow tune comes on and before I can reach the radio to change stations, Tiffany throws her arms around my neck and moves in close to me, whispering seductively in my ear, "You're not getting away that easily."

With no other options but to dance with her, I lower my hands to her waist, instantly noticing the firmness of her tummy beneath my thumbs. Her breath is hot against my neck as she presses her breasts up against my chest, the firmness of her nipples sending a hot rush of blood to my lower extremities. The room is almost dark, the only light filtering in from the kitchen and a streetlight further up the block.

Though I feel completely self-conscious with Dora sitting in the shadows watching us, I move along with Tiffany, luxuriating in the softness of a woman's body pressing against mine.

When her hands slide up the back of my head, her fingers massaging my scalp in time with the music, I look down at her, my eyes drawn to her lips. They appear fuller than normal and when she sees where my eyes are, she sensuously runs her tongue along her bottom lip, moistening them as if anticipating a kiss. There is no doubt in my mind that she's aware of the bulge in my jeans pressing against her.

With reluctance, I pull my eyes from her lips and look into her eyes, the bottomless pools of chocolate threatening to pull me in. Even in the deep shadows of the room, I can see the desire in her eyes, pulling me into the depths, and I realize in that moment that inviting her to a dance in the living room was a really bad idea.

Almost as if she is reading my mind, Dora suddenly appears next to us, a hand on each of our shoulders as she says, "Can a lady cut in?"

Tiffany's body goes tense and she takes a step back, the spell having been broken. This time.

"Absolutely, Dora," I huskily reply, my voice thick with hunger.

Placing a hand in her hand and the other on her hip, purposely keeping a safe distance between us as we move slowly around the room while Tiffany settles herself in the recliner that Dora vacated. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear Dora cut in when she did to protect Tiffany and me from each other. Our friendship is much more valuable than any short-lived fling we might enjoy. And because I haven't found closure with 'Sue' yet, it could only be a short-lived fling that would end with us going our separate ways. Tiffany means much more to me than that.

When the song ends, we all decide that it's time to call it a night. With Dora in the lead, we all head up the stairs. After Dora heads into her room and closes the door behind her, I follow Tiffany into what's usually my room to collect my bedding before returning downstairs to the couch in the living room.

With the bedding piled high in my arms, Tiffany reaches out and rests a hand tenderly on my arm, stopping me from leaving. Turning toward her, I see nothing but anguish in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she says softly before averting her eyes and looking down at the floor.

"You have nothing to apologize for," I reply, when she suddenly pulls me into a familial hug, the stack of linens pressed between us. Leaning forward, I kiss the top of her head and whisper affectionately, "What did I ever do to deserve your friendship?"

"It's must be that cute ass of yours, because it sure isn't your charming personality," she says with a forced laugh, the moisture building in the corners of her eyes. Suddenly pushing me away, she adds, "Now get off to bed with you before I don't let you out of this room."

Slowly, almost hesitantly, I turn toward the door, though it's breaking my heart to see her in such pain. Yet, to try and assuage the hurt she is feeling from her unrequited love will only lead to more and sharper pain down the road.

"Goodnight, Tiff."

Rising off the couch in the morning, I am again greeted to the sound of voices coming from the kitchen along with the smell of bacon frying intermingled with the aroma of coffee brewing. Rushing upstairs, I hurry through my morning ritual of a shave and shower, and then take the steps two at a time on the way down to the kitchen.

"Good morning ladies," I smile, entering the kitchen and plopping down onto my usual seat. Instead of eggs, Tiffany has made cinnamon swirl pancakes to go with the bacon. She places a heaping plate in front of me with a slab of butter on top while Dora pours me coffee and sets the mug down so I can slide it across the table.

Taking a bite, I am suddenly in heaven. They are by far the best damned pancakes I've ever tasted. "Damn, Tiffany, these are delicious," I mumble through a mouthful of pancake.

"Glad you like them," she says, taking her seat next to mine.

"How long have you guys been up?" I ask, noticing that they've already eaten and are just drinking coffee.

"We're not a couple of slackers like you," Tiffany remarks, a smirk on her face.

"Well, we'll see who the slackers are today," I say with a wink at Dora.

"What do you have in mind?" Tiffany asks, no sign of the anguish in her eyes from the night before.

"We've got two days before we have to catch our flight for Virginia. The weather is gorgeous and I happen to know there are supplies in the garage for just what I have in mind."

"And what do you have in mind?" Dora asks concernedly, her brows knitting together.

"We're going to give this old place a face lift," I begin energetically. "We're going to clean the gutters and fix any that are loose. Then we're going to paint all the trim and re-glaze all the windows that need it to cut down on the drafts this winter. We'll also clean the furnace ducts and replace the filters so it's ready to go this fall when it gets chilly."

While Tiffany only shares my excitement and enthusiasm, Dora's brows crease even tighter together. "You are my guests," she finally blurts, trying hard to hold back her anger. "I have people to take care of those things."

"Dora, when we first met and you offered me a room, we discussed me paying rent. Do you remember that?"

Frustrated, she nods her head vigorously. "You do your share around here already. I never expected you to pay rent."

"And I know you never expected me to pay rent, Dora. If I'd ever thought otherwise, I would have insisted on it. But I knew that if I insisted on paying rent, it would only upset you. So I've done little things around here when I had the time, never giving it anymore thought. But all I've ever done are little things, too little, actually. It's time I started earning my keep."

When it looks as if she's going to continue arguing, Tiffany suddenly speaks up in my defense. "I agree with him, Dora. I think it's about time he started carrying his weight around here too. And since I plan on coming back here a lot in the future if you'll have me, now's a good time for me to start paying it forward also." Turning to face me, she says before Dora can get a word in, "So, if you're ready to get started, just tell me what you need me to do and let's get our butts in gear. Daylight's burning."

"Dora, I know you don't keep beer in the house, so if we can get you to fly, I'll buy," I say, handing her a twenty dollar bill. "You okay with Bud, Tiffany?"

"Sounds great. Let's go work up a sweat."

Leaving Dora standing in the kitchen with a stunned expression on her face, Tiffany and I march out the back door and into the side door of the garage. We're setting the ladder up against the side of the house, figuring I'll take care of the high stuff first, when we hear the minivan pull out of the driveway. Turning toward Tiffany, we exchange knowing smiles.

The next two days fly by, but we get everything on my list accomplished by working well into the evenings and then working on the furnace last, since we have lights in the basement to see by.

On the morning of our last day, Tiffany and I both sleep late. When we finally roll out of our respective beds, there is the smell of coffee brewing, but nothing else. Folding the bedding and carrying it upstairs, I find Tiffany coming down the hallway, her hair plastered to her head from having just gotten out of the shower.

"What time do we have to leave to catch our flight?" she asks, smiling sweetly at me, her face bright and inviting despite not wearing any makeup.

"Good morning to you too," I grumble, forcing my thoughts on the shower ahead of me, followed by a steaming cup of Java, and not the desire that seeing her stirs within me. "We'll leave here right after lunch."

Giving me a quick peck on the cheek, she says, "I'll see you down stairs."

"Yeah," I mumble, heading toward the shower. The last couple of days have really worn Tiffany and me down. Though we're both physically fit, the long hours of manual labor and not enough hours of sleep have taken their toll.

Feeling a bit refreshed from the shower, I enter the kitchen and plop down in my chair, a mug of steaming coffee already setting on the table in front of me. Dora seems in good spirits despite the fact that Tiffany and I are about to leave for Virginia. Breakfast is a simple fare of toast and diced fruit. The discussion is about everything we accomplished in the last 2 days so Dora knows she doesn't have to have the work done later. She is extremely appreciative, and for that reason alone, Tiffany and I feel recompensed for our trouble.

The ride to the airport passes with few words spoken, yet Tiffany and I keep exchanging knowing glances, wishing we could be a fly on the wall when Dora receives the hospital statement in the mail and she realizes that she is out from under the mountain of debt.

At the airport, Tiffany is the first to shed tears, which leads to all three of us hugging and weeping. As Dora pulls away and Tiffany and I are walking toward the departure terminal, I turn to her and say with utmost sincerity, "Thank you."

# Chapter 6

# Present Day

"I need you to find a girl," he starts, looking nervous, an expression I never would have attributed to my brother from childhood. "A woman, actually, since I haven't seen her in almost eighteen years."

A cold bead of sweat runs down my back despite the coolness of the unheated warehouse, setting off a chain reaction. My armpits feel damp, even if it's not obvious through my shirt. I can't help thinking that if I can't find 'Sue' after having access to NSA computers and search tools followed by everything at my disposal as a detective in a large metropolitan police department, how will I find the woman that he is looking for after almost eighteen years? And do I really want to find this woman for him? What does he need her for? Are his intentions honorable? Highly unlikely.

"What's the discretion angle?"

"She has a son," he says, glancing around the room furtively as if he suspects I might be bugged or secretly taping our conversation. "It's mine. My heir, and I need to find him. The only way to find him though, is through her."

"You still haven't explained the discretionary part. What does it matter that you have an illegitimate son?"

"You never cared for the family business, so I guess you have no idea of the politics that can be involved with a board of directors," he begins, his tone of voice changing as if he were giving a lecture before the shareholders and not his alcoholic younger brother that has only one thing in common with him, a mutual dislike.

"Since dad retired, I've hit a few rough spots and had to sell shares of stock to keep all the entities of our enterprise afloat. It never occurred to me that there were parties out there discreetly buying up these shares and conglomerating them with the long-term plan of an eventual hostile takeover of the entire organization."

"You're right, I don't give a shit," I haughtily remark, enjoying the hostility barely concealed in his gaze.

Ignoring my aside, he continues. "The only way I can keep control of the company is to produce an heir and shift control into his name while combining stocks and rallying support from the common shareholders."

Though I don't want to care, his explanation seems full of holes, even to a non-business person such as myself and I have to ask, "What does producing an heir have to do with you saving control of the company?"

"Part of dad's retirement package included a trust fund for you, but only if you stepped forward before your eighteenth birthday and took an interest in the company of your own accord. If you were informed of the trust, no matter how you were informed, it would become null and void. When the time passed and you never came forward to claim your rightful inheritance, the trust, along with preferred stock in an amount equal to my own so that control would be shared equally between us, goes to the first heir that either of us produces. The board is expecting me to father a child, but that will take at least nine months; nine months in which they will control every aspect of the company. By the time I get control back, they will have bled it dry." He pauses to catch his breath before continuing. "Now, I already have an heir out there. He should be almost eighteen years of age, and he unwittingly holds the controlling shares of stock, his to do with as he pleases on his eighteenth birthday. With my guidance, he and I can keep control of the family business."

Breathing suddenly becomes difficult and I wonder if I'm suffering a heart attack. You could blow me over with a whisper. Dad had actually cared enough to set up a trust for me and all I had to do was step up and claim it. Within a certain period of time, of course. That's the way my father operated. Always a caveat, a hidden catch. We were always being tested without our knowledge, and I was always failing these tests. I suddenly understood why he behaved so erratically toward me. I was probably constantly failing these tests that I wasn't even aware of and he took his disappointment out over my failures by physically beating me.

When the rest of what he says slips past the shock to my brain, I ask him the million dollar question. "What makes you think he's going to give anymore shit about the family business than I do?"

"I've got it covered both ways, whether he cares or not," he replies, the cold glint in his eyes making it feel like a Minnesota winter in the little room. "If he cares, he joins forces with me and we run the company the way it should be run, the way dad intended all along. And if he's like you and doesn't give a shit, I make him an offer he can't refuse and take control of his shares. Either way, I win."

# In the Past...Parting Ways

When we finish our training in Virginia, Tiffany goes south to meet up with her mother in Florida for a quick stopover before continuing on up to Minnesota for a two week stay at Dora's. Though Dora is a little disappointed to only have me at the airport terminal to pick up, she's in good spirits and it doesn't escape my notice that there are several bags of groceries in the back of the minivan.

The first letter I received from her after getting settled into the barracks and the routine of classes in Virginia, she told me about the screw up with the hospital and how she tried her damnedest to set the record straight. But they insisted they were correct and the bill was cleared off their books.

"They finally put me through to the nicest young lady that explained to me there was nothing to be done. The hospital's records showed a balance due of zero on the account and that was the end of it," she wrote, completely beside herself.

I wrote her back that same night, advising her that the hospital is probably correct and that maybe she just lost track of the final amount and that it's a good thing and not to worry about it. If she feels concern that they may discover there's a mistake at some point in the future, she could always set the money aside each month and have it drawing interest. In the meantime, it will be there if she ever needs it.

Her next letter arrived a month later, right on schedule. In the first few lines of reading, I could see a difference in her attitude. It was more upbeat and optimistic. She explained that she'd taken my advice about opening a separate account at the bank and depositing a portion of her previous hospital payment into it each month. She went on to explain that if the hospital ever discovered their mistake, she'd be in a position to negotiate with them. Though her wording made it clear that she still believed the hospital made the mistake and not her, she wasn't going to push the issue with them any longer.

When we enter the restaurant, it doesn't escape my notice that Katrina looks relieved to see just the two of us and no Tiffany. Bringing out a couple of glasses of wine, she gives me a shy look out of the corner of her eye. Now, I've been hit on by a lot of women, even though I don't make it a habit of visiting hookup bars, so I recognize the gleam in Katrina's eyes instantly for what it is.

Smiling back at her with my most innocent expression, I notice also that she isn't the young high school kid that worked part time in her parent's restaurant anymore. She's filled out in all the right places and her face looks more womanly than it does childish. In fact, she looks almost good enough to eat, if she were on the menu.

Yet, despite her mature looks and sweet innocence, I can't think of her as anything more than the daughter of Dora's longtime friends. But I'd be lying if I said the attention wasn't flattering and it gave me a real boost to my ego.

When she heads back to the kitchen with our order, Dora says in a muted voice so that no can overhear her, "How's Tiffany doing?"

"Fine," I stutter, clearing my throat.

"You may not have noticed before, but that young girl has had a crush on you since the first time we came here, you were just too distracted to notice her before. I guess now that she's turning into a woman, you noticed."

Agitated by her observation, I whisper back, "She's still a kid, Dora," while glancing in the direction of the kitchen so as not to get caught speaking out of school.

"Not that much of a kid anymore," she says, giving me a warning with her eyes.

"She's your friend's baby daughter, Dora. Nothing's going to happen."

With a sternness that I'd never seen from Dora before, she says, "I'm going to hold you to that."

Before I can reply and assuage her concerns, Katrina returns from the kitchen with our salads and a loaf of fresh baked bread. Dora's demeanor changes instantly, the stern matron gone with the speed of flipping a switch to be replaced by the kindly elderly woman with nothing but sweetness and concern for all living things.

When she sees me studying her across the table, a sharp glint sparkles in her eyes as she sternly states, "What?"

Holding back a chuckle, I simply shake my head and smile at her. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

After dinner, we head back to her house and pick up our routine as though I haven't even been gone. While I bring in the bags of groceries and supplies, Dora puts on the coffee pot and we sit at the kitchen table into the wee hours of morning talking about nothing and everything; just enjoying each other's company.

The next morning, I head out for a run, still asking every stranger I meet on the trails in the park along the sidewalks, and on the college campus if they know a Sue McDonald. When they shake their heads or reply in the negative, I quickly describe her to them before they can move off and escape from me. Despite the few hours that I had with her, her memory is as fresh in my mind as the first moment I drank in her beauty.

Dora and I putter around the house, not really doing anything aside from waiting for Tiffany to arrive. It seems strange in a good way that she has become such a large part of our lives in such a short time. And while I seem to take her constant presence for granted when we're in class, I realize that the time is quickly approaching when we will get orders that might put us on different sides of the world from each other. That is just the nature of being connected to the Department of Defense, after all.

Yet, no matter the miles between us, I know with certainty that we will always remain close and be there for each other.

We pick Tiffany up at the airport three days later. She is in great spirits from having just visited with her mother and is looking forward to the upcoming two weeks at Dora's place. Like Dora, she too picks up on the looks that Katrina is giving me. Unlike Dora's stern reaction though, I sense a mixture of humor and jealousy coming from Tiffany. And while I understand the humor, since she obviously knows that I have no interest in Katrina, at least not in having a relationship kind of way, I don't understand the jealousy in her eyes for the same reason.

Women can be so complicated at times.

Tiffany and I begin our days with a long jog, usually on the trails in the park, sometimes stopping and buying bottles of water from the friendly old man with his cart who always appears to be working the same area. We quickly become a fixture on the trails, especially with my reputation for stopping all the other joggers that don't look familiar and grilling them about the mysterious woman. So many people have heard about me, that my reputation is probably known throughout the whole of Minneapolis and beyond and still no luck.

The next two weeks fly by. When we return each day from our jogging, we set to work on the house, catching all the little details that we overlooked the last time we were here. Although it sounds like work, we actually enjoy the physical labor and the comradery along with the sense of accomplishment that makes us tired by the end of the day and ready for a good night's sleep.

While Tiffany and I are spending our days occupied with working on the house or relaxing, Dora is keeping the fridge stocked with Bud and is always eager with the coffee pot. She seems like a different woman from the last time we were here. Her spirits are high and her tongue sharp when she thinks I'm stepping out of line, which seems more often than not in her opinion.

Though Tiffany and I know that we're only getting two weeks leave before we ship out, our orders haven't come down yet, so we're in limbo with regards to where we're going. This creates lots of talk and speculation at the kitchen table. Since we are both now officially working for the NSA and not the Army, we could be ordered to go almost anywhere in the world.

Tiffany feels fairly confident that her first assignment will be in Colorado, since she is great with computers and finding secret ways into different programs and that's where most of that kind of work is done. We both suspect, however, with my background in covert operations, I will probably get an overseas assignment tagging along on secret missions gathering intelligence for our military forces, or stuck in some shack in a hot, stinking jungle monitoring radio transmissions and watching for smoke signals amongst the natives.

No matter the talk at the table, neither of us have a clue as to where we're going to be sent. All we know for sure is that where they send us, we're going to be the NUGs. The New Useless Guys that get all the shit details when they're not making us the butts of their pranks and jokes. That's life in the military.

Our hunches prove fairly accurate, as Tiffany gets a stateside assignment while I'm shipping down south to an armpit of undisclosed location in a hot and humid climate with lots of unfriendly types. My job description doesn't come with any details either. It simply states 'TBD' in the job name, whereas Tiffany's at least says 'Analyst', which is pretty clear to both of us after the intensive training we've received.

"To be determined," I mumble for the hundredth time since receiving the letter containing my orders. "I'm going to a Southeast Asian country to perform a job that is simply described as, To Be Determined."

"Oh come on, Vic," Tiffany chuckles. "It can't be that bad."

"That's what you think," I grumble, staring into my mug.

Since the mail arrived the day before and we'd received our individual orders, Tiffany has been in good spirits, having received orders that will keep her within vacationing distance of Dora. Whereas my orders have placed me clear around the world in a country that is known for its bugs, dysentery, poor living conditions, poverty, and the list goes on. A virtual Hellhole.

"Ohh, poor Vicky," Tiffany teases with a smirk, a nickname that only Tiffany can get away with calling me.

All the while Dora keeps glancing from one to the other of us. No matter how much I grumble or how happy Tiffany is, Dora knows that it's only a matter of hours before we're both gone, leaving her behind and all alone once again.

I want to ask her if she's heard from her daughter lately and how her grandson is doing, but I'm afraid of bringing even more thunder clouds into the room than we already have with the arrival of our orders. Until they actually arrived they didn't seem real, only something being discussed in the abstract. But with the actual documents spread out on the table before us, it's become real, our impending departure now inevitable.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of activity with us ending up back at the pub shooting pool. When Dora heads out to the bar to order us more drinks and snacks, Tiffany and I go head to head with a game of eight ball. With only two balls still on the table, she has her back to me and is considering her next shot.

As she moves around to the far side of the table, I offer her a suggestion, knowing that she will do the opposite of whatever I suggest. "If you bank the six ball off this bumper here," I start, pointing at the edge of the table nearest me. "It will careen like this," I continue, moving around the table and using my hands to show her the direction the ball will take. "When it hits here, it will ricochet right into the corner pocket and leave you lined up on the eight ball for a straight in finish and win."

Giving me a look that says she isn't buying it for one minute, she moves slowly around the table, stopping only when she is positioned directly between me and the table, blocking my view so that I can't criticize the shot. But with the cue ball almost across the table from her, she is forced to lean forward, stretching herself out across the green expanse of felt, her denim clad butt pressing against my groin and reminding me that she isn't only a woman, but a very desirable woman at that. And as she's made it blatantly obvious on more than one occasion, available.

Pushing her ass up against me, she whispers a tad huskily, "Can you give me a little room here?"

"I think you two need to get a room," Dora says loudly, startling both of us. "I can't leave you two alone for a minute."

Only because I jumped back a step at the sound of Dora's voice, does the back of Tiffany's head miss the underside of my chin. But when she bolts upright, she also takes a step back, her foot coming down on top of mine, causing her to lose her balance.

The cue stick still in her hand, swings upward and back with lightning fast speed, connecting with the side of my head at the same time I raise my hands to catch her, to prevent her falling at my feet. Unfortunately, her momentum coming up against me along with the whack on the side of the head has us scrambling for purchase, trying our damnedest to remain upright and not in a heap on the floor.

With my hands still reaching out to hold her upright, they unintentionally land on her breasts, eliciting a startled gasp from her. Before I can move my hands from her breasts, we are heading toward the floor in a tangled mess of arms and legs.

Because I'm behind her, the brunt of her weight ends up on top of me, breaking her fall but knocking the wind out of me. My arms fall to the side, the memory of her firm breasts in my hands forever implanted on my brain while her butt is situated directly over my groin, the weight of her muscular ass pressing down on me.

Taking a deep breath to replace the oxygen that has been expelled from my lungs by the collision with the floor, Tiffany suddenly leans forward, the weight of her rocking on my crotch causing me excruciating pain in yet another part of my anatomy.

"Oomph," I gasp while lifting my hands and placing them to either side of her back to help ease her weight off me.

She finally reaches the edge of the pool table and pulls herself upright, leaving me lying in a heap of pain and still struggling with my breathing, not to mention the racing of my heart caused by the unintentional feel of her breasts.

"If you two are done fooling around," Dora laughs, placing the tray with our drinks on the pool table where she deems it safe enough, because she is laughing too hard to hold it steady in her hands.

Tiffany steps aside, no worse for wear, and leans over to pick up her cue stick before turning to me and offering me a hand. Her face is beet red, whether from Dora catching us in a compromising position, even though it was completely innocent, or the unexpected and unintentional fondling of her breasts.

Or she is acutely aware of the bulge in the front of my jeans that wasn't there earlier.

"You okay?" she asks, her voice still husky, the look in her eyes betraying the desire she's harboring despite Dora's presence.

Reaching up to take her proffered hand, I smile mischievously while giving her a knowing wink, wondering how I'm going to stand without giving away the obvious.

There is only one thing I can think of, aside from standing so close to the table that the front of my jeans aren't visible. Pulling myself upright, I quickly lean forward, hiding the obvious before doubling over with feigned pain.

"Ouch, ouch, ouch," I whimper, my right hand going to my lower back while my left grips the edge of the pool table for support.

Dora instantly stops laughing, her face growing concerned as she hurries around the end of the table to get to me while Tiffany throws her arms around me to hold me upright, her face also a mask of concern. The looks in both of their eyes is a combination of worry and concern for my wellbeing, and I'm instantly regretting my actions.

Before Dora can get around the pool table and reach us, I lean into Tiffany's embrace, acutely aware of the hard points of her breasts pressing against my side. "It's okay," I say a little too loudly, sounding almost angry, though the anger is only with myself for being such a fool. "It's okay, it's passing, probably just a muscle twinge."

Leaning against Tiffany isn't doing anything to assuage the problem below my waist.

Moving both hands to the edge of the table, I take a deep breath to steady my voice, and say, "I'm okay now. Nothing serious." Though I can't move away from the table just yet, the problem below my waist is quickly dissipating.

"Are you're sure you're okay," Dora asks, the worry evident in her eyes adding to my growing feeling of guilt.

Tiffany begrudgingly releases her hold and takes a step back, the heat of her touch leaving a warm feeling throughout my body. I can't help but wonder if it's been long enough since that night with Sue and that I should be moving on, putting that night and her in my rearview mirror once and for all.

Yet, as soon as my thoughts go to Sue and that fateful night, I realize that it's not over and I'm not ready to move forward with my life. As foolish as it sounds, I can't get past the intense feelings that I shared that night with a woman that I didn't even know. And even more foolish is the fact that I still don't know the woman that stole my heart.

I don't even know her real name.

The next day, Dora takes us to the airport. It's a somber drive, Tiffany and I both realizing that this is going to be the first time we've been separated for any length of time since having first met.

Since Tiffany's flight leaves out first, we both say our goodbyes to Dora and I walk with her to her terminal. When her flight is called for boarding, we turn to each other. Putting my arms around her, I pull her close, expecting her to hug me back. To my surprise, she reaches up and pulls my face down to hers, her lips landing on mine.

Instead of resisting, however, my own hands slide from her lower back up to her shoulders, increasing the pressure of our two bodies pressing together. Her tongue forces my lips apart and we kiss long and deep, oblivious of the people pushing past us to board the plane.

When the lady at the podium checking boarding passes finally calls out that it's last call, she is speaking to only Tiffany and me. With slow reluctance, we pull back from each other and I notice a mixture of desire and hurt in her tear-filled eyes. But more importantly, I see an overwhelming amount of regret. Regret for all the time lost waiting for something that may never come. Regret for everything that could be but was never realized.

I wipe futilely at the tears with my fingers, my heart breaking for her and knowing that as much as I want to assuage the hurt, there is nothing I can do to alleviate the regret, and for that reason alone I am losing her.

Yes, she will always be my friend. But she is moving on with her life, even if I can't.

Without a word, she suddenly pulls away from me and without looking back, runs toward the gangway to board her plane, pausing only long enough for the lady at the podium to verify her pass before disappearing down the dimly lit hallway.

# Chapter 7

# Present Day

"So why should I be interested in helping you? You think I need your money, you can think again," I hiss at him through clenched teeth.

Though his body is betraying him from lack of exercise and proper nutrition, his soul is just as corrupt and putrid as it was when we were growing up, confirming my belief that leopards don't change their spots.

A sharp laugh slips out of his mouth and I immediately feel my skin crawl with dread. It's the laugh that signifies he knows something that you don't, and that when he tells you what it is, you're not going to like it.

Yet, I can't help feeling that as low as I am, there is nothing he can do to me that hasn't already been done. My pension, such as it is, supplies me with enough rum to stave off the bite of reality. The owner of this abandoned warehouse owes me, and I doubt that even my brother would have enough influence with him to make that change. Or could he? Could he get me kicked out onto the streets?

"I think when I tell you who it is you'll be looking for, you're going to have a major change of heart. In fact, I think you'd take the case even if I wasn't paying you," he says with a mirthless grin.

My mind is still whirling from the information he already gave me regarding my father and the family business. What more does he have in store? What does he know that I could possibly give a shit for?

"I've known about the trust for a long time," he starts, shifting from one foot to the other. "So to protect my interest, I've made it my business to always know where you were and what you were up to. Because if it had ever looked like you might be having a change of heart and were even remotely thinking about coming back to the family business, I would have taken drastic measures to prevent that happening."

"What?" I snort. "You'd have had me killed?"

"That sounds so crude when you put it so bluntly," he says, feigning distaste at the notion. "More likely, that bullet they dug out of you would have taken place at the morgue and not a hospital. Or maybe even something less dramatic, like exposure or hypothermia after you passed out in a gutter somewhere. People would just assume you drank yourself to death. It's not like anyone would even be asking after you."

Though I can't blame my lack of friends or acquaintances on anyone other than myself, it still rankles coming from him.

"But true to form, you never showed any interest in anything or anyone," he pauses for a moment, letting it sink in before he adds, "Except for Sue. Sue McDonald. Don't tell me you don't remember her."

At the sound of her name rolling out of his mouth and across his lips, I practically fly over the desk in my rush to get to him. Grabbing him around the throat, I drive him up against the wall, his nose turning up at the stench peeling off my filthy clothes and unwashed body.

"How do you know that name?" I scream at him, everything inside me suddenly tearing loose. When he only stares back into my eyes, my anger rises, my blood burning through my veins with an intensity that is threatening to burst my heart. Spittle flying from my mouth and hitting him in the face, I hiss at him with foul breath, "How, how do you know that name?"

"Let go of me," he calmly says with full control of his emotions, not even lifting his hands to push me away.

We stand like that for a long minute, our faces mere centimeters from each other. His cologne is strong and cloying in the close proximity, and if it weren't for my own awful stench, I probably would have smelled him coming long before he reached my makeshift office.

With a sharp shove, I push him roughly against the wall and release my grasp from the collar around his throat. My breath is rushing in and out noisily while he pulls a silk hanky from a front pocket and casually wipes my spittle off his face. Moving over to the rusted metal desk, I place my hands on its top and lean over it for support, my legs threatening to buckle beneath me.

When my breathing steadies enough that I trust my voice again, I calmly repeat myself, wishing for the first time since getting shot that I had my gun handy, because if he doesn't give me some straight answers and quick, I will shoot him, brother be damned.

For a moment, I even regret all my drinking and the ravages that it's done to me physically, because even if I wanted to now, I don't believe I have strength enough to tear him apart with my bare hands. But God willing, I will try.

Empathizing each word, I mouth without turning to face him, "How do you know that name?"

"Like I started to explain to you, brother. I've been keeping tabs on you since father first told me about the trust he set up when he retired and took off for parts unknown with that bimbo. Because I was so much like him, he knew he didn't have to worry about me ever giving up the secret," he smirks.

"Where is she?" I rasp, growing impatient with his slow answers.

"That's what I need you to tell me," he says, his voice growing serious. "She has my heir and I need to find him. The last person that was with her was you."

The words have barely left his mouth and my knees threaten to buckle. Unable to hold myself up, even with the desk to lean on, I move around to the far side of it and drop heavily into the chair, my face buried in my hands as all the pieces begin to come together. It was my brother that had put Sue up in the house. In exchange for what? Sex? What else could she give him? The house must have been owned by one of the families shell corporations.

That night, pounding on her front door. That was him, my own brother. And the tall man that Dora noticed on several occasions collecting her in his fancy new sports car, was none other than Perry, my brother. All those years ago, I left her that night because of him. All because of him. My entire life changed course that night, all because of him.

The revelations begin coursing through my veins, stirring the heat of anger, and I look up into his eyes. He thinks he's so smart and yet, he has no idea how close he is to dying. My hands fist and shake with the adrenalin that suddenly surges through me.

Rising from the chair, I lift the desk and throw it crashing to the side, the contents in the drawers scattering over the wood floor. My eyes are locked on my brother's gaze and I recognize the moment his smugness turns to fear. For the first time in his miserable life, the tables have turned.

With shaking hands, he reaches around to the small of his back and produces a small, .25 caliber automatic pistol. A woman's purse gun. How fitting is that?

He points it shakily at me, causing me to pause for just the briefest of moments before stepping forward and grabbing it out of his hand. Without thinking, I throw it against the far wall where if falls to the floor, forgotten, and step up close to him again, the smell of his fear overpowering the stench of his cologne.

"What did you do to her?" I hiss at him, my hands clenching and unclenching in fists at my sides.

When I strike the wall next to his face, he flinches, his whole body shaking with fear. "I swear to you, Vic," he pleads. "I didn't do anything to her. She left the night after you were with her and I haven't seen her since. I got a report sometime after that she gave birth to a boy, which meant nothing to me at the time. I wrote her off with good riddance and forgot about her, until this business came up with the hostile takeover. I swear to you."

His words are piercing through the anger and adrenaline flooding my brain and I find it surprising, but I believe him.

Turning, I slowly move toward the upturned desk, and then remember the gun lying on the floor and stoop to pick it up. It's the first time that I've held a gun since I was a cop and took a bullet that ended my career, such as it was.

For no other reason than I don't want someone using it on me, I check the safety on it and then slip the little automatic into my pant pocket with the intention of disposing of it later.

# In the Past...Jungle and Janet

My tour in Southeast Asia turns out to be nothing like I'd anticipated. It gave the term _Third_ _World Country_ a whole new meaning for me. Though my pay grade puts me among the wealthier class in the country, the money means nothing if the services or supplies you desire aren't available because they just flat out don't exist.

My actual job involves spending many days on patrol with both CIA operatives and foreign nationals that are accepting bribes from the CIA. The CIA guys refer to them as confidential informants, but that's a loose term for what are nothing more than armed rebels and mercenaries, many of which turn out to be soldiers discharged from our own military branches that became disenchanted with the American cause in yet other Southeast Asian countries. To say it's a complicated situation would be a gross understatement. The only time I feel even remotely safe is when I'm at the American Embassy, which is almost a day's journey by bus on a single lane dirt road through jungle. And that's if the overcrowded bus doesn't break down or get held up by armed bandits.

Lying on my cot in a nondescript building thrown together from a single layer of plywood sporting a corrugated sheet metal roof and no air conditioning or even screens on the windows, I swat the ten thousandth mosquito to bite me while thinking it's not even 10 AM and it's already over one hundred degrees with one hundred percent humidity. Someone suddenly comes charging in through the thin plywood door, the spring pulling it back with a loud bang.

"Smally," he calls out, coming toward me. "Get up, we gotta go."

"What's up?" I grumble, rolling off the bunk and getting to my feet just before the M-16 is pushed against my chest.

"Here," he says, pushing a canvas butt pack full of ammo clips and bottled water toward me. "We're bugging out. Just got the latest intelligence report and there's a large insurgency of rebels headed this way. Orders are to evacuate the village."

"We headed to the embassy?" I ask, fully expecting a helicopter to pick us up or an uncomfortable bus ride at worse.

"Embassy's already been evacuated. Chad's going to brief us in the compound in five."

"The embassy's been evacuated?" I numbly repeat while strapping the butt pack around my waist before gathering my duffle bag and throwing everything I own into it.

Before Chad's second in command retreats back out the way he came, he shouts over his shoulder, "Don't be late. You know how Chad can be."

"Great, just enough time to take a dump," I grumble, the news of our impending evacuation just adding to the dour mood I'm already in. While Chad is in charge of the CIA field operatives in our small detachment, I haven't had a whole lot to do with him. I've only been here three months with another six to look forward to and I've already had my fill of the place. Even when you try to befriend the locals, they look at you with mistrust in their eyes or what they can steal from you. And the mail delivery coming through the FPO is hit and miss at best. Staying in touch with Dora and Tiffany is almost impossible. Though Tiffany and I could use the official channels of the NSA network, it's not the method of choice unless all else fails. Maybe this bugout is a blessing in disguise.

When I reach the village square, a small clearing that isn't really in the center of the village, but the place where everyone meets for village socializing and the local markets are located, I notice immediately the lack of local villagers. For a place that is generally hopping with activity, it's devoid of both people and merchandise. There are no chickens squawking or pigs squealing. No pottery dangling from makeshift racks, no cook fires, and no children harassing us for handouts. There's a surreal feeling to the place that sets my nerves on edge.

Obviously, the underground communication network among the natives here is faster than the US military's.

Seeing Chad huddled in conversation with a group of other US military types, I head in his direction, figuring if anyone knows what's going on, it will be him. As I pass a small group of civilian employees, they fall in behind me, obviously thinking the same thing. By the time I reach Chad, everyone in the square is with me.

When he sees us approach, he breaks off from the others in his group and takes a step forward. There are almost twenty of us, all told. In addition to Chad's small group, only a few of us are armed. "Listen up," he says before I have a chance to ask him what's going on. "The latest news we have is that there's some kind of coup taking place. At this time, we're still not sure who the friendlies are and who's the enemy, so we're not taking any chances. Command wants us to pull out and head for high ground in the jungle. Once we're out of harm's way, we're to stay put until they either decide we can return, or they arrange an evacuation chopper to pull us out."

Someone behind me asks, the obvious. "How long before we know if we're coming back or not?"

"I've given you all the information I have at this time." He pauses for a minute, normally a patient man, but clearly not liking the position he has been put in. "My men are going to do everything within their power to keep everyone safe. But you're going to be responsible for your own comfort. Pack what you think you'll need, but don't over pack. This isn't going to be a walk in the park. Our destination is approximately twenty clicks from here. Pack as much bottled as you can carry and don't leave anything behind that you value, as we may not be returning. Any questions?"

"What about the communication's equipment and vehicles?" I ask, wondering if we'll be packing the gear along with everything else, or leaving it behind.

"We're taking the handheld satellite phones. My men will take care of dismantling the vehicles along with the bulkier equipment," Chad replies, his men already heading back into the village toward the motor pool. "We'll regroup here in 15 minutes. Be prepared to move out."

With all my gear lying at my feet in the duffle bag and the ammunition and water strapped to my waist, I sling the M-16 over my shoulder and look for a shady place to hang out while I wait on the others. The thought of hiking through the jungle for twenty kilometers doesn't really bother me, I've done longer hikes just exploring the surrounding area on my own time. Yet, I know there are a few among us that will have a difficult time of it and it will fall on the rest of us to carry their weight, literally.

The excitement and adrenaline flowing through everyone is heightened further when several explosions rock the area, the ground literally shimmering under my feet. Looking in the direction of the blasts, I realize immediately that it's Chad's men destroying the communications satellites and vehicles. It seems a shame, but the alternative is the possibility of enemies using our own gear against us.

When Janet, a young civilian employee, comes running back to the square with what appears to be a suitcase with wheels and a handle, she is glancing furtively over her shoulder in the direction of the smoke plume rising above the village. Seeing me leaning against a supporting post of one of the shacks surrounding the square where the sun is being blocked by a small overhang of sheet metal, she hurriedly makes her way toward me.

"Why can't we just drive back to the embassy?" she asks, her lean frame already short of breath from running the short distance while dragging the heavy suitcase, the wheels intended for an airport tarmac, not the loose dirt of a jungle floor.

"The embassy has been evacuated and I'm going to assume that the roads have been compromised or are being used by the enemy."

"Are we really going to hide out in the jungle?" she asks, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

"That's the plan," I calmly reply, a sudden dread of things to come slithering up my spine and setting the small hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Though Janet isn't physically fit, I hadn't considered her in the group that I'd mentally formed in my mind of those that will need assistance. She was initially in the group of those that will be able to carry their own weight. Maybe not assist, but at the least, carry her own weight.

This day just keeps getting worse.

Her next words take me by surprise when she glances back in the direction of our shacks and sees more of the civilians and other operatives like myself heading toward us. "I wish I had a gun," she mutters under her breath.

A smile forms on my face as I consider her and her comment. Maybe things won't be so bad after all.

Within minutes of everyone gathering in the square with their belongings, Chad and his men come running back. He pauses long enough to survey the group that he will ultimately be responsible for while taking a head count and mentally assessing each of us according to ability.

While his men spread out, taking up defensive positions around the group, their backs to us as they face the jungle, Chad turns to the rest of us and says, "For everyone's safety, we're going to pair off." Before anyone can comment, he begins pointing from one to the next, repeatedly mouthing, "You with you," until everyone has a partner. Since Janet and I were slightly separated from the rest, we are partnered together, which seems to be a blessing as far as I'm concerned.

"Here's the deal," he says, his voice underscored with the urgency of the situation. "Keep an eye on your partner. Never let them out of your sight. You are each equally responsible for the other. When we stop to rest, make sure your partner is with you. If at any time you lose sight of your partner, sound off and let myself or one of my men know. Whatever happens, don't let your partner fall behind. Does everyone understand?"

When no one replies, he quickly continues. "We don't expect to encounter any hostiles on the course that we've plotted, but we also don't know how many of the friendlies in the area will take up arms with the insurgents to protect themselves and their families." He pauses for a moment, and then raises his hand and twirls it in a circle, a silent command to his men who immediately move into action like a well-oiled machine. "Let's move out. Follow me."

While one of his men sets out down a trail in the point position, two others fan out to either side of the trail while another drops back to make sure we don't leave anyone behind. The fifth man, the one that gave me the M-16 earlier, remains with Chad to act as replacement for any of the others that may be taken out by surprise and/or provide cover for the group.

As Janet struggles to lift her suitcase, I reach over and take it from her. "I'll take it," I quickly offer as she gives me a puzzled look. "We'll take turns with it," I suggest when she seems hesitant.

With my duffle bag slung over my back and the M-16 slung over my right shoulder, I pull the suitcase up against my chest and fall in behind Chad. From all the use the trail has seen this close to the village, it begins out wide enough that we can walk side by side with relative ease.

Yet, we haven't even covered two clicks from the village when there's a commotion behind us. Chad stops, signaling his man beside him to check it out. Lowering the suitcase to the ground, I plop down on it, my tee shirt drenched with sweat and clinging to the hard curves of my body beneath it. Reaching around to my back, I pull out a bottle of water, open it and take a swallow before offering it to Janet.

For the first time, I notice that her top is also soaked with sweat and clinging to her small frame, the peaks of her firm little breasts pushing against the thin cotton fabric of her blouse. When she realizes my eyes are intently studying her, her nipples grow hard, further fueling my newly discovered desire for her.

Self-consciously, I slowly move my eyes down her, noticing also for the first time that despite her small frame, she is hiding an athletic pair of legs topped off with a perky little ass. A pair of black leather combat boots, though the shine is long gone and the leather no longer sealed from lack of attention, rounds out her appeal.

Raising my eyes up to meet hers, I pause briefly to take in the full pout of her lips, wondering briefly what it would be like to kiss them. When my eyes meet hers, I see surprise and defiance. Though my assessment of her appeared sexual, I am only appraising her ability to withstand the rigors of what we might be asked to face.

Yeah, right. Who am I trying to kid? She looks hot, and in more ways than are currently appropriate considering our circumstances. Clearly, I have been without a woman for much too long.

While these thoughts are going through my head, Chad's man returns, explaining that one of the civilians is having a hard time with the heat and exertion. They passed his belongings around to those more capable for now and gave him some water. "We should be okay to continue," he says, the relief clear in Chad's eyes at the news.

When their conversation turns to gathering intelligence, I interrupt them, "I thought your mission priority was to get these people to safe ground."

"Listen, Smally," Chad says, straightening up his back and giving his man an almost imperceptible nod as he puts a chart away. "No matter what comes down the pike, our ultimate mission is intelligence gathering. We work for the CIA, and now, so do you. You're not the NSA and you're not Army. Not any longer. You're CIA. If these people get in the way of our ultimate mission," he continues, waving his arm to indicate the group of people strung out behind us. "They'll be left behind. So my advice to you and all the rest of you," he adds, his voice rising so that everyone can hear. "Is to keep up and don't get in the way of our mission."

Before I speak, I glance at Janet, noting the mixture of fear and surprise in her eyes. "We're not your problem, Chad," I calmly reply, hoping the use of his first name will restore some semblance of comradery. Although I've never had many dealings with him of a personal nature, this side of him is a tad unnerving. There can be no mistake about it, he is a Company Man, as the CIA operatives like to refer to their agency as The Company.

He pauses for a moment before turning to his man, and with another almost imperceptible nod, sets off down the trail. Picking up Janet's suitcase, I whisper softly and throw her a reassuring wink, "Ready partner?"

She gives me a weak smile in return and silently nods her head, her knuckles white from squeezing the water bottle tight enough to crush the air out of it. Without a word, we set off down the trail, staying close on Chad's heels.

The forced march continues for another hour before the point man comes scurrying back, the trail at this point down to a single track of crushed vegetation and soggy ground beneath our feet, the vegetation growing alongside it threatening to choke it off completely.

"Just up the trail another hundred meters is an opening in the trees with a clear view of the road," the point man says a bit breathlessly from hurrying back to the group.

Chad pauses for a moment, silently surveying the surrounding area while mentally assessing its strategic advantages and disadvantages. "Let's move the group in there," he says to his aid, pointing toward what looks like a dry wash overgrown with brush and banked on at least two sides by slopes leading up several hundred feet or more at a forty-five degree angle. Even to my untrained eye, it looks like a bad place to be caught.

"Is that wise?" I softly inquire, not intending to question his knowledge.

Understanding my reservations, Chad quickly replies, "It's not defensible, but it's a great hiding place. You'll be safe so long as they don't know you're there."

Not liking his answer, I push the issue. "And if know we're there?"

"They won't," he flatly remarks, clearly indicating the debate is over.

When his aid pulls his machete from a scabbard over his pack and begins hacking a path into the dry wash, I can't help thinking that anyone coming along this trail is going to find us. Before I can voice my concerns further, Chad and his point man hurry up the trail and are quickly swallowed up by the brush and vegetation, leaving me to decide whether to follow the man with the machete into the dry wash, or disobey a direct order and continue on the trail in the same direction as Chad.

Shaking my head in frustration, I'm surprised when Janet says, "Ultimately, he's responsible for us. He wouldn't intentionally put us in danger, would he?"

It surprises me that she picked up on my concerns as quickly as she has. "Not intentionally," I agree, if for no other reason than to assuage her concerns, though I still have some of my own.

Without any further comments, I push forward through the brush, following the hacked up vegetation trail made by the man in front of us. He pushes ahead for almost fifty-meters before breaking out into a small clearing, the ground covered in moss and smaller river-wash boulders that were brought down from the slopes by past flash flooding.

"This will do," he says, slipping the machete back into its scabbard before turning to me and saying, "Keep everyone here until we come for you. Got that?"

"Got it," I state, moving over to the side of the clearing and placing the suitcase down beside a larger boulder that is just the right height for a seat.

The small group staggers into the clearing, the people further spread out than I'd realized. When a heavy set man in dress slacks and a white shirt now untucked and drenched in sweat staggers in, I ask him if there's anyone behind him. "Just the guy with the gun," he breathlessly replies, leaning against a tree to keep from falling over while catching his breath.

Someone pulls out bottles of water and passes them around. Someone else produces MREs, which are accepted by only a few, hunger not being a driving force yet as the combination of heat and partial dehydration is robbing most of their appetites.

Janet and I each accept a meal and as we open them, we quickly negotiate trades like a couple of grade-schoolers. Our bonding and joking over the meal alleviates some of the tension and worry from her face. But with the negotiations over, we settle into a quiet meal, only occasionally making a derogatory remark with regard to the taste or texture of the food as we stuff it hungrily into our mouths, ultimately grateful for the nourishment.

Opening her suitcase and pulling out a fresh blouse, Janet gives me a questioning look as she holds it up before her and asks, "What do you think?"

The bright oranges and yellows make me think of jungle flowers. Glancing down at her suitcase, I notice what looks like a faded green tee shirt. Reaching down, I pull it out and confirm that it is what I thought it to be and then hand it to her, saying, "Put this one on instead." She instantly pushes out her lower lip in a pout, her lips again taking on that very kissable look that I'd noticed back at the village square.

"Save the pretty blouse for when we get out of here," I tell her, unable to tear my eyes from her lips. "The tee shirt will make it much harder for anyone to see you in this jungle."

Before returning the colorful blouse to her suitcase, she studies me for a long minute while chewing on her lower lip, further stirring the simmering desire within me. It takes all my will power not to push myself off the boulder that I'm perched on and take her in my arms and press my lips to hers.

Would she taste like Sue?

What the hell am I thinking? I must be losing my mind.

"How long do you think they'll keep us here?" she asks, closing her suitcase and plopping down on top of it.

"Until they determine there isn't any worthwhile intelligence coming down that road or Chad's boss tells them to get us on the bus and get the hell out of here, whichever comes first."

"The bus?" she asks, scrunching her face up in question.

"Just slang, there is no real bus," I chuckle, finding her expression kind of cute. "Where are you from?"

"Philly," she replies, before looking up at me from her lower perch atop the suitcase. "That guy, Chad, told us we're never supposed to let our partner out of our sight no matter what. He never mentioned what we're supposed to do about relieving ourselves."

Looking down at her, I find it impossible to hold back a laugh. Smiling, I say, "If you want, I'll lead the way and find you a private place to take care of business. I promise, I won't watch," I add, slipping off the boulder and offering her a hand up.

Taking my hand and pulling her to her feet, she smiles shyly at me, the expression striking me with all the force of a ten-pound sledge hammer; only Sue ever looked at me like that. Or had Tiffany too?

Staggering back a step and stumbling against the boulder, the shy look is suddenly gone, replaced by one of concern as she hangs onto my hand to steady me. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost?"

"Yeah, just fine," I quickly blurt out. "Just lost my footing for a minute there."

"If you're sure," she continues, not releasing my hand until I look down at her hand in mine and she suddenly realizes that she's gripping me with an iron firm clasp. "Sorry," she stutters, letting go of my hand like it's suddenly burning her.

Looking into her eyes, I softly remark, "It's okay, really."

Unable to hide the awkward nervousness in her voice, she asks, "Should we take our stuff with, or just leave it here?"

"I'll bring this," I reply, slinging the rifle over my shoulder. "And I've got TP in my butt pack,"

Her face suddenly breaks into a smile as she repeats my last words as if she isn't sure she heard me right. "Butt pack?"

"Yeah," I answer her with a smile of my own. "This little pack here," I continue, reaching around my back and pushing it forward so she can see it. "It's referred to as a butt pack because it rides under the molly pack, right over your butt."

Her laugh grows louder and she places her right hand over her mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound. "Molly pack?"

Her laughter is contagious, and now I'm finding the names of the gear funny too. "Yeah, the molly pack is the medium sized pack that most soldiers carry on their backs. And before you ask, I don't have a clue as to why it's called that."

Still laughing softly, she simply says, "That's cute."

Feigning a serious tone of voice, I say, "Careful who you say that to."

This causes her to laugh even harder, unable to muffle the sound even with a hand covering her mouth. Within seconds, others in our vicinity are giving us questioning looks, trying to figure out what humor we might be finding considering our current set of circumstances.

When Janet notices the disapproving looks from several of the others, she abruptly stops laughing, her expression serious again. "Okay. Lead on," she says, stepping back to let me take the lead.

Since the slopes to either side of us are too steep to climb without difficulty, I lead her farther up the dry wash, the brush gradually growing thicker until the bottom of the wash is choked up with it.

"This is about as far as we can go unless we chop our way through," I say, turning to face her. "Maybe if you push yourself through to the base of that tree there," I add, pointing toward the smooth trunk of a large tree less than twenty-feet from us and beyond a large growth of green brush. "I'll wait here until you're finished. Then call out to me and I'll guide you back with my voice."

"Like 'Marco-Polo?" she smiles before suddenly reaching forward and grabbing my tee shirt with both hands and pulling my face down to hers.

She presses her lips against mine, crushing our mouths together. Before I can pull back, she forces her tongue past my lips, its explorations triggering the pent up feelings within me and I suddenly find myself responding in kind. Our mouths devour each other, our tongues fueling a passion that I've always managed to control since my night with Sue. It's as if the cage around my heart is crumbling and the beast within is about to be turned loose.

But is it Janet that I need? Or is she just the woman that finally crested the brink and brought the walls tumbling down? And more importantly, can this petite little woman handle the beast that I'm about to unleash on her?

Just then, the sound of automatic weapons firing echoes through the tree tops. Instinctively, I push Janet down and slip the M-16 off my shoulder. Checking that the safety is off, I furtively look back down the wash toward where we left the others.

"What's going on?" Janet whispers, her mouth pink and puffy from our kiss that was so rudely interrupted.

"Shh," I whisper back while holding my index finger in front of my lips and holding her gaze for a moment until I'm sure she understands.

My attention is suddenly drawn down the wash as the sound of something or someone moving swiftly through the brush is coming straight for us. Putting myself in front of Janet, I raise the rifle to my shoulder and wait for a target. My breathing slows, my finger pressing lightly against the trigger.

Although I'd gone on quite a few covert operations with different teams of men, my part never included shooting anyone. The weapons I carried were only for self-defense, and usually just side-arms. I'd never had to shoot anyone before and I wasn't looking forward to having to this time, when someone calls out my name.

"Smally!"

Though I lower the rifle, I don't answer the call, as I don't recognize the voice.

Janet squirms around behind me, her hands suddenly on the backs of my shoulders and her face next to my ear, I can feel the warmth of her breath on the back of my neck. "Who is it?" she whispers.

"Smally, you back here? We're bugging out."

Before I can decide whether to show ourselves or not, one of Chad's men breaks through the brush and sees us huddled down on the ground. He stops, a smirk flashing across his face as the obvious thoughts cross his mind.

"Come on," he says. "We're bugging out now."

"What was the gunfire we heard?" I ask, putting Janet between us and then falling in behind them as we hurry back down the dry wash toward where we'd left the others.

"Small scouting party of insurgents," he says breathlessly, not taking time to slow down and explain. "We took them out, but there could be others along anytime, especially when they don't report in."

"I thought we were supposed to be gathering intelligence, not engaging the enemy," I angrily hiss at his backside.

He stops when we reach the open area, the others having already gone on ahead. "We were watching the road. They came on us unexpectedly on the trail. It was them or us," he says hurriedly. "Now let's get a move on, we've already wasted enough time finding you two," he impatiently adds.

Picking up Janet's suitcase, we follow him back out to the trail and then turn left. Within a few minutes, we overtake the rest of the group. While Janet and I work our way along the trail, having decided to hang back with the slower stragglers, our escort falls even further back, possibly to set booby traps or just to give warning if anyone is overtaking us from the rear.

The pace is slower now than before the break, or at least it appears that way to me, it might just be the adrenaline rush we got from the close encounter with an armed enemy. Or it's because we're hanging back with the slower members of the party and falling further behind and getting further spread out. But as long as our back is covered, I don't really care how long it takes us to get where we're going, which is another mystery altogether.

The more it rolls around in my head, the less sense it actually makes, If they can send a chopper to collect us from the place where we're going, why couldn't they just send a chopper to the village and collect us there?

Chad gave us the excuse that the choppers were busy elsewhere. So I had to wonder why not just secure the village and wait for them to not be busy elsewhere?

Logistics was never a strong suit of mine.

After several hours of hiking single file, we overtake the rest of the group, as they've stopped for a rest break. Setting Janet's suitcase down for her to sit on, I tell her I'll be back in a minute and make my way past the others spread out along both sides of the trail.

Reaching the head of the column, I find Chad deep in conversation with one of his men, a tattered map spread out on a flat piece of ground before them.

"How much farther?" I ask, interrupting them.

Giving me an impatient look, probably because he had to send a man to find us after the last break, he shrugs and says, "You might as well get in on this."

Leaning down beside him so I can see the map, he points at a spot and explains that it's the village we left.

"Yeah, I can see that," I say, reminding him that I'm not a useless civilian and know how to read charts and maps with the best of them.

"Okay," he acknowledges with another shrug before continuing. Pointing at another spot on the map, he says, "This is where we are right now and this is where we want to be." He slides his finger along the map and says, "Now, we know the insurgents are using this trail too, so that means we have to constantly be on the lookout for them. Over here." He pauses while he slides his finger along another route penciled on the map, "Is another trail. It won't be as easy going as we've had on this one, but there's much less chance of encountering unfriendlies until we drop back to this trail, right about here."

Looking at the map for a minute and familiarizing myself with the topography, I suggest instead, "What if we use this other trail until we reach the top of this ridge here?" I begin, drawing an imaginary line with my index finger. "That gives us the high ground. It runs parallel to the trail and we stay on it all the way to here," again using my index finger to indicate where the secondary trail cuts across the ridge. "Then we drop back onto the trail and continue on to ground zero and hopefully a waiting chopper."

"The only problem with that scenario is we can't estimate our travel speed because we'll be cutting a new trail through unknown terrain. Until we drop back to the trail, we can't set up an arrival time for the chopper to evacuate us."

"But Chad, we can contact your boss when we hit the junction with the trail and if we reach the pick-up site before the chopper arrives, we just keep a low profile and wait. Overall, it might be tougher going, but I think we'll run a much lower risk of encountering unfriendlies, unless time is a major issue," I argue.

Looking up at his man, Chad asks, "What do you think? Can we make his plan work?"

"While I don't like the idea of cutting new trail, it definitely cuts down on the almost certain odds of running into enemy combatants, especially if we stay on this trail," he replies, never taking his eyes from the paper chart. "If we're going to leave this trail, which I don't see any other choice, we might as well go all the way," he finally concedes, having given my idea some thought. "At this point, time isn't an issue. We have plenty of supplies and water to last," he adds, answering my question.

"You've never let me down in the past. If you think we can make this work, then let's give it a shot," Chad concurs with his man. "Call the others together and we'll formulate a solid plan. And since you have the most experience cutting cross country, I want you on point."

"Roger that," he says, getting up and taking a quick glance around before giving a shrill whistle followed by two short tweets.

Turning toward me, Chad says with a smirk, "We break in fifteen, in case you have any unfinished business."

Within minutes, his men come slipping out of the jungle, forming a small group with Chad at the center while I make my way to the back of the group where I find Janet still sitting on her suitcase sipping on a bottle of water. As I walk up to her, she hands me the bottle and I take a grateful swallow before filling her in on the new plan.

"So what you're saying is, the worst is yet to come?" she asks, concern pulling a grimace down over her face.

Reaching toward her, I slide the back of my fingers along the side of her cheek, tenderly pulling her eyes up to meet my gaze. "It won't be that bad. Once we're on the ridge, the vegetation will be thinner and lower growing because of the volcanic makeup of the soil."

"If it's going to be easier going, why haven't the natives already cut a trail through it?" she asks, taking my hand from her face and holding it in hers. "You don't have to worry about me, Vic. I may not be looking forward to it, as this isn't my thing, hiking through the jungle, you know. But I'm a survivor and I'll be just fine."

"I never thought otherwise," I smile encouragingly at her. "I'm going to head up to the front of the group, see if there's anything I can do to help cut trail. You might want to hang back here."

"And lose sight of you? Not on your life," she says, pitching the now empty water bottle into the vegetation growing thickly along the trail where it quickly disappears from sight. When she sees me staring at the spot where the bottle fell from sight, she adds with a huff, "I wouldn't normally litter, but there's no way I'm going to worry about trash in a country where the people are trying to kill me. They can just suck it up. Maybe if they were more concerned with litter patrol instead of death patrol, we could all just get along."

Unable to control myself, I start laughing out loud, studying her face to see if she's really serious or just pulling my leg. "What did you say your job is?" I ask, unable to fathom that anyone doing the kind of work we do having such a sense of humor.

"I didn't," she flatly replies. "When I was briefed in, they told me that I should never disclose my actual duties to anyone."

"That's standard legalese so they can get you to spy on your friends if they need to," I say, beginning to suspect that the stress of our current situation has pushed her over the edge, when she suddenly breaks out laughing.

Rising to her feet, she's still laughing softly as she turns and sees me staring hard at her. Seeing the concern in my eyes, her laughter abruptly ceases. "Oh my God, you thought I was serious," she exclaims, her hand flying to cover her mouth as more laughter erupts from deep in her belly. "You're too much, Vic. But I appreciate your concern. It's touching, really."

When she notices that I'm not laughing with her, she stops and turns serious. "Vic, we are under a lot of stress. It's hot, the bugs are trying their damnedest to suck me dry, and people with guns are trying to kill us. You'll just have to excuse me if I seem to be acting a little strange. Okay?"

"Was it stress acting on us earlier? Or was that real?" I ask, reaching out and placing a hand on her bare arm.

With a smirk, she coyly replies, "You'll just have to wait until they get us out of here to know the answer to that one."

Chad's voice carries down the trail to us, letting everyone know that we are moving out. Leaning forward, I scoop her suitcase off the ground and plant it on the shoulder opposite my duffle bag with the rifle slung below it across my front in case I have to use it in a hurry.

Without a word, Janet takes off toward the front of the column. "Hey, where do you think you're going?" I ask after her, scurrying to keep up as she nimbly dodges around the others gathering up their gear.

"You'll need someone to carry our gear if you're going to help with cutting trail," she replies over her shoulder.

"But it'll be safer for you near the back of the group, not to mention easier going," I argue, stumbling on branches while skirting around the others in the group.

Still not turning to look at me, she simply states, "It'll be even safer when we're out of this jungle."

She made a good point and I make the snap decision not to waste anymore breath arguing with her.

When Chad sees us coming toward him, he gives me a questioning look. Before I can fill him in, Janet says, "We'll spell your men cutting trail when you need us."

Without even consulting me, she includes herself in the trail cutting. Chad looks past her, meeting my gaze and deciding not to push it. Under different circumstances, he might have protested the help of anyone outside of his small circle of trusted men, considering the uninitiated more of a nuisance than an aid. But with limited men, he makes a silent decision to simply accept our help.

Looking first at me and then at Janet, he says, "I know Vic is qualified with the rifle. But are you?"

Without a word, she pulls the sling clip securing the M16 slung over my shoulder and takes the weapon in her grasp before I can raise a protest. Pulling the slide back to inject a round into the chamber, she flips off the safety before putting it up to her shoulder and looking down the sights, the butt firmly pressed against her shoulder to absorb the limited recoil of the weapon. For the briefest of seconds, I worry that she's going to squeeze off a burst to drive her point home.

And then, still not saying anything, she lowers the weapon, flips the safety back on, pulls out the clip and ejects the round from the chamber, catching it with the same hand she is holding the clip in, and without pausing, presses the round back into the clip and smoothly jams the clip home before handing the weapon back to me.

Clearly impressed, Chad instructs her to keep the weapon and fall in behind the point man to give him cover so he can work the machete. Accepting the weapon back from me, she gives me a sheepish smile saying, "You can relieve me if the gear gets too heavy for you."

"Count on it," I smile back before she takes off, quickly being lost to sight in the dense foliage.

After more than three hours of slow going, Chad calls a break to allow the stragglers to catch up and give everyone a chance to rest. It's been all uphill to this point, but we've reached the top of the ridge and discovered a dense thicket of low growing brush that is easier to simply push through than trying to use the machete. The biggest plus, however, is the constant breeze blowing up the sides of the ridge, giving us some relief from the oven like heat. Though without the benefit of the taller trees and vegetation, the sun is now beating down on us without mercy. The breeze however, is also keeping the more annoying flying insects at bay.

Janet rejoins me back at the head of the group, her green tee shirt streaked with white from the drying salt in her perspiration. Dropping the M-16 next to me, she plops down on her suitcase. "How's it going?" I ask, handing her a bottle of water.

"Should be much easier now that we're aren't going uphill," she replies, the heat and exertion beginning to show in her features.

Chad steps over after having exchanged a few words with his lead man. "Well, we're going to find out now if your idea is a good one or not," he says with grin.

"Your expression tells me you're liking it so far," I grin back.

"Yeah," he begrudgingly admits. "It looks like we might be able to make decent time along this ridge."

"You think we'll reach the evacuation zone before dark?" I ask.

"No," he answers with a serious tone. "Even if it was all flat and level going with no brush, we couldn't make it before dusk."

"What are you suggesting?" I ask, noticing that Janet is simply drinking her water and staring off over the panoramic view that stretches away for miles across the valley we just climbed out of. Somewhere down below us, lost in the vegetation, is the road that led to the embassy that according to reports is no longer there.

"I'm thinking we'll continue on until we reach the junction with the secondary trail and make camp for the night there. In the morning, with everyone rested, we'll call ahead for evacuation and then beat feet to the evacuation zone."

Glancing over my shoulder at a few of the larger, slower people in our group, I turn back to Chad and ask, "You want to be a little more explicit about beating feet? Because I think we have a few in our group that are not going to be beating anything but bugs off them, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I've been giving that some thought," he says slowly. "If we have to assist a few of the slower ones and drop some of the personal baggage, then that's what we do."

"I just bought that suitcase before shipping over here. There's no way in Hell, I'm leaving it behind, thank you very much," Janet defiantly announces.

"Believe me," Chad states, meeting Janet's heated gaze. "If it comes down to catching our flight or dragging some damned suitcase through the jungle, I can guarantee you that we will not be missing that flight."

Looking at me for help, she says even more defiantly, "Then you will be catching that flight without me."

"Listen lady," Chad starts, his voice growing angrier by the second. "I don't give a damn about some old suitcase, even if you did just buy it for this trip. My responsibility is to get everyone on a chopper and out of this hellhole, and that includes you, not your suitcase."

Janet is about to say more, when I raise my hands, indicating we call a truce. "Listen, we're all hot and tired and a long way from having to ditch anything. Until then, let's not worry about it," I suggest, looking from Janet to Chad.

Rising, Chad simply states, his words meant for me while his gaze stays on Janet, "Your responsibility."

Before I can ask him if he's talking about the suitcase or the woman, he stomps off to join his men.

"You're not winning yourself any friends," I remark with a grin.

She matches my grin with a devilish smirk and says, "I thought I'd won you."

Just before dusk, we reach the junction with the secondary trail. It's quickly decided to backtrack several hundred meters and set up a cold camp, no fires. Chad directs one of his men to remain at the junction to track any use on the trail.

The MREs are quickly handed around along with more bottled water. It isn't long before most of the group is lying about, trying to make themselves comfortable on the rough ground as the last rays of sunlight burn down, the eastern sky already taking on the awesome colors of twilight. Unlike earlier rest stops, this time there is very little talk as exhaustion sets in and the members of the group doze fitfully in and out of sleep.

Finding a small spot clear of brush, I lie down on my back and hammer my duffel into a serviceable pillow for my head with my fists. Settling back, my gaze is taking in the first stars of the night when Janet sidles up and lowers herself down to the ground next to me, placing her head on my duffle bag, our shoulders touching.

We lie in comfortable silence, simply enjoying the proximity of each other like two longtime friends, though we haven't really known each other except in passing for the last couple of months.

Without warning, she rolls up against me, her right arm draping over my chest along with her right leg over my legs. She squirms, pressing her body tightly against mine and I can't help but wonder what's going through her beautiful mind. Turning my face toward her, I notice first that her eyes are closed and I can hear the shallow breathing of sleep as the warmth of her breath washes over me.

Moving carefully so as not to wake her, I work my right arm out from between us and reach under her, using my free arm to snuggle her into me so that her head is now resting on my chest, liking the way her lean body fits so perfectly up against my own.

Before dozing off, my thoughts turn to who this woman is lying next to me. She never did answer the question of what she was doing in the village before we had to bug out. Except for her being a civilian contractor or civilian employee, I know nothing about her.

Of course, the same could be said about me. Though the number of Americans in the village was small compared to the indigenous population, we all kept more or less to ourselves, each doing their own secret work on behalf of the US Government and not sharing anything with the others. It was a strange way to exist, but it's what was expected of us.

At some point in the middle of the night, I wake to the sound of someone moving through the brush, approaching stealthily from the direction of the secondary trail junction.

Moving slowly, I slide out from Janet's embrace and shoulder the M-16. The stars are the only light in the night sky, the moon already having passed over and disappeared beyond the horizon.

"What is it?" Janet suddenly whispers, her body not moving.

Lowering my face down next to hers, I whisper back, "Probably nothing. Just woke and thought I would go relieve myself."

"Bull," she hisses softly, moving slowly and silently into a crouching position.

"Here," I whisper back, pushing the M-16 toward her until I feel her hands take it. "Stay put. I'll be right back."

Before she can argue, I slip off in the direction of the junction, my off time spent hiking and exploring the local jungle area having provided me with enough experience that I'm able to move through the vegetation almost silently.

Just before I reach the junction, I hear voices speaking softly, and recognize the sounds as English. Before making any assumptions, though, I hang back, silently listening to the voices until I'm convinced that it's just two of Chad's men. There appears to be a changing of the guard.

Deciding that there's no safe way to make my presence known without risk of them shooting me, I determine to return to our makeshift camp ahead of the returning guard.

Moving stealthily back up the path, it only takes minutes to return to the spot where I left Janet. When she sees the darker shadow of me moving toward her, she raises the weapon in my direction.

"Hey, it's just me, don't shoot," I whisper, though I subconsciously feel less threatened by her actions than I did those of Chad's men. They're trained killers and have no inhibitions about opening fire first and asking questions later.

Lowering the rifle to the ground, she reaches out to me when I get close enough and pulls me down to the ground, pulling me tightly against her, the hard peaks of her breasts pressing against my chest through the thin cotton of our tee shirts. Her body is trembling slightly and I slowly run my hand up and down her back, trying to sooth her.

"It's okay," I whisper softly. "It was just Chad's men. They were relieving the guard down at the trail junction."

"I was so scared," she says, the heat of her breath against the side of my throat sending tingles of desire into the lower extremities of my body.

"You're safe. I'm right here with you," I continue, speaking softly to comfort her.

When her mouth comes around to my face, her lips finding mine in the dark, I'm unable to resist the soft temptation of her, even though I know the desire is only being fueled by the stress of the situation we're currently in.

Kissing her back, the kiss quickly deepens, our tongues vigorously exploring the other. Her hands slide up my back, their frantic actions pulling my head lower as she tries to devour me with her hungry mouth. My hands move lower down her, pausing in the small of her back, relishing the way her firm ass rises against my touch. Though she is lean, she is not frail, and her body is firm, her muscles taut with wanton lust.

As my fingers slide between her jeans and the smooth flesh of her waist, she moves her body to grant me easier access, my hands cupping the bare flesh of her perky ass, pulling her harder against the bulge in my pants, a soft moan slipping out of her mouth.

Rolling onto my back, I position her on top me, pressing my swollen member against her groin, making sure she realizes that I want her.

She slowly breaks the kiss, the broken contact of our lips leaving a void, an acute feeling of loss. The sound of her ragged breaths are loud in the silence of the night. Her eyes are wide, searching for mine in the dark.

"We can't do this," she frantically rasps, her voice barely audible.

Moving slowly, I slide my hands out of her jeans, missing the heated contact of her flesh and the potential promise of what was about to happen.

"You're right," I begrudgingly agree, moving my hands to keep her against me, though the feeling is less sexual now and more as one of companionship. "We should wait until we are out of this jungle and somewhere safe. See how we feel then."

Still gripping my tee shirt in her hands, she lowers her forehead till it's resting against my chest, and laughs softly, whispering in a breathy voice, "You have all the right answers, don't you?"

"Emotions are running high because of the potential danger we're in," I tenderly reply, feeling as if I don't actually know anything anymore, but just making it up as I go. "We'll probably both feel differently when this is over and we're somewhere safe."

Without any more talk, we snuggle back into our previous positions, neither of us able to fall back asleep. With the rising sun, Chad is on his satellite phone with his boss, letting him know when to have the chopper at the evacuation zone. After breaking the connection, he picks up his gear and signals his men to move out.

The group of civilians, having eaten more MREs for breakfast, sluggishly fall into a single file column and head down the path toward the secondary trail. Janet and I decide since we're not needed up front any longer, we'll hang back and make sure none of the slower in the group fall too far behind.

Within four hours of nonstop hiking, the secondary trail ties back in with the main route. Although there is much evidence of use on this main trail, Chad feels confident that we can reach the evacuation zone before encountering anyone, friendly or otherwise.

After a brief rest with only water bottles being passed around, we set off at a brisk pace, now able to walk side by side again due to the broad width of the well-used trail. Anyone that is having a hard time with the pace is assisted by those that are more capable. Janet and I have each paired up with another, our arms around them while they lean on us, pushing them to keep up with the rest of the group.

An hour later, we divert off the main trail and take a break, passing around water bottles and more MREs. With the main trail more than a mile behind us, we are safely away from any chance discovery by unfriendlies, and everyone visibly relaxes, knowing the worst is over.

Chad makes a call on the satellite phone that lasts less than a minute before breaking contact and glancing around the group. Rising, he moves to a central position and says loud enough for everyone to hear, "We're about an hour out, but the chopper isn't due to arrive for another two hours. We're going to spend half an hour here, hike an hour, and then have to wait for half an hour for our ride. When we head out of here, I want everyone to refrain from talking or making any unnecessary noises, especially when we reach the end of hike." He pauses for a minute, taking a sip of water from a bottle that he's carrying before asking, "Any questions?"

His question is met with silence, so he turns and heads back to where he left his gear. His men have fanned out in a defensive posture to protect us from any surprise visitors. Janet is perched on her suitcase while I squat next to her, both of us foregoing food in favor of just water to replenish the sweat we've lost.

"How you feeling?" I ask, meeting her gaze while not being sure if I'm looking for something in her eyes that she isn't willing to share with me, or wishing to see something more there. Some indication of where we stand with each other.

"Fine," she simply replies before looking away.

"Well, we're almost home," I continue.

"Yep," she replies, still not looking at me.

The way she is avoiding making eye contact with me speaks volumes, and I decide not to push it. Once we're back on the trail, there won't be any more conversation until we're on the chopper and safely out of harm's way. Yet, I have no doubt, she's already given me her answer regarding where we stand with each other.

When Chad gets up and signals his men, everyone else rises too, their demeanor more optimistic than it had been before. We're close to being out of here and somewhere safe; that's motivation enough.

True to his word, after sixty-minutes of hiking, we break out of the jungle and into a natural meadow of sawgrass with a soggy bottom that feels like damp peat moss. While Chad's men venture out into the open area with little cans of paint to mark the landing zone and make it visible from the sky, the rest of us break out the remaining water bottles and settle in for a short wait.

Within fifteen-minutes, the thrumming sound of a large chopper can be heard in the distance. Chad's men hurriedly spread out to provide cover for the chopper. No sooner is it on the ground then Chad is directing our group toward it in a single file line. Since I still have the rifle, I hang back, bringing up the rear. Once I'm on the chopper, Chad's men come on the run, piling swiftly in behind me. The last man to board moves toward the cockpit and taps the pilot on the shoulder with a smile, indicating we're all aboard.

The flight is several hours long, taking us much farther than I'd been anticipating. When Chad puts down the satellite phone, I ask him where they're taking us. He explains over the noise of the chopper that the embassy has been overrun and we're being evacuated from the country. The village that we left behind is now occupied by insurgents. In fact, his source suspects that within a week, the country will have a new dictator, someone not on the CIA's payroll, unfortunately. No one had seen this coming.

When the chopper lands, Janet grabs her suitcase and disappears into the airport terminal without so much as a glance back, eager to catch a flight to her destination. It is probably for the best.

But it still hurts.

# Chapter 8

# Present Day

"Okay," I say softly, hiding the anger ripping through me. "Give me what you have."

Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, Perry pulls out another envelope, this one much thinner than the first, which is now scattered over the floor, the bills all of one-hundred denominations.

Moving slowly as if he's afraid I might still plant my fist in his face, he steps forward and extends his hand out holding the envelope toward me. "This is everything I have on her," he says, unsure of himself when I don't immediately take the envelope from him.

Though I am dying of apprehension, I fight down the urge to snatch the envelope from him, preferring instead to watch him sweat. This is a side of him that I'd never seen before and I can't help myself.

But as much as I want to see him squirm like the worm he is, I've spent my entire life to this point searching for the information he's holding out to me, and I suddenly grab it out of his hand, ripping open the top and pulling out two single sheets of paper.

"What's this?" I angrily ask, expecting a file and barely glancing at the papers.

"Look at it," He says nervously, taking a step back.

Straightening out the top sheet and inspecting it, I calmly ask, "What is this?"

"Hospital admission form from when she gave birth," He says, halting his retreat only when his back is up against the wall next to the door frame. "The other is a list of names. One is her real name, the others are aliases that she's used over the years."

"Aliases?" I mumble, instantly recognizing the name of Susan (Sue) McDonald on the list.

"Yeah, obviously she thought I was still looking for her, so she kept moving around and changing her name to throw me off the trail," he sneers. "Until I found out that I needed that bastard child of hers, I had no interest in what she was or wasn't doing with her life."

"You screwed up her life and mine for nothing," I hiss at him, suddenly remembering the pistol in my pocket. "I've spent almost my entire adult life looking for a woman that was hiding from you, and you didn't even give a rat's ass about her."

Sensing the extreme anger creeping into my voice, he finds the doorway with his hands and begins backing through it. When he sees the gun in my hand, he turns and runs out into the warehouse. Moving as if being controlled by an alien force that has taken over my body, I step with slow deliberation to the doorway, aware that he is almost to the small side door of the warehouse that is standing open, the bright light of day streaming in and silhouetting him.

Mechanically, I lift the little gun and sight along the front sight, placing his bobbing head between the cast forks at the front of the barrel. The distance is close to one-hundred feet and increasing fast. Yet, despite knowing he has callously torn apart my life without even knowing what he's done, the anger boiling through my veins isn't for the things he's done to me, but for the woman that he scared so badly she's been running from him her entire life. And she has a son that possibly grew up without a father figure in his life and he doesn't give a two-bit shit.

I could have been there for her and for her son, if not for the animal in my sights.

When his silhouette enters the light of day, he ducks to the side and disappears from my line of sight. Before I even realize that I'm still holding the gun out at arm's length, I hear a motor start up and the sound of tires churning on gravel followed by a sharp screech when he reaches the asphalt road at the end of the alley.

Though he left me his card, there is no way in Hell I'll ever contact him. If he wants to talk to his son, his private dicks will just have to keep up with me, which I have no doubt they'll be following me from the shadows from now until I find her.

Lowering the cheap piece of metal, I slip it into the rear of my waistband and look around the small office, silently wondering if there's anything I need to take with, because the odds of me returning here are nil.

With just the second envelope, I slowly make my way out of the warehouse. The first envelope and the cash is left lying on the floor. I'd never been more serious in my life when I told him I didn't want his money, and by not picking it up, I feel no obligation to my brother what so ever.

In the back of the old warehouse is a rotting lean-to structure. Covered in dust and spotted with rain that leaked through the roof, is an old Plymouth Valiant with a 440 Magnum under the hood. The car looks like shit, but the engine and transmission are fit as a fiddle.

I found the old car rusting out in a corner of an old barn when I was sixteen and had just gotten my driver's license. It wasn't much, but I was ecstatic when the owner of the barn told me if I wanted it, it was mine. Despite fogging out mosquitoes and pedestrians everywhere I drove it, I loved the old car and was never able to part with it.

Eventually, I figured a cop was going to notice all the blue smoke, so I decided to have some work done on it when an ex-client of mine with a questionable body shop offered to restore the entire car for next to nothing. When I told him what I really wanted, he just smiled at me and said he'd take care of it. When the car was finished, he personally delivered it because he wanted to see the look on my face when I gave him a ride back to his shop in it.

In addition to beefing up the suspension and dropping in the slightly modified big block engine paired up to a bullet proof transmission, they also put in a real alarm system. It was a real sleeper. The hardest part was silencing the beast of an engine so that I could cruise silently through neighborhoods without drawing attention to it. Somehow, he managed it. So unless you knew what was percolating under the hood, you never would have guessed it.

After retrieving the key from its hiding place, I unlock the door and slide onto the stock bench seat, the vinyl fabric complete with tears and faded from years of neglect. With the flick of a kill switch beneath the dash to neutralize it, I insert the key and give it a twist. The magnum jumps to life, rocking the whole car with its barely leashed torque, raring to go.

The fuel gauge reads full, the oil pressure high when I slip the automatic into reverse and back out from under the lean-to. Once outside in the light of day, I pull the envelope from my pocket and slip out the two single sheets of paper. Studying the hospital admission form for a long minute, I slowly realize that there isn't anything useful on it. At least not without going on line and doing some research.

The second sheet contains a list of names, all belonging to the same woman along with a couple of addresses, nothing current. But I'll check them out anyway and question the people currently living at them. This will take some research too, and even though I know just the person with the means and connections for the job, I can't call her.

Because even if she'll talk to me, much less help me, when she discovers what I need help with, well, I wouldn't blame her if she simply shoots me down...literally.

# In the Past...Middle East Mission

When Dora picks me up at the airport, I almost crush her frail little body with my hug. I hadn't realized how badly I'd missed her. It's almost Christmas, and I haven't been back for almost two years.

"When is Tiffany getting in?" I ask excitedly, missing her as much I have Dora, if not more.

"Her flight is due in any minute," she smiles, stepping back to see if or how I've changed during my absence. "Well, I thought I might have to scold you for not taking care of yourself," she says with a grin. "But I can see now that you've been eating and exercising like a good boy."

"I'm glad you approve," I reply a bit self-consciously. Changing the subject, I ask her if she wants to wait at the airport for Tiffany and where she's parked."

"I put the van in short-term. It shouldn't be a long wait. We can go sit at one of those tables in front of the terminal bistro and have a cup of coffee while we wait," she says, taking my hand and pulling me along.

There is no mistaking that she's just as eager to see Tiffany as I am, if not more so, despite having seen the girl every four months or so while I was gone. Because of Tiffany's permanent assignment to Boulder, Colorado, she has been driving up to Minneapolis on a fairly regular basis, keeping an eye on Dora and reporting back to me.

For my own part, I have been exchanging letters on a monthly basis with an occasional phone call, especially during the holidays. My assignments seem to be taking me further and further from civilized countries and deeper and deeper into increasingly hostile territories. When I questioned the nature of my assignments, I was told that my value in such operations had increased exponentially with the successful completion of each one. Furthermore, I was now considered a seasoned operator and very close to being promoted

It all sounded like lot of bullshit flattery to keep me keen on my job. And ultimately, I had to admit it was working. I was doing what they asked, when they asked it, and I was ignoring the most important people in my life, Dora and Tiffany.

Yeah, we communicated and stayed in touch, but it isn't nearly the same as visiting face to face. And Dora should be lecturing me on my long absence, but she is just too excited over the fact she is going to have both Tiffany and me home at the same time again.

While I leave Dora sitting at the table, I go up to the counter and pour us a couple of coffees. Returning to the table, I notice Dora staring at me. "What's wrong?" I ask, smiling back at her.

"I'm just so happy to see you again," she says.

"You can lecture me about being away too long if it makes you feel better," I tease.

"Honey, I know your job is much more important than an old lady living alone in a large, drafty two-story house located in one of the coldest cities in this wonderful nation that you so diligently protect at all costs."

"Ouch, no lecture needed after that comment," I grimace, feigning pain.

Her face suddenly lights up as she looks past me, and I feel momentarily saved, the feeling quickly dispelled by a wave of excitement as I jump up from my chair and spin around to see Tiffany coming toward us at a brisk pace, a dark suitcase on wheels in tow. She's wearing a navy blue pantsuit that accents the fine curves of her athletic frame. Her brown hair is shoulder length and lighter, both in color and texture, highlighting her lightly tanned complexion.

She is beautiful and damned sexy.

Unable to wait for her to reach our table, I barely notice Dora rising from her chair as I push off from mine and run down the concourse toward her. Just before I reach her, she drops the handle of her suitcase and spreads her arms out to welcome me into a mutual embrace.

We hug hard and long, the scent of her filling my nostrils with a desire that I didn't know existed in me for her. Her body still as firm as I last remembered it.

So what changed? Why the desire now? Is it just absence making the heart grow fonder? Or has it always been there?

When I feel her hand on my shoulder shaking vigorously, I grow aware of our surroundings, and notice that she's waving over my shoulder towards Dora, whom is still standing by the table watching us with a curious look on her face.

Suddenly self-conscious of my actions, I release Tiffany and step back, taking her all in. "You look great!" I manage, tearing my eyes off her long enough to grab the handle of her suitcase before moving around to her side and placing a hand on her elbow, hurriedly guiding her back toward the table and Dora's outstretched arms.

Standing back, I wait until they pull apart before asking if she would like anything to drink.

"Yes," she says with a smile. "I would really love a cup of coffee, black, and served in Dora's kitchen. You have no idea how I've been looking forward to it."

I'd already started turning toward the counter when her words sink in, and I turn back with a big smile on my face. She laughs softly at me while standing next to Dora. "You almost got me there," I reply sheepishly, her laugh contagious.

"Well, I've been looking forward to dinner all day, so you'll just have to wait a little longer for that coffee and conversation at my kitchen table," Dora states.

"Come on then. What are we waiting for?" I state, collecting my duffle bag and Tiffany's suitcase.

When Tiffany sees my old duffle bag, she asks light-heartedly, "You still have everything you own in that bag?"

"I still travel light, if that's what you're asking," I answer with complete understanding.

The restaurant hasn't change any in my two year absence, except that Katrina now has a boyfriend, according to Dora. And sure enough, she barely gives me a second glance when she takes my order. It's almost a little depressing. Definitely a blow to my ego.

Yet, Tiffany seems genuinely glad to have me close by, and for that I am grateful, even if I have to keep reminding myself that we're a lot closer to being brother and sister than we are lovers. And for Dora's sake, it must remain that way. She sees us as her children now, and I don't want to shatter that image. She may not be a mother figure to Tiffany, but she is to me, and I won't disappoint her.

Back at the house, we instantly fall back into our familiar places and routines. It feels good and I am truly happy for the first time in quite a while. Our mornings are spent jogging the trails. Our afternoons are spent doing chores around and on the house, while our evenings are spent at the kitchen table drinking coffee and talking about everything and anything. There is very little off limits in our conversations, and sometimes even I get a little hot under the collar when Dora and Tiffany push the boundaries.

But it's all in good spirits and I wouldn't have it any other way, despite the personal turmoil going on within me.

On our fourth day at Dora's, Tiffany and I are coming out of the park where the elderly gentleman sells his hot and cold beverages to the meandering park traffic. Slowing down, I glance over at Tiffany. Without a word, we slow to a walk, ending at the man's cart. With a smile, he places two bottles of water on the counter.

"Not today," I say, pointing toward the large stainless coffee pot marked 'Extreme Caffeine'. "I'll take a large one of those."

"Make that two," Tiffany quickly chimes in, giving me a perplexed look.

After paying for our coffees, I follow Tiffany over to the concrete benches and place my cup on the seat next to her. Using the bench for support, I stretch my quads and calves out and then turn and drop down beside her.

After a long silence, Tiffany finally looks into my long face and asks, "Want to tell me what's going on in that lovely head of yours?"

"No."

"Then at least tell me why we're drinking coffee, a diuretic of all things, when we should be hydrating."

Without preamble, I suddenly blurt, "I'm leaving the NSA."

Her jaw drops and she almost chokes on the swallow of coffee she's just taken. "What?" she finally manages. "Why?"

"Something bad happened," I tell her, unable to hide the pain in my eyes from her. Though I've just begun to tell her, the weight bearing down on me feels lighter already. I had no idea that talking about it would make it almost endurable, and yet, for the first time since it happened, I can see a light at the end of the tunnel.

Taking my hand in hers, she says softly, her voice full of concern, "Tell me, Vic. Let it out and get it off your chest. I'm here for you. You know that."

Looking off across the park and yet not seeing anything but that day, I slowly begin. "I was recently promoted to team lead, which made me responsible." I swallow down the guilt that threatens to overwhelm me every time I remind myself that I was responsible, and hence, it was my fault.

"It's okay," she says, rubbing my arm while grasping my hand with her free hand when I hesitate.

"You have to promise me that you will never tell Dora. I have to know that she won't know any of this, ever."

"I promise, Vic," she says, looking into my eyes. "But you need to tell someone. You can't carry this alone and I'll always be here for you."

In that moment, despite the anguish squeezing my heart, I want to take her in my arms and show her how much she means to me. But instead, I look away and start over at the beginning, letting her share my burden.

"We were a two man team. Our mission was to set up a listening station on a hill surrounded by rough and broken desert. At first, it felt so good just to be out of the jungle for a change, our mood was light and despite the hundred pounds of gear strapped to our backs, we made good time." I pause for a moment, remembering his face.

"His name was Bill. I'd only just met him the week before. He was familiar with the area and he was competent, so I let him take lead. We were dropped off by our motor transport before first light. The hike in was almost 12 miles, all uphill, and when the sun broke above the horizon, it got hot fast, the heavy gear really weighing us down. It took the entire day, but we reached our coordinates on the top of that hill just before the sun set. I remember it being one of the most beautiful sunsets I'd ever witnessed, as the bright colors streaked across the desert sky. We had a panoramic, three-hundred-sixty degree view, even if it was just broken desert in every direction."

Pausing to take a sip from my already cold cup of java, the Extreme Caffeine now tasting more like extreme drain cleaner, I regroup my thoughts, and swallow it down. Despite the bitterness, I feel a need for the caffeine just to continue.

"It sounds beautiful," Tiffany says to break the silence.

"Yes, it was beautiful. It was also exposed. There was no cover. But we knew what to expect before we got there thanks to satellite imagery that was provided from our associates in the NSA. Our mission was to last five days. We had food and water for six. No lights or fires at night, as they could be seen for miles from our perch."

"Did it get cold at night?" Tiffany asks when I fall silent again, my thoughts wandering ahead of my story.

"Yes, but we were prepared for it," I answer her. "We hurriedly erected our antennae and turned on the receivers, hoping to get a jump on any radio communication going on that first night." I pause for a moment, speaking again before she can ask me anymore questions. "It was almost full dark by the time we'd finished and had the radio gear going. We also had a small relay device for recording and retransmitting anything we captured from the airwaves that was hooked up to the entire system. It's pretty high tech stuff, and the relay radio can take large chunks of data, compile it, condense it, and re-transmit it in small bursts up to a satellite that can then unscramble the data and send it anywhere in the world so that it can be studied by our analysts, such as yourself."

"I always knew that the data was collected by equipment such as you just described, but I'd never associated the danger of collecting it to what you're describing," she says, understanding what I'm explaining to her like only someone in her position might.

"Anyway, we were pretty proud of the fact that we managed to get everything set up, despite working in the dark for the most part. The data wouldn't be re-transmitted constantly, as we controlled the times and for how long the relay would be on in order to minimize the risk of unfriendlies discovering the transmissions. Because as you well know, they are working the same gear we have, and they are always scanning for unidentified radio transmissions such as ours."

"Yeah, I know. You would think we would be way ahead in the world of technology, but that's not really the case. Is it?"

"No, unfortunately, it's not." I take another sip from the cold cup, and then look over at the vendor, wondering briefly if I want another cup or not.

Foregoing the coffee, I take a deep breath and continue, thinking what I really need is a bottle of rum. "The first night is both uneventful and productive. We capture a lot of radio transmissions and the receiver is almost to capacity, so we decide to re-transmit our first data burst. Bill gets the honors of checking the small dish beneath the camouflage tarp to verify it's still locked onto the correct satellite, since he is the one that set it up the night before, and immediately discovers that in our haste to set up in the dark, we'd accidentally connected the relay directly into the wide-band scanner. While we slept soundly, exhausted from the trek, our little relay was working overtime re-transmitting the data as fast as it was collecting it."

"Are you saying that you'd been sending a radio beacon all night to anyone that might be looking for just such a transmission?" she asks in awe, suddenly realizing that what I'm about to tell her is not going to be pretty. "But you made it back unscathed, right? You're here telling me your story, so it must have ended alright."

"Bill jerked the lead off the relay and scrambled back to where I was fixing a cold breakfast for us. 'Oh shit!' he cried out, followed almost immediately by the sound of a sharp whistling sound in the sky above our heads." I swallow, trying to moisten my dry throat. When it doesn't help, I take another sip of the bitter, cold coffee. "'The damned relay's been on all night,' he yells over the increasing wail of the whistles as they draw closer. That's when the sound suddenly registers. Incoming artillery rounds. Scrambling out from under the camouflage tarp that we're using for cover, I grab my molly pack that's full of supplies and extra ammo for the .45 caliber Navy Colt strapped to my hip, and rise to a crouch, leaving everything behind in a mad dash to get off the top of the hill and away from the radio gear, which is what the unfriendlies are zeroing in on." I pause again, a cold chill suddenly raising the hairs on my arms.

Tiffany, seeing me struggling to continue, squeezes my hand affectionately while continuing to rub my arm, her contact giving me the strength to go on. "I haven't gone twenty-feet when the first explosion rocks the area, sending up a cloud of dust and throwing rocks and sand everywhere. I remember thinking how lucky we are that their equipment isn't as accurate as ours. The next rounds come in almost as one big bang, the radio gear takes a direct hit, and then another comes a couple of seconds later, striking so close, I'm literally thrown into the air, landing about twenty-feet down the side of the hill from where I'd been just a second earlier. I can't hear anything but a loud ringing in my ears, and when I reach up to my head, my hand comes away wet."

My heart is pounding and my breaths are short and rapid. It's as if I'm back there, reliving the moment. Tiffany moves closer and pulls my head to her chest, comforting me.

After a long moment, I slowly raise my head and continue. "My first thought is how close that one was, and then I remember that Bill was right behind me. Though my ears are still ringing and I might be suffering from a mild concussion, I call out to him. Through some miracle or by the grace of God, I see him lying half in and half out of the crater that was just made by the explosion. And miracle of miracles, he's moving his arms, trying to climb out of the hole. I yell at him, 'Hang on, Bill. I'm coming.' Though my body resists my first efforts to get to my feet, I make it back to him and he looks up at me, a smile on his face at seeing me and a mutual feeling passes between us, we'd just outsmarted the bastards trying to wipe us off the face of the earth.

Grabbing him under the arms to help him to his feet, I notice for the first time that he doesn't have any."

"Oh my God," Tiffany gasps, her hand freezing on my arm.

"Without thinking, I throw him over my shoulder, and set off at a dead run down the side of that hill, knowing that we're both dead if we're still in the general area when the unfriendlies arrive on foot to mop up. Because as soon as they finish softening up the area with their artillery, they'll arrive via air or ground transport to finish us off or take us prisoner for later interrogation.

Only when I've covered almost a mile over the rough terrain do I realize that my body is about to give out, and I begin keeping my eye out for a shelter, somewhere out of the sun and can't be seen or found."

"I'm so sorry, Vic," she says, her arms around my shoulders in an attempt to comfort me.

Knowing that I'm almost to the end, I force myself to get it out and hopefully put it behind me. "I come across a shallow divot in the sand, about fifty-feet across and maybe eight-feet deep at its deepest. There's a large boulder that settled halfway into it on one side casting a shadow. I hurriedly slide down into the divot and then work against the shifting sand until I can lay Bill down in the shade of the boulder. He's not moving and I'm not sure if he's dead or unconscious, so I check him for a pulse and am slightly surprised when I find one, though it's weak. Slipping my pack off, I pull out the little first-aid kit and slide down in the sand until I'm by his calves and what's left of his ankles and feet."

I pause again to take a breath before continuing. "I must have been in shock at this point, because I remember smiling when I notice that there isn't any bleeding due to the heat of the blast cauterizing the wounds and mangled flesh. If that hadn't been the case, he would have bled out long before we reached that divot."

"You saved his life, Vic," Tiffany says softly, consolingly.

"I was responsible for the mission, and I didn't check the equipment setup in my hurry to gather intelligence," I angrily hiss.

"Bill was experienced. You told me so yourself. You trusted him to do it right. It's not your fault."

"Don't you get it, Tiffany? I was responsible. I was the team lead."

Though I can tell she doesn't want to voice it, she forces herself to give life to the question, "Did he make it?"

"Yes. If you call living without feet living. I used up everything in that little first-aid kit, cursing myself for not being better prepared."

"There were just the two of you, Vic. You were carrying a couple of hundred pounds of radio gear between you. You also had to pack in basic supplies to live on for five-days. How could you possibly carry anymore gear?"

"Knowing there wasn't anything left in the first-aid kit, I realized that if he started bleeding, there wasn't a damned thing I could do for him short of tourniquets, and that meant the loss of his entire legs if he survived at all. When he came around, I gave him as much water as he could drink and a morphine ampule for the pain. Then, while he wasn't feeling much of anything, I picked him up in a fireman's carry, and set off toward our pickup zone. I must have carried him almost five-miles like that when I suddenly heard the distinctive sound of a low-flying chopper approaching at high speed."

"You poor man," she whispers, holding my hand again, though I didn't remember her reaching for it.

"By then, I was dehydrated and pretty much out of it. You have to remember, I'd suffered a mild concussion of my own. Anyway, I was aware enough to realize there wasn't anywhere to run and hide, so I just stopped and waited for the bullets to start flying. The only thing I really remember clearly is regretting that I wouldn't ever see you and Dora again, or sit at the table and drink coffee all night talking about nothing in particular."

At this point, Tiffany reaches up and pulls my face close, her lips finding mine. I can taste the salt from her tears mixed with coffee and peppermint toothpaste, and I suddenly wonder why we've never become more than we have.

And then I remember Sue, and I suddenly feel guilty for letting myself forget, even if for the briefest of moments.

Taking her by the shoulders, I lean back and immediately see the disappointment in her eyes at the broken contact. Pretending that I didn't see the hurt and disappointment, I continue, "When the dust washes over me, I can't believe I'm still alive. The chopper is a small one, barely large enough for four people. While the pilot keeps the blades rotating and kicking up dust, the copilot jumps out and helps me carry Bill back to the bird. When we reach the chopper, we position him across the two passenger seats and then I collapse on the steel deck between the passenger seats and the firewall of the cockpit. The copilot closes up the bird and jumps back into his seat and secures his harness while the pilot already has us airborne. We'd made it."

"You're a hero," she says, somewhat in awe of what I'd just told her.

"So, anyway," I hesitantly continue. "I've been thinking that maybe it's time to find another line of work. Maybe look for something stateside."

"If you think that's best," she says, unable to hide the delight from her face at the thought of me being around more.

"I'll go back this time, but I'm going to talk with my commander and see where it goes from there." I look over at her, meeting her gaze before saying, "Tiffany, whatever I decide, don't look for me to show up in Colorado. You know me well enough to know that I would go stir crazy doing the work of an analyst. It's important work and someone has to do it. Being someone that appreciates the danger we go through to collect it makes you one of the best at your job, but it's not the job for me."

"I know that, Vic," she concurs. "You were born to be a field ranger, living out there on the fringe of danger. I've always known that about you, and no matter what you've been through, I don't expect you to change now."

"Then what is there for me? Because right now, I'm drawing a blank," I resignedly sigh.

"You'll have to work that out for yourself. But if there's anything you ever need from me, all you have to do is ask."

"I know that, Tiff. Thank you," I reply, my eyes going to the dregs of the cold, bitter coffee.

"Come on, I'll race you back," she suddenly says, jumping up and grabbing the cup from my grasp and throwing both of our cups in a trash bin before sprinting ahead, her firm, muscular legs accelerating ahead of me.

Because I'm enjoying the view, I wait until we reach the street that Dora's house is on, and then I turn on everything I have in a burst of speed. But before I can shoot past her, she cries out breathlessly with a laugh in her voice, "You hung back the whole way so you could take in the view, now learn to lose, pervert."

And lose I do. She pours on the speed like I've never seen her do before and is up the front steps and standing by the front door before I even reach the porch. Since we usually walk the last block to cool down, I grab the porch railing and lean over, struggling to fill my lungs with air. When I look up and see her breathing hard too, I don't feel quite so bad about losing. At least I gave her a run for her money. And moreover, I did enjoy the view.

# ...

On Christmas Eve, we're sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee, when Dora gets up and says she'll be right back. Going into the living room, where we've erected a small fake Christmas tree, she grabs a manila envelope out of the single drawer in the television stand and returns to the kitchen, placing it on the table halfway between Tiffany and me.

Taking up her seat, she says with a tired expression, "You both know it's not a secret that my pension barely covers what I need to live on, what with this drafty old house to heat and maintain."

"If you need money, Dora..." I begin, when she abruptly cuts me off with a wave of her hand.

"That's not why I'm bringing this up. You two have brought more riches into this old ladies life than you will ever know. No, this is my Christmas gift to you two. I don't know how many more Christmases I have left in me, so I've decided to do this now."

"You have lots more left in you," Tiffany blurts, interrupting her.

"Thank you, dear. But we both know I'm not getting any younger. So if one of you would open that, I'll explain any questions you have," she says, a tired smile on her face and a sparkle in her eye.

Tiffany looks first at the envelope and then at me. When I give her a nod to go ahead, she gingerly picks up the envelope and unfolds the creased flap, her actions making it appear that she's afraid of what's hiding within it.

With the envelope creased open, she reaches in and pulls out a few sheets of folded paper. With slightly shaking fingers, she unfolds them and presses them down on the table so we can both see them. The first one is a property deed with the address of Dora's house on it beneath the legal description. The names on the deed are Tiffany's and mine.

The next two sheets are from an attorney and an escrow company, verifying basically that the house is now the property of Tiffany and me for as long as we either singly or together shall live. It's a Life Estate deed.

In unison, we both realize what Dora has done and say, "No, you can't do this."

Under any other circumstances, the way we both said the same thing at the same time would have been funny. But all things considered, this was much too serious for such light heartedness.

Speaking first, I say, "Dora, not only is this too much, I know how you've been holding onto this place since Harold passed away just so you'd have something for your daughter's inheritance. You can't deny her what's rightfully hers."

"Vic," she says sternly. "You've known me long enough to know that I can do whatever the hell I want and usually do. My daughter and her husband have not brought my grandchild for a single visit since they moved off to California. I happen to know they spend a lot of time with his parents, even though they have to travel to see them too. So don't be telling me what I can and can't do with what's rightfully mine, and now yours and Tiffany's too."

"He's right, Dora. This is too much. You have family that deserves this," Tiffany argues.

"You two are my family," she flatly states. "Merry Christmas." She pauses for a moment before adding, "Oh, you'll notice in the paperwork that neither of you can ever sell nor rent the property, even to each other. And there is a survivor clause in it in case something happens to one or the other of you, God forbid, the entire property falls to the survivor. Only when the two of you are gone, will the house and property go to my grandson, or his heirs if something should happen to him before then."

'You've thought of everything," I say, momentarily stunned. You don't just give someone that you're not even related to a house.

"No, I didn't," she softly remarks, her eyes looking tired. "I didn't include any provisions that allow for me to remain in the house. So, as my landlords, either of you can kick me out if it suits you."

"Dora," we both say in unison.

With a gleam back in her eye, Dora grins and says, "You might find I'm a tough bird to get rid of though."

Tiffany and I both stand and walk around the table until one of us is standing to either side of her before wrapping each other in a warm embrace with the frail little woman between us. At the same time, we kiss her opposite cheeks before she can push us away, though she doesn't put much effort in the act.

Before Tiffany and I can return to our seats, Dora rises and turns her back, but not before we see the tears running down her cheeks. She fusses for a bit with the coffee pot, frantically wiping at her eyes before turning back around and offering to top up our mugs.

This is definitely the best Christmas I've ever had, and not because of the house, but who's in it.

# Chapter 9

# Present Day

As I cruise down the street, heading toward the better part of the city where I can find me a decent motel room to set up and operate from, I notice that my own heart is purring as smoothly as the magnum under the hood. It's been such a long time since I've felt such optimism, I question its authenticity, wondering if maybe I'm simply running on adrenaline from the encounter with my brother. Or learning about the clause in my inheritance, even though it has expired. All this time I believed my father didn't give a damn about me and yet, he left the door open just a crack in case I came around to his way of thinking. Fat chance.

While the thought of a shave and shower is enticing, I can't escape the obvious and my eyes keep drifting from the street in front of me to the list of names lying on the seat next to me. For the first time in almost eighteen years, she's within reach.

Leaning over, I pick up the sheet containing the names and addresses and hold it up before me so I can read them without taking my eyes completely off the road. Years of drinking have greatly impaired my reflexes, but fortunately, traffic is light and I catch a few traffic lights just right.

The first name on the list, which is also her real name, is Jennifer Holt. A nice name, it kinda rolls off the tongue. Jennifer. I like it. I can see myself getting used to saying it on a regular basis. There isn't a birthdate with it, which would help somewhat, though she is probably using a different name altogether now. I might be able to find a birthdate on the hospital admission form. And if there's one on it, hopefully she didn't think to change it from her real birthdate. A simple oversight like that on her part might just yield the clue that I need to track her down.

The second name down the list is Laura Regan, the first alias she used after leaving the address where we spent our little time together, and where she lived while attending college. With my brain trying to shake off years of alcohol abuse, I wonder briefly why she didn't just use the last name on the list, the one she already had a fake ID to go along with, and the one that I knew her by...Susan (Sue) McDonald.

Unless of course, my brother, her overbearing keeper slash captor, knew of that ID and could have used it to find her. And it was my brother, after all, that she was hiding from, not the law. The bastard. Even if I'm fortunate enough to find her, does he really believe I'll just turn her and her son's whereabouts over to him and go my merry way? Oh, that's right, he believes he's hired me and already paid for my services. Bullshit.

Thinking of several hotels that might work for me, I suddenly realize that I'm also going to need a laptop. Free internet access won't do me any good without some means of using it, and I've got a lot of research to do before I can actually hit the pavement. While my first inquiry will be into her real name, I can't ignore anything associated with her aliases or old addresses, as they may provide a background of information that could prove valuable. Kinda like a dog on a scent, I will track her down. But I need to find the scent before I can run it down.

# In the Past...Boulder

Tiffany and I end up staying at Dora's through the first of the New Year. When Tiffany says she's making reservations for her flight back to Colorado, I ask her to make them for two, as I've been asked to report to D.C. and thought I might spend a little time in Boulder with her since it's on the way. To my surprise, she smiles happily, not put out in the least by my presumption that it would simply be okay without even asking her first. In all our years of being friends, I'd never taken the time to see where and how she is living when she isn't staying at Dora's place. Just goes to show what kind of friend I really am.

When we land at the airport, we take a cab to the townhouse that Tiffany has purchased since receiving her promotion to team lead. Though I feel she deserved the promotion, the new title always seems misplaced, as she doesn't do field work. But she is quick to explain that she now has a team and picks duties for her team based on need from actual field going team leads and handlers.

Because of my last horrifying experience in the field, I won't accept anything less from the NSA than that of a handler position or I'll be tendering my resignation. I may be physically fit for field work, but I no longer feel mentally fit or psychologically prepared to deal with the kind of tragedy that took Billy's feet. He's fortunate to be alive, and if it hadn't been for my handler realizing that we'd screwed up the minute our feed never shut off that night and sent the chopper to evacuate us, he might not be...Hell, I might not be.

"What are you going to do with yourself while I'm at work?" Tiffany asks, interrupting my reverie and bringing me back to the present.

"I hadn't really given it much thought," I admit shyly. Was I just curious about the way she's living and who her friends are, especially any male ones, since she's never mentioned any friends in all the time I've known her? Or do I just want to spend more time with her? "You have a nice place here," I tell her, taking in the brick façade and redwood trim from where the cabbie dropped us off on the street out front of her place.

"I was one of the first owners in the development. They gave me a good deal, hoping I would draw others from work that would also want to buy into it." She pauses for a moment before adding with a self-conscious fluttering of her eyes, "That hasn't worked out so well for them, even if it has for me."

"Hey, look," I slowly begin, meeting her gaze. "If you're not comfortable having me stay here, I can always find a motel for a few days. It's not my intention to interfere with your social life and I'm sure you have friends that want to catch up with you after being gone over the holidays."

"Vic," she says with a nervous smile and a small amount of embarrassment. Hesitantly, she continues, "Have you ever heard me speak of any friends in all the time we've known each other?"

"Come to mention it, have you ever heard me speak of any of my friends?" I counter, letting her know that she has nothing to be embarrassed over.

She visibly relaxes at my answering her question with my own question. She realizes, if not for the first time, that neither of us have any close friends beyond each other and Dora. We have acquaintances and co-workers on the peripheral of our lives, people that we socialize with out of a sense of duty, but no one person that we look forward to getting together with and sharing time with, or sharing ourselves with, aside from each other.

"We are a pair, aren't we?" she says with a grin, reaching into her purse and extracting a ring of keys. After selecting one, she moves toward the front door and after unlocking it, pushes it open and steps aside. "Welcome to my humble abode."

Picking up my old duffle bag and grabbing the handle of her suitcase, I step past her, immediately impressed by what I see. The sun is streaming down from a couple of large skylights centered over an open floor plan that looks straight ahead from the entrance all the way through to the den, ending at a wall of glass covered in sheer drapes, the sun also lighting up this far room, drawing visitors toward it. Off to the left is the dining room connected to an open kitchen, separated from the open area by a counter with several bar stools pulled up to it. To the right is the entrance to a hallway that leads to bedrooms and a bath. Next to the hallway is a wrought iron spiral staircase leading up to a balcony that overlooks the grand room.

"What's up there?" I ask, stepping into the center of the open room and looking around.

"That's the master bedroom and ensuite bath. Would you like to see it?"

Clearing my throat, I quickly decline, asking instead as I nod my head toward the darker hallway, "Are there more bedrooms through there?"

"Yes," she replies, holding back a chuckle. "Let me show you to your room." As she leads the way down the hall, she adds, "Feel free to set it up any way you like. As far as I'm concerned, it'll always be your room from now on. I have so many that I don't need as it is. This place is much too large for a single person, but like I said earlier, I got a deal on it that I couldn't pass up."

She stops at the second doorway on the right. Pushing open the door, she walks in ahead of me, I notice right off that it's a large room, the far wall containing double windows looking out on the front street. There is a queen sized bed with the headboard pushed up against the wall on the left. "Nice," I comment, setting my duffle on the floor and moving toward the windows to take a look outside before being drawn back to the bed.

When I look up, our gazes meet and then she quickly glances away, but not before noticing that I'm sizing up the bed, and she quickly comments with a hitch in her voice, "Mine is a California King."

The words have no sooner left her mouth than the color rises in her cheeks. "That's good to know," I reply, grinning broadly at her embarrassment.

Clearing her throat, she says, "The bathroom is down the hall on the left, if you want to freshen up. I'm going to shower and change into something more comfortable and then I'll see what's still in the fridge that's edible and fix us something to eat, unless you'd rather go out."

"No, that sounds good," I reply, still smiling at her, taking pleasure in the way I can unsettle her.

"Well then," she says, rubbing her hands together nervously until she realizes what she's doing and immediately stops, placing them on her hips for a moment and then back together. "Just make yourself at home. If you need anything, just let me know."

Before she can turn away, I reach out and grab her by the arms, pulling her in close. Instead of resisting, she presses her face into the side of my neck, and I whisper softly into her hair, "It's alright, Tiff. I'll be just fine. And thank you, for letting me stay here."

Slowly, almost hesitantly, she pulls away, smiling nervously while saying, "You're welcome. I'll see you down in the kitchen in a bit." Before she reaches the door, she's composed herself and turns back around to face me before adding, "Maybe tomorrow morning we can go for a jog and I'll show you the entire development."

"You should know up front, I'm not buying into it," I smirk, throwing her a wink.

"Didn't think you would," she returns my wink and heads out of the room, leaving the door open behind her.

When I finish up, I head out into the main room, but instead of continuing on to the kitchen, I hang a right and head down into the den, not having realized that it drops down a couple of steps. I find a remote lying on an end table and pick it up, glancing around for a TV. Not seeing one, I push the power button on the remote and the drapes suddenly begin to move, sliding off to the sides and opening onto a panoramic view of a grassy green meadow surrounded by a buck and pole fence. Beyond the rustic looking fence is a dense stand of oaks mixed with Aspens. The only thing missing is a herd of wild horses.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Tiffany asks, having silently walked up behind me.

"It is."

She lets out a heavy sigh, and says, "At some point in time, probably when the economy picks up, that forest beyond the fence will be developed with more townhouses like this one. The only thing that is off limits is the greenway, or meadow, as I prefer to think of it."

"Too bad," is all I can think to say.

"Come on, let's eat," she says, taking me by the arm and pulling me toward the kitchen.

As we climb the steps into the main room, I ask, "So, do you even have a television?"

"Of course, I do," she replies with mock anger. "I'm not a luddite."

"Then where is it?" I press her, not sure I believe her.

"It's upstairs."

"So, in other words, if I want to watch a late-night movie or catch up on the news, I have to go to your bedroom?" I ask with a mischievous grin.

Swatting my arm with a plastic spatula that she grabs off the counter, she replies, "Yes, but don't take advantage of it." She pauses a moment. "I put it in my bedroom because I never have guests. At least not any that want to watch TV."

"Ouch. That hurt."

Tiffany manages to find some eggs and a loaf of bread that although dry, doesn't appear moldy, so she fries up a few eggs and we toast the bread and make fried egg sandwiches. Sitting at the bar and eating our sandwiches while drinking red table wine, we make small talk, still in shock that we now own a classic Craftsman style home in an academia neighborhood of Minneapolis. It is quickly agreed that despite Dora's wishes, we are equally uncomfortable accepting such a gratuitous gift.

Later on, we both clean up and while Tiffany washes the few utensils we dirtied, I dry. With them put away, we make plans for the morning, her final day off before she has to return to work. As we walk from the kitchen and into the large main room, I notice the sun dropping in the sky, shooting it through with all the colors of the rainbow.

"It's a beautiful view," I idly comment, trying to keep her near to me, though I'm not sure my motives are pure.

"Would you like to come up and catch some news before you turn in? I can grab a couple of glasses and the rest of the wine."

"As tempting as the offer sounds, I really should get some rest," I reply, fighting the urge to take her up on her offer for fear it won't be just an evening of watching news, but will lead to something more. Something that I'm still not sure is such a good idea, even if I'm finding it harder to resist by the second. "We only got a few hours of shuteye before we headed to the airport this morning, and I've got some reports I need to read through."

Turning around and heading back to the kitchen, she rolls her eyes at me as she passes and says, "You can read your important reports tomorrow while I'm at work. Come on, I'll get the wine and glasses. The remotes on the stand beside the bed. Make yourself comfortable, I'll be right up."

Damn, she's making it hard on me. She's beautiful, she's sexy, she's got a body that looks like it won't quit, and we get along so well. Surely, she's aware of the effect that she has on me. And she also knows that I'm not capable of giving her that part of me, yet.

So I bound up the stairs like a kid promised a reward for bringing in the paper. When I see the layout, I'm taken aback for a moment. It's a large four-poster bed with a canopy. On the wall directly opposite the head of the bed is a large, flat-screen television. On the far side of the bed is another wall of glass looking out on the same view as from the den downstairs. And while facing the bed from the top of the stairs, my back is to the railing that overlooks the great room down below with a view of the foyer and front door.

I'm still taking in the whole thing when Tiffany comes up behind me carrying the bottle of wine and two fluted glasses. "This is awesome, Tiff. I never had any idea you were living in the lap of such luxury while I was living out of a dirty duffle bag in some backwards third world country fighting bugs, snakes, and getting shot at and ambushed."

"Maybe you should have come to visit more often," she says with a smirk, setting the glasses on the nearer bedside stand and pouring some wine into each. "Here's the remote," she adds, bringing me a glass of wine along with it.

When she slowly turns back toward the bed, I follow her, not sure if it's really all that great of an idea to make myself too comfortable, especially if we are going to be lying next to each other on the bed, since there doesn't appear to be an alternative.

As she slides across the bed to the far side, holding her glass up so as not to spill any wine, she softly remarks, "Please don't spill any wine on my new comforter. I paid a small fortune for it and I'd hate to ruin it with red wine stains."

Reaching the bed, I place my glass on the nightstand beside it before taking a step back and taking in the view of Tiffany languorously stretching out on the bed before me. Lying on her side facing me, she looks so lithe and supple without even trying that I find myself sub-consciously licking my lips like a hungry animal while only slightly aware of the blood flowing to my lower extremities, engorging my manhood in a most obvious way.

"Hand me the remote," she says, glancing toward the TV while holding a hand out toward me, as if she isn't aware of the turmoil taking place within my mind and body. Or especially of the fact that my body is winning.

"Here you go," I say, my voice husky with emotion as I hand her the remote.

Taking it from me, she turns and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time, and with complete innocence, says, "Are you going to stand there all night, or did you come up here to catch up on the news?"

"News," I stutter, sliding onto the bed and stretching out next to her, the pillow flattening beneath my head so all I see is the white silk canopy above us.

"Sit up," she says, sitting up next to me. "I'll stack your pillows up so you can lean back on them and see the TV."

Leaning forward in the soft down mattress, she fluffs and folds my pillows until I can lean back against them without having to strain to see the big screen on the wall.

"Thanks," I say, clearing my throat as she plops back against her own pillows. "That's much better."

"You can stay until eleven, then it's off to your own room," she suddenly says, staring at the picture on the big screen TV.

"What's at eleven?"

"My bedtime. Remember, I have to be up early. I gotta go to work and as a team lead, it's expected that I'll be there before the rest of my team so I can bring them up to speed after being off for the holiday."

"Of course," I reply, realizing that my desire is all one sided and that she isn't having the same immoral thoughts as me.

No sooner have I pushed aside any thoughts of doing anything besides watching the news, I notice her studying me out of the corner of her eye. We're both fully clothed, except for shoes, and we're both propped up against pillows while stretched out atop the comforter. It isn't any different than sitting at the table, and yet, something is completely different. Just sneaking peeks at her lying beside me is causing discomfort in the crotch of my jeans.

Picking up my glass of wine, I almost take a swallow, and then stop myself, thinking better of it. My resistance is already questionable at best. Placing the glass back on the nightstand, I push off the bed and roll to my feet.

"What's up," she ask, concern on her face.

"I just need to use the bathroom," I lie, looking around the room.

"Straight through there," she says, indicating the bathroom door. "You don't mind if I get comfortable and slip between the sheets while you're gone, do you?"

Clearing my throat, I quickly reply, hurrying toward the bathroom door, "It's your house. You shouldn't feel you need to check with me."

Smiling seductively, she rolls onto her side to face me before replying, "Yes, it's my house, but you're my guest, and I wouldn't want to do anything that might make you uncomfortable."

Nodding vigorously, I turn and hurry through the door and into the bathroom, quickly pulling it shut behind me. What was I thinking? I should have stayed at Dora's for a few more days. Colorado isn't exactly on the way to D.C., after all. Yeah, it's a regular route, but I could have taken a route through Boston, New York, or even non-stop, which would have made more sense.

But no, I got this wild hair to join Tiffany on her flight to Colorado so I can see her digs, and if the truth be known, see if she has a love interest that she's keeping to herself. Though it isn't any of my business whether she has a boyfriend or not.

She's a very desirable woman and it shouldn't be any surprise that she would have needs like anyone else. But those needs have nothing to do with me. We're friends. Close friends. Not lovers. And I need to keep that in mind. Even if she is the most desirable woman that I know, she's off limits.

Damn, I need a cold shower.

Flushing the toilet to give her the impression that I really needed the bathroom, I head out into the bedroom to find Tiffany under the blankets, her head propped up against her pillows so she can see the TV. Her hair is fanned out against the white cotton pillow case like that of an angel, her lips looking soft and pouty and very kissable while the sweetness of them beckons to me. Moving closer to the bed, I notice the soft, creamy flesh of her throat and a small amount of cleavage showing just above the top of a black lace nighty.

A small whimper escapes my lips that I quickly cover by clearing my throat and saying, "Look, Tiff." my voice sounding thick to my own ears. "I'm going to head downstairs and get ready for bed. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow and you don't need me keeping you up."

The disappointment is unmistakable in her eyes as she watches me walk around the big bed, pausing only long enough to collect my glass before heading toward the spiral stairs.

From behind me, her voice barely audible, she says, "If you're sure."

"Goodnight, Tiff," I call over my shoulder as I descend the stairs, wondering what kind of man walks away from a woman willing to do anything for him.

A man with integrity and respect for his friend... a man that really needs a cold shower.

# Chapter 10

# Present Day

When I see a Best Buy sign off in the distance, I find the entrance to the mall and turn in. After cruising around the crowded parking lot, I finally settle on a space that won't require a cab ride to get me to the store. Once inside, I peruse the aisles for a short while before deciding I'm going to need a cart.

My first selection is a fairly decent laptop and some remote cameras that are wireless and Wi-Fi ready so I can monitor them from anywhere. I add a cell plan to the laptop so I won't be tied to needing Wi-Fi and then grab a few Tracfones and usage plans to go with them.

Pushing my loaded cart up to the counter, I ask the sales clerk, who takes a step back when I get close enough for him to smell me, if they sell wireless tracking devices and the software for the laptop to monitor them. He gives me a strange look as if I just stepped out of a Bourne Identity movie.

"We don't carry anything like that," he says, his twitching nose betraying my stench. "You can get that stuff online," he adds, beginning to ring up my purchases.

"Thanks," I reply, trying not to breathe on him anymore than I already have, wondering if maybe I shouldn't have gotten cleaned up before re-entering the real world.

When he tells me the amount, I pull out my Visa and hand it over. With my purchases paid for and bagged, I say thank you, and then turn back and ask, "Is there a store around her where a guy can get some decent threads?"

"Depends on what style of clothing you're looking for. There's a Target at the far end of the mall, a Nordstrom's somewhere in between here and there. But if you want something more outdoorsy, there's a Sportsman's Warehouse just a mile up the road."

"Thanks," I reply, thinking the sporting goods store is exactly what I'm looking for.

After stashing my purchases in the trunk of the Valiant, I head down the road till I see the sign announcing the sporting goods store. Once I park the Valiant where it can be seen from inside the doors of the store to discourage it being broken into, I head in and spend almost an hour selecting items, everything from a hunting knife, to shirts, pants with thigh pockets, and rain gear. I pick out a nice pair of waterproof hiking boots and several pair of socks and briefs, and then push my overloaded cart up to the checkout stand. The store isn't busy, but the few people that I've gotten near have quickly given me space. Even the store assistants that are roving the sales floor, give me a wide berth.

"Find everything today?" the clerk ask, as I begin emptying the cart out on his counter.

"Oh wait, no I haven't," I suddenly blurt, remembering something that I'm hoping I don't really need, but a must have item anyway. "I'm going to need two boxes of .357 cartridges and a single box of .25 auto."

"I'll call it back and have someone bring them up," he offers, eyeing the large number of items piling up on the counter.

Before everything is tallied, a man brings up three boxes of ammunition and places them near the register. When everything else is rung up, the checker takes the boxes, scans them, and then produces paperwork for me to fill out with regard to the ammunition purchase.

With everything rang up and returned to the shopping cart, I pull out my Visa and pay, then head out to the parking lot and unload everything into the trunk of the Valiant. Now I just need to find a motel where I can get me a hot shower and then go through everything and organize it as needed. The items that I will need on a regular basis will go into my old duffle bag, a remnant from my sober days, as I prefer to think of the time before the shooting that almost killed me and stole my life, while I'll set up a backpack to carry with when I'm away from basic amenities.

# In the Past...Leaving the Agency

Once in D.C. I find myself across the desk from the director, a man that I only know through gossip and by reputation, neither of which are very flattering. Though the meeting lasts almost thirty minutes, which is a long meeting for such a busy man, the gist of it summed up is that I have two choices. I can suck it up and continue with my career, such as it is, or transfer to analyst work. Despite my medal of bravery, among other recognition awards, I'm just another grunt, and in no uncertain terms, he reminds me of that fact.

So I politely inform him that I actually have a third choice, and tender my resignation.

It doesn't take much effort to find a non-stop flight back to Minneapolis. Outside the airport, I hail a cab and throw the duffle on the seat beside me, giving the cabbie the address of my new home. When we pull up in front of the old house, I wonder what Dora's going to think when I break the news of my resignation to her. After slipping a few bills over the back of the seat, I grab my duffle and slide out the door, closing it softly behind me.

As the cab pulls away, the porch light comes on and the inside door opens. Dora slowly steps out onto the porch, squinting into the dark to see who the cab just dropped off.

"You really shouldn't come outside at night by yourself," I call out to her. "You never know what or who you'll find standing on your doorstep."

Letting the screen door slam behind her, she moves faster than I thought she was capable of as she hurries down the steps and into my arms, pulling me close and comforting me despite not knowing the reason for my early return, just suspecting the worst, I imagine.

"It's good to see you too, Dora," I say softly into her hair, the peach fragrance taking me back to another time and another woman.

Putting the thoughts out of my mind, I quickly add, "Everything's all right, so don't worry."

She pulls back and wipes an errant tear from her eye before saying, "When I heard the cab, I had no idea who would be coming to visit me. And then, when I saw it was you, my first thought was something bad must have happened." Then her tone turns hard, "You should have called, I could have picked you up."

"I didn't know if you'd still be up or not and I didn't want to put you out," I reply, following her back into the house.

"I'll put the pot on," she says, leaving me to close and lock the door.

Leaving my old duffle on the floor by the couch, where I usually end up sleeping when Tiffany is here, I head into the kitchen. Dropping heavily into the chair I have come to think of as mine, I say to her backside, "I may be staying longer this time since I don't currently have a job to go back to."

Turning to face me, a serious expression on her face, she asks, "What happened, Vic?"

"It's a long story, Dora, and I don't really want to go into it all right now. If it's okay with you, let it suffice to say that my last mission was a complete bust, and it was my fault."

"They didn't fire you, did they?"

To my surprise, I chuckle softly, the idea of being fired for what happened never even crossing my mind. Though in retrospect, it probably should have. I'm sure Billy would like to fire me. He was my responsibility as much as the entire mission was. I haven't had the courage to look him up since we parted at the hospital. Maybe I can find the time now.

"No, I didn't get fired," I reply, quickly sobering.

"That's good," she says, placing two mugs of steaming coffee on the table and lowering herself into her seat across from me. "Are you hungry? I can probably scratch something together."

"No, thank you. I don't have much of an appetite."

"Well, as I was saying, if you weren't fired, I'm sure you won't have any problem finding another job."

"Yeah, I was thinking about police work on the flight from D.C. My training and certifications will cross over easily and being a veteran, I should be able to come up with something," I tell her, even though I haven't really given it much thought.

"First thing tomorrow, we'll put you together a resume," she says enthusiastically.

"Thanks, Dora, I appreciate that."

We make small talk long into the night, her never asking me if I told Tiffany or not, and me not offering. For reasons that I can't comprehend, I'm finding it hard to tell Tiffany that I'm no longer with the agency. It's almost as if by quitting the agency, I'm letting her down, becoming something less.

Maybe, if I hurry up and find another job, it'll be easier to break the news to her, if she hasn't already heard through other channels, such as Dora.

True to her word, Dora is up and flipping through an old phone book, a pad and pencil beside her as she writes down mailing addresses of all the local police departments in the Minneapolis metropolitan area. The minute I recognize what she's doing, I almost discount her effort by telling her that that isn't how it's done these days, but then quickly catch myself and say instead, "That's great," knowing full well that I'll be using the internet and a digital resume for my job search.

Pushing the pad and pencil across the table toward me, she instructs me to write down my employment history, complete with employment dates and awards. Then she says, "And don't forget to make a list on another sheet with all your schooling and training."

"You know, I have all this on my laptop, Dora. It would probably be a lot easier just to print it out. That way, I can use one of those new word processing programs to design a nice customized resume. Something that's guaranteed to catch the hiring manager's eye," I tell her with enthusiasm, thinking that I can sit up in my room undisturbed and work on the USA Jobs site or something comparable.

She quickly relents, sighing deeply as if I just lifted a heavy burden from her. Then she closes the phone book and pushes the other sheet of paper across the table, saying, "You'll still need this so you know where to send them."

"Absolutely. This will save me a lot of time," I reply, accepting the sheet of paper and studying it with earnest. It doesn't surprise me that she listed the departments nearer to us first.

After a quick bite to eat, I take a mug of java with me and head up to the room that Tiffany's been using since befriending her. Setting up my laptop and entering a search parameter for police openings, I am taken to a California site that says the Los Angeles police department is currently accepting applications. It's much further away than I had originally considered, but that might be just what I need.

After applying to a multitude of agencies, I decide to give it a rest and put on my jogging outfit, camo pants, jump boots, and a green tee shirt with the Army logo across the front... some things never change.

A month later, I'm in California sitting in an office being interviewed by a panel of experts. They're asking me questions that don't seem to have any bearing on the position of patrol officer, an entry level position, but a foot in the door and an opportunity to prove myself. But they're the experts, so I simply answer their questions as truthfully as I can and hope for the best.

When I return to Minneapolis from Los Angles, I find Tiffany waiting at the airport with Dora. Her arms are crossed in front of her and she isn't looking very happy with me.

Before I can even say _Hi Tiffany_ , she fires off an angry tirade, "What? You didn't think you could tell me? You didn't think I of all people would understand? You really piss me off sometimes, you know that, Smally."

Smiling shyly at Dora, who is enjoying Tiffany's anger immensely because she feels it's righteous, I timidly reply, "Good to see you, too."

"That's it? That's all you have to say for yourself?" She pauses for a long moment before asking, "When you left my place, did you know you were going to resign?"

"Not really. I thought there was a good chance that I might be, but I wanted to hear what they had to say first," I reply, looking into her eyes and seeing more disappointment than anger.

Turning around and storming off in the direction of the exit while leaving Dora and I standing there, she yells over her shoulder, "Let's get something to eat. I'm starving."

I glance at Dora, who gives me a wink and says, "She'll be all right. She loves you, you know."

Her words take me aback momentarily, and I look at her with my mouth hanging open. Taking me by the arm, she guides me toward the exits while saying, "Come on. If we don't get a move on it, she's just liable to leave us here. I gave her the van keys so she could drive here." Pausing a moment, she adds, "She's not only mad at you, she also blames me for not telling her the minute I found out. So for what it's worth, we're both in this doghouse."

# Chapter 11

# Present Day

Although I'm sure my credit card is good for most anything I might need, due to it being overdraft protected by an account I set up just for the purpose, having placed the insurance settlement I received when I was pensioned off from the force in it, I'm not about to set up shop in a place that is too fancy and might draw attention to me or my activities.

When I see the sign for a popular motel that also offers long-term stays, I pull the Valiant into the lot and park under the awning where I can keep an eye on it while I register. The clerk is actually surprised when I mention that I would prefer a ground floor room around back, thinking that it will be easier to come and go without drawing attention to myself, as well as having to pack all the gear and clothing I just purchased will be much less of a strain on my back if I don't have to negotiate stairs.

With a room key in hand, I pull the Valiant around to the back side of the two-story building and back up to the curb, directly outside the breezeway leading to my new home. As soon as I get everything out of the trunk and into the room, I wedge a chair under the door knob, and strip down, using one of the empty shopping bags to put all my dirty clothes in so I can drop them in a dumpster the next time I go out, and then head into the bathroom for a nice long, hot shower.

While the water flows over me, reviving my nerve endings in a good way, I think about the house that Tiffany and I have for the duration of our natural lives. It's been a long time since I've been there, and I absently wonder if Tiffany ever uses it. The place represents a time before I crashed, both mentally and physically, and I'm still not ready to return to that time. Maybe someday, but not today.

# In the Past...Joining the Force

Two weeks after Tiffany returns to Boulder, I get a call that I have a job offer from the San Francisco Police Department if I'm still interested. Two weeks later, I'm in San Francisco, suffering sticker shock at the price of apartments and wondering how I'm going to make ends meet on my patrol officer's salary.

When I report for work, everything I own in the trunk of a rental car, the lady giving the new employee's orientation takes a special interest in me and finds an ombudsman with a room in his home that is currently available. It's much less than an apartment and I quickly jump on it. With all the paperwork out of the way and uniforms issued, we're introduced to our training officers, or TOs as they're more commonly referred to, and given a time and place to report for work the next day.

Though I don't let it bother me, it doesn't escape my notice that most of the new recruits are several years younger than myself. They seem much more enthusiastic and energetic than me and I silently wonder if I'm going to fit in or not.

As I leave the building, planning on going to John, my ombudsman's place, to get settled in before heading out to find somewhere to eat, I run into Deborah, the lady that gave the new employee orientation.

"Hello," I say, simply being polite.

"Well, hello," she says, acting surprised to see me, though I have a strong, if unfounded, suspicion that she was lying in wait. "How is everything going for you so far? Finding your way around okay?"

"Yes, thanks for asking. And thanks again for hooking me up with John. I'm afraid I'd be living out of my rental car if he hadn't had a room available."

"Oh, I wouldn't have let that happen," she says with a smile, reaching out and placing a hand on my arm.

Her smile reminds me of a shark circling its prey, and her touch makes me want to pull my arm back before I lose it. But she did me a solid favor, and though I'm not interested in any type of relationship with her, I feel obligated to her.

"Have you eaten yet?" she asks, knowing full well there isn't any way I could have.

"I thought I would go over to John's and check out my room first, drop off my stuff, and then go from there," I say, hoping to give her the message that I'm not interested.

"Nonsense," she says, her grip tightening on my arm. "I know this quiet little place just off the main drag where we can grab a bite, maybe a drink too, if you like, and then I can bring you back here to get your car."

Before I can put up an argument, she's guiding me down the sidewalk to the employee parking lot. "My car's parked out on the street around the corner by a meter because they only let employees with police credentials use the parking lot," I quickly explain. "In fact, I should probably go add more money to the meter so I don't get a ticket."

"Don't worry, Lucy, our meter maid, doesn't ticket this neighborhood. And besides, after Six PM, parking is free," she says, not letting go of my arm until we reach her car, a sleek, dark sedan with tinted windows. Using the remote to unlock the doors, she gives me her most seductive smile as I reach past her to open the driver's door for her. "Thank you," she says softly, before adding, "Not many gentlemen left in this world."

Sliding into the passenger's seat, I can't shake the feeling that I'm nothing more than a piece of raw meat about to become the tigresses late night snack.

# ...

I survive the night with the tigress and learn a couple of weeks into my new job that she picks someone from each new batch of recruits and targets them like a heat seeking missile. The rest of the cops in my new precinct thought it was funny, but assumed because of my advanced age, I could take care of myself and didn't need anyone running interference for me. Real nice bunch of guys and gals I work with.

Six months later, when my training officer cuts me loose and I'm assigned a regular partner, I'm still living in John's house. It turns out that he's generally a quiet individual, and because I keep to myself and never have any guests over, we get along just fine.

My early mornings before heading into work consist of a three mile run followed by a cold shower. Then I catch the bus that runs a street over and drops me off within half a block of the precinct. On my days off, I extend my runs further out, familiarizing myself with the neighborhood. Because of all the time I spend in a patrol car while at work, I have no desire to spend any more time in a car on my days off, so except for a used mountain bike, a garage sale find that I store in John's garage, I have no other means of private transportation. It works just fine for me.

The bulk of my job seems to be writing traffic tickets and responding to domestic violence calls, which fortunately, have proven to be more verbal than physical so far. It's a drastic difference from the missions I did in the army or while with the NSA. It's more repetition, and yet, just as dangerous. It's also harder maintaining my physique. Sitting in a car riding around on my ass all day means I have to spend more of my off-time in the gym or on the streets biking or running.

The months fly by, the monotony of the job only broken up by sporadic trips back to Minneapolis to see Dora and even rarer, Tiffany, when we can synchronize our time off. Though we get along okay in front of Dora, our relationship is strained since the one and only time I stayed at her townhouse in Boulder. She'd made it obvious my first night there that she was available, and I made it equally obvious that I wasn't, though I keep asking myself why. She's a beautiful woman and I could do a lot worse. She knows all my flaws and isn't put off by them. We get along so well, it's almost scary. We get each other on a level that's deeper than most married couples that have been together for years.

Yet, I can't help believing that one day, she's going to meet that someone who steals her heart and soul, like I did with Sue. And if I'm with her at the time she does, she'll only grow to resent me. Her friendship means more to me than what can only end in disaster and heart break.

Three years into the job, I take the Detective's exam after a lot of encouragement and arm twisting from my Duty Sergeant. Though he and I haven't become close friends, as I've kept to myself and not made friends with any of my co-workers, we have a lot of respect for each other. And if I didn't take the exam, it would be like letting him down.

To my surprise, if not anyone else's, I pass the exam with flying colors and when two positions are put out for detective grade advancement, I apply and make the selection. Before I know it, I'm assigned to a seasoned detective and working cases with a small team of other detectives. There's no more punching the time clock, and no more wearing a uniform, as my days have suddenly lengthened into shifts of twelve hours or more depending on the circumstances.

But rather than disliking the longer days, I quickly adapt and find myself thriving on the work and the endless hours. The rote of patrol duty swiftly becoming a boring memory, as I embrace my new position and throw myself into it whole-heartedly. I find myself looking forward to the challenges of the new position every day I report to work, and in my spare time, I brush up on my rusty computer skills, a talent that I'd not had much call for as a patrol officer, but now see as a real asset to the job.

Though I don't have much spare time between the job and trying to stay fit, I use what I find on the computer, searching the police files and tracking down all the Susan McDonalds that are in the system across the U.S., but concentrating my efforts on the Minneapolis area and the Midwestern part of the country.

To my surprise and dismay, my searches always peter out, despite the advancements in technology and IT in general.

After two years as a junior detective, I'm offered an opportunity of advancement if I elect to go into either Narcotics or Homicide. If I elect neither, I can remain at the same pay grade and move into Cold Case or Missing Persons, both of which have more appeal to me, especially the Missing Persons department.

Without having to give it much thought, I apply to Missing Persons and am immediately accepted and transferred. While I'm moving the contents of my old desk in the detective pool to my new desk down in the basement where the Missing Persons Department is located, I meet my new co-workers as they return from lunch together.

"You must be the new guy," says a pert brunette with shoulder length hair, a well-proportioned five-foot-four frame in a knee length skirt and white blouse, leading an older, unkempt looking man in his fifties with a five-o'clock shadow, though it's barely early afternoon, wearing a rumpled brown suit, his tie askance, and oily brown hair thinning on the top. Without even knowing him, I can see a comb over in his near future.

My new office is barely large enough for the three desks I find in it, each one backed up to a different wall so they all face each other, the walls behind the desks covered in open bookshelves from floor to ceiling and laden with a combination of books, boxes, and miscellaneous items that look like they might be connected to different cases.

Reaching out my hand in greeting, I cordially say, "Vic Smally."

"Lora Painter," the thirtyish woman replies, taking my hand in hers, a spark jumping between us from static electric causing her to jerk it back before quickly retaking my hand like I might get away. Her touch is warm and friendly, and I find myself smiling into her emerald green eyes.

After a long moment that's about to become awkward, the man behind her slides up beside her and extends his hand, breaking the moment, "Jack Thoms," he says gruffly, giving my hand a single pump before dropping it and moving to the messiest desk I've ever laid eyes on.

"Nice to meet you," I reply, my eyes still on Lora, not missing the open assessment she's giving me.

Moving to her desk, she asks with a smirk, "What did you do wrong for them to put you down here with us?"

"I'm sorry?" I reply, not understanding her question.

From behind his computer monitor, Jack says, "Everyone that works missing persons has done something to upset the powers that be. Until someone upsets them more than any of us, we're stuck here."

"Believe it or not," I reply with an innocent smile, "I actually asked for this position."

Jack lets out a snort of disbelief, but doesn't say anything as he shuffles some folders around on his desk and then buries his nose in a file as if he found something of interest.

Lora on the other hand, speaks up from behind her monitor. "There are some perks to this job, such as, we get to set our own hours. And no one is ever looking over our shoulder, because frankly, I don't think anyone cares what we do down here. Unless you need to travel. That has to be approved in advance and usually isn't."

"Good to know," I reply, pulling some folders out of the basket on my desk marked 'IN', and opening them to see if they're dated, figuring I'll start with the oldest.

Before I can get them organized by date, Lora says, "Those are the cases Jack and I didn't have any luck with. If you want something more promising, you can have one of mine."

"Thanks, but no," I reply, not liking the way they kicked the files over to the empty desk because they gave up on them, but letting it slide. "I'll see what I can do with these first."

"If you have any questions or need any help with anything, anything at all" she says, looking around her monitor this time so I can see her provocative smile. "You be sure and let me know."

"Will do," I reply, taking a cue from Jack and burying my nose in a file, surprised by the woman's forwardness.

The first case I look into, a woman that went missing from her apartment more than three-months earlier and reported missing by her boyfriend that she was living with at the time. When I glance at the notes, I notice that it was a case Jack had looked into.

"Hey, Jack. Can I bother you?" I ask, trying to sound friendly.

"What?" he grunts from behind his monitor.

"This case I'm looking at. I notice you left some notes in it that you made a few calls to the numbers provided by her boyfriend."

"Yeah. No one knows where she went. She's an adult and can come and go as she pleases. What about it?" he grumbles, suddenly sounding like I'm bothering him.

The scribbles that I referred to as his notes only tell me that he called her place of work and the landlord. "Did you interview the boyfriend?"

"Like I said, I made a few calls, no one has seen her and there's nothing illegal about that."

"Okay, thanks," I reply, keeping my voice friendly while cutting my losses with him.

Taking out my notebook, I make a few notes, including the address and contact information for her boyfriend, and then get up and head out of the office without so much as a by-your-leave. Upstairs, I check the wall to see what vehicles are available and select a non-descript four-door sedan. Grabbing the keys off the wall, I suddenly notice Lora standing beside me.

"You heading out?" she asks.

"Yeah, I thought I might go interview the boyfriend on this case. See if anything new has happened since he reported her missing."

"I'll sign us out," she offers, grabbing the pen before I can and signing both of our names to the vehicle number along with the time out.

"You don't need to hold my hand," I comment drily, not really caring that she wants to go along for the ride so much as how hard she's going to hit on me, because although she is a hot little number, I'm not looking for a relationship. If I were, I'd give Tiffany a call. Now why did I just think that?

"I just thought, this being your first day and all, I could give you some pointers about how we run our little department."

"Thank you. I appreciate that," I comment, heading toward the exit with her suddenly scrambling to keep up with my long stride. "So, Lora, how long have you been assigned to Missing Persons?"

"It's been about nine-months now," she says as we enter the motor pool and start looking at the numbers on the bumpers of the cars for the one we've checked out.

"So, what department did you come from and how are you liking MP?"

"Homicide. And as soon as someone fucks up worse than I did, I'll probably get kicked back to Homicide with a warning not to overstep my boundaries again."

"Overstep your boundaries, huh," I grin at her, figuring if she wants to tell me more, she will. "What about Jack? Is he in line to get kicked back somewhere anytime soon?"

"He's in and out of MP so often that he's become the resident curmudgeon of the department." She pauses when we find the sedan and I open the door for her before heading around to the driver's side and sliding in behind the wheel.

After taking a minute to familiarize myself with the flashing lights and radio controls, I turn the key and back it out of its numbered slot before heading out onto the street. "Rumor has it he's going to retire from Missing Persons this time," she suddenly says, but doesn't elaborate any further.

The address turns out to be a small rundown house in a neighborhood of the same. Garbage is piling up in the front yard along with an old car sitting on cinder blocks in the driveway rusting away, several windows missing or broken. The door to the house appears to have been kicked in recently and then nailed back together with lumber from an old shipping pallet and sixteen-penny nails.

My past experience from working patrol tells me we were under surveillance the minute we entered the neighborhood and that the people watching us aren't necessarily friendly.

"You packing, Lora?" I ask, not opening the door, but studying the boarded up windows in a few of the nearer houses.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Something's hinky, and I got a bad feeling," I reply, glancing over at her. "I'm going to try the front door. Why don't you wait here in case we have to call backup."

"No way, Jose," she says defiantly. "I'm right on your hip. If we need back up, I'll just beat feet back to the car."

"Have it your way," I grumble, wondering if I need to look out for her or if she can really take care of herself, like her attitude is telling me she can. "Homicide, huh?"

Pushing open the door, I casually check the .357 tucked in its holster under my left arm, and then stand up to my full height and stretch, while furtively checking out the surrounding structures for anything that doesn't look right.

Lora steps around the car to stand beside me on the curb. Glancing at her, I say, "Come on then. Let's see who's home."

Before we get halfway to the front door, it slowly opens and a pale skinny guy with a stained shirt and dirty ball cap steps out, giving us a scrutinizing look. "You're cops, ain't ya?" he says, pulling the door shut tight behind him.

"Yes sir," I calmly reply, my eyes studying the windows for movement. "We're looking for James Rockwell with regard to a Linda Castile."

"I'm James. You here about the missing person's report I did? Because if you are, she never came back," he says, his eyes nervously going from Lora and then back to me.

"You mind if we come in and ask you a few questions?" I ask, glancing at Lora to see if she's picking up the same vibe I am.

"I was just leaving. Now's not a good time," he replies, stepping toward us.

"You smell that, Detective?" I ask Lora, putting myself in James Rockwell's path.

"I do, Detective," she calmly replies before giving me a nod and stepping past Rockwell.

"Where you going?" he asks, almost shouting it out as he turns toward Lora. "You ain't got no right to go in my house."

"They call you Rocky?" I ask, pulling his attention away from Lora and back toward me so she can continue on toward the house.

He turns back, a look of confusion on his face. "Yeah, some do. So what?"

Lora gets almost to the house before changing direction, clearly following some kind of lead that I can't see.

"What is it?" I call to her.

Instead of answering me, she calls to Rockwell, "What smells so bad, James?"

"Nothing. I don't smell nothing," he blurts, growing more nervous by the second, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead and a twitching in his jaw.

"You want to tell me what's going on, Rocky?" I calmly ask, using his nickname.

"Ain't nothing going on," he blurts.

"Vic," Lora calls, giving me the sign to detain Rockwell.

"Come this way, James," I say, reaching out and grabbing his right arm and guiding him to the car. "James, I'm going to put handcuffs on you, but it doesn't mean you're under arrest, it's just for everyone's protection. Turn around and face the car..."

The words are still in my mouth when he suddenly jerks his arm free of my grip and tries to hit me with his left hand. Unfortunately, James Rockwell is not in very good shape, the years of drinking and drugs having taken its toll.

Throwing my right arm to block the blow, I grab his flailing arm and use his own momentum to swing him around and then slam his head down against the door jamb of the sedan before wrenching his other arm around to his back and securing the cuffs in place, giving them an extra jerk to make sure they're extra tight.

Pulling him away from the sedan and around to the back of the car, I force him down to the pavement and order him to sit with his legs out in front of him. Before I can turn around, Lora is entering the front door, her .38 revolver held at the ready in front of her.

Damn. "Hold on, Lora, while I call in backup," I call out to her, noticing that she completely ignores me as she steps into the shadows beyond the door and out of my line of sight.

Torn between taking a minute to use the radio and call for a patrol car to assist, or chase after Lora, I make the split second decision to assist my pseudo partner, and charge across the yard and through the front door, pulling my magnum clear of the holster as I run.

Clearing the front door, I pause in the shadows to let my eyes adjust, the stench of rot and decay causing me to gag. The smell causes me to flashback to my days with the military when I went along on covert missions. It's the smell of death, and I know in that moment that we are going to find my first missing person.

"Lora," I call out, my eyes scanning the filthy mess scattered throughout the room.

"Back here," she answers, her voice coming from a room near the back of the house.

Hurrying down a short hallway, I pause at the first door, a bathroom with broken plumbing and feces caked up a cracked and busted commode. Not seeing anyone, I move down the hall toward the only other doorway.

Lora is just inside the door, her weapon hanging loosely in her hand at her side. Looking past her, I see what looks like the remains of a human body lying on a bare and stained mattress, the wrists and ankles still secured to the corner posts of the bed with what looks like plastic baling twine. The single window in the room is boarded shut on the inside.

"Come on," I say softly, disgusted by the scene before me, but not shocked. My days of being shocked at what our fellow humans are capable of are long gone.

Putting my hand on the arm she is holding the gun with, I slowly and gently raise it up and remove the weapon from her numb fingers while softly saying, "Let's go outside and get some air."

When she doesn't move right away, I tenderly take her elbow in my hand and guide her back through the house and out into the bright sunlight, a rarity in San Francisco this time of the year.

Seeing James Rockwell still sitting at the back of the sedan, his chin resting on his chest, I breathe a sigh of relief. After discovering the horrific scene in the house, I expected him to bolt even with the cuffs on.

Not pushing her too hard, I guide Lora around to the passenger's side of the car and open the door for her. With her seated, I reach across her lap and grab the mic for the radio and call it in. Once the ME identifies the corpse, I have a feeling Missing Person's will be able to close this case and turn it over to Homicide, all wrapped up and ready to be put to bed, literally.

# Chapter 12

# Present Day

The shower is long and cold, the dirt running down the drain an accumulation of many days, weeks, and months spent in the bottom of a bottle. For the first time in what feels like years, my life has a purpose again.

Once I'm out of the shower and dressed in a new set of threads comprised of khaki pants and a tee shirt, I feel like a new man, which in more ways than one, I guess I am.

Something else suddenly dawns on me, I'm hungry. In my shopping spree, I'd not even considered food. But before I take time to find a local restaurant, I pick up the manila envelope with the two sheets of paper in it and study the names again. Though nothing has changed since the last time I looked at them, I can't help feeling that I'm drawing closer... closer to finally finding closure, or learning if that night meant as much to Jennifer Holt as it did to me.

Jennifer Holt. What I would have given for that name eighteen years ago. My life may not have turned out much different than it has, but I would have lived it with much less pain and anxiety. I truly believe that. It will be interesting to learn what was going through her mind that night she sent me away. And although I couldn't find her, she could have found me easily enough, I wasn't hiding from anyone. But she chose not to. Was she that afraid of my brother? Afraid that he might find her through me? Did she even suspect that I'm Perry's brother?

So many questions. Yet, for the first time ever, I feel the answers are within my reach.

# In the Past...A Blinding Lead

When the excitement of solving my first missing person's case finally settles down, the Captain has me in his office, almost strong arming me into transferring into a new department. I'm a hero, even though the poor victim was no longer among the living and probably hadn't been since before the boyfriend reported her missing. When all the pieces are finally sorted out, it's discovered that he was dealing methamphetamines and pimping out the poor woman whom he referred to as his _girlfriend in the back room_. In his drug induced state of mind, he evidently forgot to feed her or provide her water. The Medical Examiner determined later, based on tests he conducted on her remains that at the time of her death, she probably wasn't feeling much of anything due to the high levels of residual drugs in her system.

After a tedious debate with my Captain, he finally surrenders to my wishes to remain in Missing Persons.

Because Lora was actually the detective to discover the poor woman, she garnered most of the media's attention. And due to all of this attention, homicide felt pressured to reinstate her to her former position, which she swiftly declined, opting instead to remain in Missing Persons, much to everyone's surprise and relief. Even Jack raised an eyebrow when he heard that she'd declined the opportunity to return to her old job.

Though I briefly wonder if her decision has anything to do with me staying in the department, I quickly put the notion out of my head when she brings around an undercover cop from the narc squad and introduces him to Jack and me. The body language between them speaks volumes, and her flirting with me ceases. It is all good.

While Jack and I never warm up to each other, mostly because I can't get past his lazy work ethic, Lora and I still go out on cases together from time to time, especially in the seedier parts of the city where she feels a need for someone to have her back. And even though we spend many hours together in the car, she is never anything less than professional with me. Our topics never stray into our personal lives, it's always business, even when we share the occasional lunch together.

It takes me awhile to come to grips with, but I eventually come to understand that not every case is solvable. Some people, whether intentionally or not, are not going to be found. Yet, I never write off a case without giving it my all.

And so it is that I find myself down in U-Lockit's Prairie, a nickname given to an area adjoining an industrial complex that covers close to fifty-acres of rolling hills enclosed by chainlink fencing and home to several thousand storage lockers.

It all begins when a middle-aged woman reports her husband missing. When I investigate further, I learn that she returned home from work one day to find her husband, whom was temporarily unemployed for the last year, has just up and left, taking everything in the house with him. All the furniture, bedding, clothing, even the draperies are gone.

After taking her statement, I do a local canvassing of the neighbors with the intentions of developing a little background on the guy, kind of like a crude profile. What I learn from the first elderly neighbor that I speak with is that a large U-Haul truck pulled up to the house shortly after the lady of the house left for work. Two men using a hand truck and brute force load everything into the back of the truck.

"I thought about going over and asking them what was going on, but when I recognized her husband as one of the men, I figured it was none of my business," he adds.

"Did you recognize the second man?"

"He might have come by when she was at work a couple of times, but I can't swear to it."

With a description of the second man in my notes, I return to the office and get on the computer. It doesn't take me long to churn out a list of all the local storage companies and begin contacting them one by one, starting with the missing person's home as ground zero and working my way out from there.

I haven't made many calls, when I begin to question my approach. I'd never realized the popularity of storage lockers or the high turnover of clientele they have. In order for my approach to work, I'm going to have to physically visit every storage company that rented a locker large enough to house an entire house's furnishings within the last week, and then hope to hell they didn't take the stuff to a friend's abandoned barn out in the country somewhere or to a locker that had been rented before this time frame, both of which are very real possibilities.

With a list in hand, I push up from behind my desk and glance at the clock. It's already early afternoon. Maybe I'll grab a bite to eat on the way.

"You heading out?" Lora asks, peeking out from behind her monitor.

"Yeah, thought I'd go check on some storage facilities," I reply, slipping my suit coat on, though the sun is shining brightly and the day isn't so much cold as it is damp. Typical San Francisco weather.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for someone with enough possessions to need a storage locker," she says, though it sounds more like a question.

"Not looking to rent one. Looking to find one that's being used to hide out in," I reply, not wanting to get dragged into a lengthy conversation.

"How about lunch first?"

"I'll take a raincheck," I reply, throwing her a smile and heading up the stairs before she can reply. If we go to lunch, I'm only going to be her sounding board for the latest catastrophe going on between her and her new boyfriend, which will drag on for hours and I'll end up accomplishing nothing.

Now though, rather than risk being seen getting something to eat, I'll have to forego lunch.

The first units I check on are locked on the outside with padlocks, so even if the furnishings are inside them, the missing person isn't, and I move on, slowly expanding the radius of my search area. When I reach the fourth address on my list, I'm slightly taken aback by the size of it. Though the industrial complex beside it dwarfs the storage unit area, it still covers a large tract of land.

Pulling in through the open wrought iron gate, I park outside the office despite the no parking warning due to fire zone painted in red paint on the pavement, and climb out of the sedan. Inside the air conditioned office is a man and woman, possibly a married couple that have hired on as the live-on-site managers. The man is standing behind the counter as if waiting for customers while the woman is surfing retail sites on a computer terminal.

"Good morning. What can we do for you?" he says, smiling broadly.

Showing him my badge, I mention that I called earlier about recent rentals. This grabs the ladies attention and she rises to join us at the counter.

"Yes, I remember speaking to you," she says, also smiling with a friendly demeanor. "Let me get that list of lockers for you and a map so you can find your way around."

"That's real kind of you. Thanks," I reply, noticing that she'd already printed off the list, probably with the intentions of looking at them to see what might have drawn the interests of the police.

"I've got a little golf cart handy if you'd care for me to show you around," the man offers, either bored or curious about my intentions or a combination thereof.

"That's kind of you, but I think I'll find my way with the help of this map," I reply, waving the map that the lady gave me along with the list of lockers before turning back toward the glass doors.

Once I'm back in the car, I radio dispatch and give them my location. It's just standard procedure once you've reached a destination to report in. Though I seldom hear other personnel do it, I take my personal safety seriously, and it's a habit that I picked up from my days in the military.

Glancing at the first locker on the list, I locate it on the map and determine which one of the many asphalt paths I need to follow to take me to it.

As I move slowly along the narrow paths running between the lockers, I pass quite a few people in the process of packing and unpacking their belongings. It amazes me that there are so many people storing stuff, when I live out of a duffle bag, except of course for my mountain bike. There must be some truth to the belief that some people place their true value on the amount of their possessions. Kind of like the saying, 'He who dies with the most toys, wins.'

The first two lockers that I pull up to are both secured with padlocks located on the outside of the large rollup doors, eliminating them from my list of potential lockers. Only when I come around a corner and see a beat up old sedan parked alongside my next potential locker, do the hairs on the back of my neck begin standing on edge. Even from this distance, I can tell the unit isn't locked from the outside, as there's no padlock hanging on the hasp. The rusty sedan is facing in my direction and it's not sporting a front license plate.

Parking my car, I double check the unit number from the list, and then slowly open the door and step out before quietly pushing the door to, but not latching it. Out of reflex, I check the magnum under my left arm and slowly work my way past the unit, stopping only after I'm behind the parked car outside of it. Removing my notepad and pen, I write down the rear plate number, noticing that the tags have just been replaced recently.

Slipping the pad and pen back into my pocket, I sidle up to the metal rollup door and put my ear next to it, listening for any sign of life or movement coming from inside. Because it isn't locked, there's a good possibility that someone may be sleeping inside. If there is anyone inside, I doubt they would have heard me walk up with my rubber soled shoes.

Since the door isn't locked, I could open it and take a quick peek inside without requiring a warrant. After all, I am simply looking to locate a person, not do a search of the locker for contraband or other illegal items. Or, I can sit in my car while I run the plates on the heap parked here while I wait for someone to come or go.

Glancing skyward, I notice that I'm already in deep shadow, the sun having dropped below the roofline of the storage units to either side of me. Because of my late start out of the office and all the other units I had to check before making my way to this one, the day is almost gone.

Still standing next to the door, I contemplate returning the following day and finishing the list of possible lockers by starting with this one. Of course, that doesn't mean I won't be facing the same dilemma then as I'm facing now; do I open it and possibly find my missing person? Or do I wait, possibly for someone that has nothing to do with my case and is not planning on returning to this locker until the rent is due again?

Yet, that doesn't explain the lack of a lock... I can't believe anyone is that trusting.

A fraction of a second before my pager rings, I feel the vibration of it against the side of my hip, where it's clipped to my belt. Pulling it free, I hold it up to my face to see the number displayed.

Before comprehension can even sink in, the world explodes in my face, the first bullets coming through the steel door striking my hand and the little electronic pager that it's holding. While my left hand is instantly numbed from the impact of the bullet, the pager is shattered, pieces of metal and plastic exploding like shrapnel, a large jagged chunk of it striking me in the left eye. Smaller pieces riddle my face and forehead, opening my flesh up like a million tiny machetes. The impact and unexpectedness is enough to send me reeling backwards, my equilibrium compromised by the sudden loss of vision in my left eye, when another bullet strikes me in the lower left torso, the momentum spinning me around in a pirouette.

Sprawling backwards, my vision completely gone as blood from my head wounds flow into my right eye, my left eye feeling as if a demon with a hot poker is jabbing at my brain through it, my body spasms and jerks on the asphalt. Though I'm quickly losing consciousness, I find the strength and determination to pull the magnum from my holster and point it at the only sounds I can still hear through the chaos, the pop, pop, pop of gunfire as bullets are still ripping through the metal door, some of them striking the old car beyond me while others making a smaller clap when they strike the steel door across the lane beyond me.

As quickly as the shots rang out, they end with the screeching of the metal door being raised. Not knowing who or what is behind it, I squeeze the trigger repeatedly in the direction that I pray is where the assailant might be standing. The sound of expelled breaths follow the concussion of the magnum rounds as they strike human flesh, and then the gun is empty, and I'm falling back against the smooth asphalt, the sound of my own ragged breaths roaring in my ears. From somewhere far off, I'm conscious of an uneven and weakening thump, thump, thump, which is rapidly fading, and then nothing.

# ...

Pain, extreme pain causes me to wake up. Though I'm in a hazy cloud, the first thing that registers is how everything is blurry and out of focus. When I try to look around, I feel a moment of panic when my head doesn't respond, then slowly realize that I'm strapped to something solid and my head has been immobilized. Determined to see where I am, I try to lift my right hand and notice that someone is holding on to it, though I can't see who because they are just beyond my gray and cloudy peripheral view.

Confused and wanting answers and not getting any from the ceiling above me, I try to speak. "Hey," but no sound comes out of my mouth.

Determined to make something happen so I can find out what's going on, I squeeze the hand holding mine, clenching and unclenching it like an exercise ball until I feel movement. The person holding it quickly rises to their feet, and I see the most beautiful face smiling excitedly back at me. For a moment, I wonder if I've died and gone to heaven.

Dora.

Though I want to ask her where I am and what happened, my voice refuses to cooperate. Looking first away, and then back at me, she excitedly calls out again as if something isn't happening fast enough for her. Yet, she doesn't seem upset, just happy and impatient.

"It's all right now," she says to me, tears bursting forth from red and swollen eyes. She looks more tired and fatigued than I've ever seen her before, and I slowly realize it must be from worry... Worrying about me.

"He's awake," she cries out happily to the first person that comes into my field of vision, though I can barely make them out in the shadowy darkness.

When I try to tell Dora that I'm fine, the person sternly instructs me not to try speaking just yet. Though I want to ask why, the stern tone of their voice has me complying, and then they draw closer, gently moving Dora to the side to reach something just out of my range of vision. It's a nurse in a white uniform, and she withdraws something from my throat, leaving my mouth feeling parched and swollen.

"Here you go," she says, holding a straw near my mouth so I can take a few sips of water. Her voice sounds much more pleasant now than it did originally.

"Thanks," is what I try to say, but it doesn't come out sounding like anything human, just a grunt.

Dora moves back into my field of vision, saying softly, the tears still rolling down her face as she wipes at them with a hanky, "Don't try talking yet. There'll be plenty of time for that later. Tiffany went down to the lounge to get a cup of coffee. She's been here at your side the whole time. I think that girl really loves you. I wasn't nearly as upset when my Harold passed away as that girl was over hearing about you. She caught the first flight out of Boulder to be here with you."

"They were both here the whole time," the nurse says from the other side of the bed where I can't see her or anything else, for that matter. Everything beyond my nose to the left is black. Not just shadowy like on my right side, but completely black. Speaking over me to Dora, she says softly, "You should go get some rest, now that he's out of the woods."

Dora gives my hand a squeeze, and though I fight the growing darkness with everything left in me for want of seeing Tiffany, it settles over my vision and I fade back out.

# Chapter 13

# Present Day

Before I head out, I go into the bathroom and close the door. On the rear of the door facing into the bathroom is a full-length mirror. When I look at the reflection in it, the first thing I notice is a definite loss of bulk. The finely tuned muscles that I'd spent so much time building in the gyms lifting weights, or on the trails running, and all the meals geared around building bulk and not fat, were a waste of time. Even though my new clothes fit, I can see the weakling inside them, and it momentarily depresses me. Especially, since I know that I will never have the physique that I once had. Nor will I ever have the eyesight and the peripheral vision that I once had, since losing my left eye.

The marble they gave me for cosmetic use doesn't hide the fact that waitresses and liquor store clerks notice it right off. Or the way kids stare at me and make pirate sounds when I wear the patch. It was much easier to hide in a bottle than face the light of day and all the cruelty that reality has to offer.

But those days are done. From this day forward, I'm going to face into the sun and keep driving forward. Because for the first time in my life, I know what I want and need. All I have to do is find her.

Leaving the Valiant parked outside my motel room, I decide to walk. When I reach the street, I turn left on the sidewalk and while holding my head high, do what I do best, I march.

Two blocks down the street, I come to a Denny's and casually stroll in. Taking a seat at the counter, I turn my coffee mug up and grab a menu. The man behind the counter grabs a carafe and heads toward me. He looks old enough to be a Vietnam vet, a little rough around the edges with a five o'clock shadow taking hold.

"Nice patch," he comments with no real interest while pouring my coffee. "Special is on the board, if you're interested."

"Sounds good," I reply, putting the menu back in the rack. "Eggs up and bacon crisp."

"Right on, Chief," he replies, scribbling on a pad and heading back toward the kitchen just as a young girl with long, dark curly hair clipped tight at the nape of her neck to hold it down her back, comes out of the hallway leading to the payphones and restrooms while still tying her apron.

"Thanks, Jack. I'm back," she calls out, throwing me a friendly smile and heading my way. "You need to order?"

"Taken care of," I smile back as she moves on down the counter with a carafe in each hand like a pair of six-shooters, inquiring of each of the coffee drinking customers if they would like a refill of leaded or unleaded.

Within a matter of minutes, my order is up and the young lady grabs it off the shelf between us and the kitchen and sets it down in front of me, asking, "Can I get you anything else?"

"I'm not really familiar with the neighborhood. Can you tell me where the nearest grocery store is? Mom and Pop or large chain, it doesn't really matter which," I say, watching her refill my cup and noticing the gold band on her finger, wondering if it's there because she's spoken for or to keep flirtatious customers at bay.

She glances out the window to get her bearings, and pointing, says, "There's an Albertsons about three blocks that-a-way."

"Thanks, this is good for now."

I take a few bites and my stomach instantly protests the foreign substance. Pulling out my wallet, I drop a ten-spot on the counter next to my plate and, unable to speak for fear of throwing up, wave at the waitress and bolt out the door.

Once outside, I suck in the cooling night air while bending over and bracing my hands on my knees, forcing back the urge to vomit. When the feeling finally abates, I slowly rise to my full height and head down the sidewalk in the direction of the grocery store. My plan just changed from eating to one of picking up some food that I can fix in the motel room and eat when I'm up to it.

# In the Past...Recovery

My back aches and my head feels as if it's being squeezed in a vice. Where the hell am I? And why is it so damned dark in here?

"Dora," I grunt, rolling my head to the right as I slowly realize I'm in a hospital.

Someone rises up beside the bed, taking my right hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. As her face comes into focus, I realize it's Tiffany, and my own face lights up with a welcoming smile. Or at least, that's what I think my face is doing.

"Tiff," I moan, my throat dry and my mouth still swollen.

Smiling down at me, she keeps hold of my right hand while reaching for a cup of water with a straw in it with her other hand. "Here, take a sip. It'll help moisten your throat."

Taking a small sip, I feel instant relief, though my tongue still feels too large for my mouth, I can make noises around it.

Hearing someone come into the room, I turn to the left, unable to focus on the person entering. A female voice asks Tiffany how I'm doing.

"He's awake, but I don't know for how long," Tiffany replies to her with a forced smile.

"The doctor has him on some pretty strong sedatives, so don't be surprised if he fades out on you."

The soft padding of cushioned feet on linoleum fades out as the person leaves my room and Tiffany turns her face back to mine. "How are you feeling? Is there much pain?" she asks, her voice sounding like that of an angel.

Rolling my head slowly from side to side, I manage to form a sentence, though my voice sounds foreign and barely intelligible. "Where am I?"

"OHSU, Portland, Oregon. After they got you stabilized, they flew you up here."

Her voice is strained and there are bags under her eyes, yet she is the most beautiful sight.

"Did I see Dora? Is she here?" I rasp out before she puts the straw in my mouth again.

"That was in San Francisco. She went back to Minneapolis, but she'll be here soon."

She answers my question, but I get the feeling she's leaving a lot of the finer details out, whether because she's not sure I'm lucent enough to understand, or if she's purposely keeping something from me.

"What is it, Tiff?" I ask, my voice growing stronger, though my mouth still feels numb, as if a dentist just finished extracting all my teeth. "What happened? What aren't you telling me?"

"You've been shot," she hesitantly replies, still trying to decide how much she should tell me.

"I think I figured that part out," I say, trying to make light of my situation, but the words sounding flat even to my own ears. "How long have I been here and when can I go home?"

Before she speaks, her eyes dart toward the door and she clears her throat before turning back to face me. "You were in the hospital in San Francisco almost a week before they could stabilize you enough to risk moving you here." She pauses, taking a deep breath, her eyes looking toward the door again before returning to me. And even when they do, I can see the pain she is trying to keep to herself, so as not to burden me with any more than I already have on my plate.

"Tomorrow, you will have been here three weeks."

At first, I believe I must have misheard her. Trying to smile at her despite my numb mouth, I say, "It sounded like you said I've been here three weeks tomorrow."

Instead of correcting me, she says, "You were in a medically induced coma the first two weeks you were here. We've been waiting for you to come out of it in your own time. It's been almost three weeks, Vic."

"Shouldn't you be at work?"

A male voice pipes up to my left, but I can't see the person. "She flew here in the Life Flight chopper from San Francisco and has been here the entire time."

"I took a leave of absence," she says, giving the person attached to the other voice a glaring look.

The male voice says, "If you need anything, just let me know," followed by the soft padding of hospital slippers shuffling away.

Turning my head all the way to the left to see the person, it suddenly dawns on me that I can't see out of my left eye. When I try to reach up with my left hand, it doesn't respond either. What the hell is going on here?

Seeing the panic in my eye, Tiffany soothingly says, "Calm down, Vic. Everything's going to be all right."

Releasing her hand from mine, I clumsily lift my right arm and try to feel my face. I must look like a drunk trying to do a sobriety test and failing miserably.

Before my hand literally falls on my face, Tiffany takes it back in her own and holds it to her chest, a look of deep concern mixed with anxiety on her face.

"Vic, it's going to be a while before you can go home, but you're out of the woods now."

"What's all wrong with me, Tiffany?" I demand, my anger beginning to rise. "Why can't I move my left arm and why can't I see out of my left eye?"

She is visibly fighting back tears when she finally answers me. "Your left hand has been immobilized because the doctors had to do extensive surgery to it to repair the nerve damage to your fingers. They believe with therapy, you'll get full use of your fingers back in time. A bullet went into your lower left chest, puncturing your left lung, and causing it to collapse. It's been re-inflated and is healing nicely." She pauses to take a deep breath, the tears slowly seeping past her eyelids, though she is trying her best to be strong for my sake.

"It's okay, Tiff," I tenderly tell her, the pain in her eyes clenching my heart like a vice. "I'm alive. Everything else is secondary. You're here and I'm here, that's all that matters right now. We can work through everything else."

"You don't understand, Vic," she says, no longer able to hold back the flood of tears. "They induced the coma because of pressure on your brain from the swelling." She takes a deep breath, her body involuntarily shuddering, before she continues. "They think you must have been holding your pager next to your face when a bullet struck it. It shattered, some of the pieces went through your eye socket and into your brain. They removed all the pieces, and now the swelling is down. They don't think you'll have any long term issues or reduced mental capacity."

"Then it's all good," I say, still disturbed by the remaining torment in her eyes and her drawn face.

"No, Vic, it's not all good," she says, tears running down her cheeks, twisting my heart even tighter. "They couldn't save your eye. You're never going to be able to see out of your left eye again, ever."

My first reaction is shock, but then I realize, I've seen worse in the battle field, and if all I lost is half of my eyesight, I still have the other half, and I'm looking at one of the most beautiful women that I've ever seen.

"Tiff, I can still see you. And for that reason alone, I'm one of the lucky ones," I tell her, forcing my numb mouth into a smile, conscious of the thought that it probably looks more like a grimace to her.

"Oh Vic," she whispers, tears flooding down her cheeks as she leans over and kisses me, though I can't feel her lips on mine.

# Chapter 14

# Present Day

Returning to the motel room with a large brown bag of real honest food and not alcohol for a change, I set it on the counter and check out the courtesy coffee pot. After removing a large tin of coffee from the bag, I finally figure out how to work the machine. While it's dripping a nice dark liquid that fills the small space with the fragrant aroma of coffee, I put the rest of the groceries away in the few cupboards and the tiny fridge, slash freezer that the kitchenette offers.

Unable to wait for the machine to finish its job, I grab a mug from the wrack that's hanging over the counter, also courtesy of the motel, and slip the carafe out from under the drip and quickly fill the mug while the machine hisses ugly thoughts at me as the liquid brew continues dripping onto the hotplate.

With mug of coffee in hand, I turn around to head into the front room and realize I'm already standing in the front room as the kitchenette is just one part of the main living space. The only separate rooms are the bathroom and bedroom, and I'm surprised that the bedroom is separate from the main room, as most of these mid-range priced motels have the bed in the main room. Placing the mug on the coffee table next to a pile of packages that extends to the floor, I pull out the box containing the laptop and set to work getting it set up and running so I can begin searching the internet for the information that will lead me to Jennifer Holt. For the first time in a long time, my life has purpose.

Just then, the coffee machine hisses and gurgles, angrily letting me know that I can now have a cup.

Way ahead of you.

# In the Past...PI License

Dora arrives at the hospital for my release, as I finally convinced Tiffany that she needed to return to work, she'd spent too much time in the hospital sitting at my bedside already. Before she leaves, we set up a date in the future to get together at Dora's place in Minneapolis. Though the house now belongs to Tiffany and me, we still think of it as Dora's place and probably always will.

As the nurse pushes my wheelchair down the hall, Dora walks alongside, a huge smile on her face. She appears to be in much better health than she was the last time I remember seeing her back in San Francisco when I regained consciousness despite the drugs they were pumping into me. Her face now has color and her demeanor is much more animated.

At the entrance, we run into John, my landlord. Rising out of the wheelchair, I reach out and take his hand. "John, it's good to see you. But what are you doing in Portland?" I ask, perplexed by his unexpected appearance.

"Your good friend, Dora, contacted me shortly after the..." he hesitates, not sure what to call the event that put me in the hospital. "Anyway," he nervously continues in his overly bashful way. "She told me what happened and that you were in the hospital. I followed your progress and when I found out that you were being released today, I thought this was a good time to come to Portland and visit friends."

"It's good to finally meet you," Dora says, saving the awkward moment as the strength in my legs threatens to give out.

While he's shaking her hand, he suddenly remembers why he's here. Releasing her hand, he turns and picks up my old duffle bag. "Ah, I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of going into your room to collect your things. The only thing I found was this old duffel bag and your jogging sweats, which I took the liberty of washing before putting in the bag with the rest of your toiletries and stuff. It's all here except for your old mountain bike, which I can arrange to ship to you, if you want me to," he says, placing the worn bag on the seat of the wheelchair.

"Thank you. But you can dispose of the bike or keep it. I have no further use of it," I reply, leaning against the arm of the chair.

"Dora told me that you would be returning with her to Minneapolis for your rehab and therapy, so I thought I'd get your duffle bag to you in case there was anything in it you might need."

"That's very kind of you," Dora says, noticing that I'm quickly growing weaker. "Would you mind bringing it out to the cab," she asks, realizing that I'm going to need help.

"Sure," he says, collecting it from the wheelchair where he placed it and holding the doors for us as Dora places herself next to me so I can lean on her, though I'm careful of my weight against her, as I can sense how frail she is beneath my arm.

By the time the plane lands in Minneapolis, I'm all done in. Without hesitation, Dora grabs a flight attendant and arranges another wheelchair for me. Sitting in the wheelchair out on the departure concourse, my duffle bag resting across my lap, I watch the people come and go while Dora catches a shuttle to take her out to the long-term parking area to collect her van.

With a patch over my left eye, my left hand still encased in white bandages, and my face still bearing bruises and bandages from the shrapnel of the pager, most of the people coming and going see the man, the wheelchair, and the duffle bag and simply assume that I'm a returning veteran. The comments I receive are complimentary for the most part, even if I don't feel deserving of them. It would take too much energy to correct all the incorrect assumptions, so I simply nod my thanks and wish Dora would hurry up.

When I recognize her van coming up the lane mixed in with the cabs, I breathe a sigh of relief. Stopping directly in front of me, no one says a word that she's in a restricted parking area, while several businessmen set down their briefcases and assist me into the front seat, also thanking me for my service.

We forego our usual stop at the restaurant on our way from the airport to her house, as neither of us are hungry and all I want to do is lie down and rest. The journey from Portland to Minneapolis has completely taxed my shallow reserves of strength.

When we reach her house, Dora does what she can to get me inside, and then quickly sets up the couch in the front room for me. Before she can go out to the van and retrieve my duffle bag, I'm dead to the world.

During the next week, Dora and I contact the local clinics and set up therapy sessions for me. I go through the mountain of paperwork, sorting out what needs my immediate attention and what can wait until I'm feeling more like dealing with it. We also compose a list of my options with regard to my position with the SFPD.

To my amazement, I receive a couple of get well cards. Surprisingly, one of them is from Jack Thoms, curmudgeon extraordinaire. While his card is simply signed, the one from Lora includes a short letter.

In her letter, I learn that the man that shot me was arrested the same day as the incident. He's being charged with a multitude of offenses ranging from attempted murder of a police officer to simple reckless endangerment to recklessly discharging of a firearm in a public area. His wounds turned out to be superficial, but they were enough to deter him from finishing me off. According to his wife, he'd been acting strangely for a while, but he'd never done anything quite so violent before. At some point, even though Lora doesn't mention it in her letter, I will have to return to San Francisco to testify at the man's trial.

She ends her letter with the comment that I always find my man and that she's looking forward to my return, though she doesn't allude to what capacity it is that I might return. Whether it's for the trial or to resume my duties with the department is yet to be determined.

I've just finished reading the letter when Dora walks up, a serious expression on her face. "It's time you retain an attorney. I have a good friend that still practices and I've contacted him. I hope you don't mind, but I filled him in on everything that's happened to you and he agrees with me, you have choices and shouldn't be forced to do something that you're not comfortable doing."

"I liked my job, Dora," I weakly argue.

"Bullshit," she blurts, and then blushes, quickly adding. "If you'll excuse me, Vic, but just because you're good at something doesn't mean it's your passion. I know you better than you know yourself. You don't find missing people because it's your passion, you find missing people because that's what you know how to do and you're still looking for someone."

When I start to protest, she raises a hand to stop me and continues, "Don't argue with me, Vic. Ever since I've known you, you've been on a mission. Finding that girl that disappeared on you is what drives you, nothing more and nothing less."

After a long moment of silence, I finally concede, "You may be right, Dora."

"Of course, I'm right. Now come in the kitchen and I'll fix you a cup."

Following her to the kitchen, she comments over her shoulder, "Oh, by the way, Tiffany will be here this weekend, so don't even think about moving upstairs yet."

Just the thought of seeing Tiffany again raises my spirits, and I decide right then and there that I will discuss my next move with Tiffany first. It's time to make a change in my life and I trust her judgement whole-heartedly.

That weekend, with high spirits and newfound energy, Dora and I pick Tiffany up at the airport and stop at the restaurant on our back to the house for the first time in a long time. The wounds to my forehead have healed nicely, the scars almost indistinct, as the patch automatically draws the attention of anyone that looks in my direction away from all my other failings. My left hand is still bandaged, but healing nicely, and the therapist feels the wraps can probably come off of within a week, as the nerves have stitched together fine and I'm more able to use my fingers with each passing day.

When Katrina brings us our meals, she smiles warmly at me and comments that the patch makes me look distinguished, maybe even a little hot.

Tiffany quickly jumps on the comment, giving Katrina a jealous look before saying, "I've always thought he was the hottest man I know. But you're absolutely right, the patch brings out something mysterious and dangerous in him."

"Hey, I'm sitting right here, ladies," I remind them, though I'm loving their comments and attention. As of late, my ego needs all the help it can get.

"Yes, I'm sitting here too," Dora pipes up with a smile, adding, "And I haven't eaten yet. So if you two don't mind."

"Just so you know," Katrina says, throwing me a wink before hurrying back to the kitchen to grab another patron's order.

That evening and into the night, the three of us sit at the kitchen table drinking coffee and discussing my future. I have an appointment with Dora's attorney friend on Monday, but he's already sent me a brief synopsis of my options, the most appealing of which is accepting a small pension that comes with a lump sum settlement so as to hold the police department harmless. According to the attorney, that's a pretty straightforward deal. By accepting the lump sum, I can't sue the department for any reason in the future.

While the pension isn't much, it does include an annual cola, so my standard of living should never change. And the nicest thing about it is, I can still earn other monies and they won't have any impact on my lump sum or my monthly pension check.

"So, what's next?" I ask, having decided on my option of not returning to the San Francisco Police Department.

"Maybe you should get your private investigator's license," Tiffany suggests, though I don't detect any real sincerity in her voice.

"You could always find a job as a cop in a small town somewhere," Dora says, her face looking drawn and tired.

Taking my cue from the tired look on Dora's face, I comment, "I don't know about you ladies, but I'm about Petered out. I'll sleep on both of your suggestions and see how I feel in the morning."

The thought of getting a PI license had never occurred to me until Tiffany brought it up. But as I lay on the couch, the caffeine flowing through my veins, I give the idea more thought. And the more I think about it, the more it grows on me.

Tiffany accompanies Dora and me to the attorney's office before we take her to the airport and drop her off. At first, the attorney seems hesitant to discuss the issues facing me in front of Dora and Tiffany, but I quickly put him at ease. Before we're done, it's settled that I will accept a pension from the police department, a lump sum of money, the amount to be determined through a process of negotiation between their attorneys and mine, and a permanent license to carry a concealed weapon. As a retired cop, my attorney is confident that all these things are doable and he will keep me posted with any updates.

Little does anyone know that when we drop Tiffany off at the airport, it is the last time her and Dora will ever see each other alive.

While I continue with my physical therapy and study for my PI license, the attorney negotiates my pension and a substantial lump sum. And even though I never felt like what happened to me was anyone's fault, other than the perpetrator's, the police department even threw in medical coverage for the duration of my natural life on top of the pension and monies.

# Chapter 15

# Present Day

While the laptop boots up and finds the Wi-Fi so it can install all the updates that it requires, I take a cold shower and try on some of my new threads. Comfortable with the camouflage fatigue pants and a black tee shirt, I then slip into my new jump boots and stand up, liking the feel of them on my feet.

Looking in the mirror, I'm actually impressed with the change in me already. Returning to the kitchenette, I pull a package of microwavable waffles from the miniature freezer and throw them in the microwave. When they're warm, I hold them in my hand and eat them like a piece of toast, only without butter or syrup, as I return to the front room and drop down on the couch.

Placing the laptop on my lap, I check the screen and find all the updates have installed properly and it's ready to rock and roll. In the back of my mind, I wonder if it would kill me to start a workout regimen again.

When the waffles stay down, unlike the eggs at Denny's, I give the workout regimen more serious consideration and determine that if I'm up to it, the following morning will begin with an easy jog around the neighborhood. Nothing too strenuous to start.

My first order of business involves doing a Google search on the name, Jennifer Holt.

It doesn't take long to figure out that I'm going to have to find a way to narrow the search down or I'll be spending the rest of my life tracking down the large number of Jennifer Holts out there.

Next, I subscribe to multiple social media programs, though I doubt Sue, slash Jennifer will be on social media using her real name. With that in mind, I decide to start by running the search again, but limiting the results to just Minnesota, primarily the Minneapolis Metropolitan area. Saving that list, I run the same search using her first alias of Susan McDonald, and then again, using her second alias, Laura Regan.

After compiling and saving the three lists, I put them in a program that automatically cross references the information, searching for anything that is the same or similar, hoping with crossed fingers that I get an address that two or all of them might have shared.

Alas, I strike out. No surprise there.

My next step is to perform the same search again, only including the entire state, and then adding the results to my previous lists. Again, I run the comparison app and after several minutes of crunching the data, it comes up with zero similarities.

Since the process isn't too taxing on me, I continue with it, slowly expanding my search outward and simply adding the new results to the existing so everything is compared against each other time and time again with nothing being overlooked. This continues late into the night before I decide I've done about everything I can do for one day. Tomorrow, after my run, I will try a different approach in my online search.

# In the Past...First Case

After burning through too many days of leave, Tiffany settles back into her job in Colorado, and literally drops out of mine and Dora's lives for several long months. My therapy finally comes to an end with me having regained almost one-hundred percent use of my left hand and the wounds across my forehead turning to pale white scars that are almost indistinguishable against my pale white Minnesota complexion. The dermatologist explained that since scar tissue doesn't tan, so long as I remained in Minnesota, I won't have anything to worry about. I think it was his dry attempt at humor. I found his attempt neither encouraging nor funny.

Although I now possess a concealed carry permit that will allow me to carry a weapon anywhere in the United States, I don't have much interest in weapons. Guns in particular. Dora feels that will change with time, but I don't share her sentiments. With the loss of vision in my left eye as a constant reminder, I don't see my view on guns ever changing.

My Private Investigator's license is hanging on the wall in the bedroom that I share with Tiffany. Damn, just the thought of sharing a bedroom with her gets my juices flowing. Yet, that's not really the case at all. When she does come for a visit, I'm relegated to the front room and the sofa.

My first case as a private investigator is a referral from the attorney that handled my retirement from the police force. It's for a divorce attorney that's out to make his client rich off her husband's indiscretions. Though I'm not crazy about getting a reputation as a divorce lawyer's lap dog, I take the case for the experience. The experience will get me up to speed for what I'll need in the way of field gear and office supplies, because without either, I won't make any money. The gear is to get the job done to the client's satisfaction and the office supplies are so I look professional when I bill the client.

Of course, having a lawyer or two for clients might come in handy someday. One just never knows whose services they will be in need of down the road.

Following a man to a bar, watching him put away a few drinks, and then not stopping him when he staggers to his car and drives to a seedier part of town to pick up a hooker before going to a motel that charges by the hour, just doesn't sit well with me. The driving under the influence bothers me more than the fact that two consenting adults are having sex. It's probably my days of being a patrol officer coming out in me.

With camera in hand, I take pictures of the entire sordid affair, from the moment he pulls over to pick up the hooker to when they leave his car and enter the motel, it's all on film. Now I get to sit out here in my old Plymouth Valiant while I wait for them to return to his car before shooting more pictures for evidence.

Or I can take the initiative and walk in on them with my camera at the ready.

It's a new digital camera, and though I've read all the instructions, it still takes me a minute to figure out the forced flash feature. I sure wouldn't want to bust in on the two of them and then not have the flash work.

Climbing out of the old Valiant, I slip up to the door the two entered and am more than a little surprised when I turn the knob and find it's not locked. Through the hollow core door, I can hear a female voice, obviously explaining to her John just how much he needs to pay her in advance for what he wants. Based on the amounts of monies they're discussing, he must want something especially kinky.

Not wanting to barge in before they're in the middle of what I need to catch them doing, I step off to the side of the building and sidle up to an ice vending machine, pretending to be preoccupied with it. It wouldn't do for someone to notice me hovering outside a room like some kind of pervert or peeping Tom and call the police.

After ten-minutes of looking busy with the ice machine, I set the camera at the ready and stride purposefully up to the door of the unit and twist the knob and step in. There's a dim lamp on the bedside table casting just enough light to see a pile of clothes on the floor and a woman's bare ass bouncing up and down atop a man lying on his back on the bed. He's clearly impaled her and she's working it hard to give him his monies worth.

When the first flash goes off, they both realize in that instant that someone has entered their room. The man's face is just peeking around the woman's sagging breasts to see what's happening when the second flash goes off, catching him full in the face and saving his surprised expression for all eternity.

The woman, assuming the worst and that vice is busting in to arrest them, begins screaming bloody murder as she scampers off the man, almost falling to the floor in her haste. Bending over to scoop up her clothes, she abruptly stops and looks up into my face, her look of surprise instantly replaced by a look of confusion.

"What the Hell? You ain't no cop," she angrily shouts at me, forgetting about her clothes as she stands to face me down, her anger quickly taking over any common sense she might have possessed. It's not bothering her in the least that she's not wearing any clothes.

The man, still drunk, rolls his feet to the floor and bends over to retrieve his clothes and falls on top of them. After shooting one last picture that catches both of them in their respective poses, I turn and exit the room, pulling the door shut behind me to discourage the naked woman from chasing after me and possibly causing a scene out in the parking lot. As I have what I need to get paid for my services, I hurry to the Valiant and drive back to Dora's house.

Lying in bed later, I contemplate my life, a soft chuckle escaping me when I think back to the look on the woman's face when she realized that I wasn't the vice squad. Hell of a way to make a living.

# Chapter 16

# Present Day

Lying awake in bed and staring at the ceiling, I try to figure out what I've been doing with my life for the past few years, and draw a complete blank. It's still early, the sun not sneaking in past the drapes yet. This is the first time in a long time that I woke up in a bed, and that can only mean that I must be on the right track.

Rolling over and planting my feet on the floor, I crawl out from under the sheets and head for the coffee machine, figuring if I start it now, it might be done by the time I get dressed. Since the weather outside isn't dropping below the freezing point, I figure I can get away with a simple tee shirt and fatigues for my morning run.

Grabbing my mug out of the sink where I left it to dry, I pull out the carafe and quickly fill my cup, the sound of the machine already hissing at me as the brown liquid hits the hotplate again. Since the room didn't come with a dishwasher, and I don't feel right about leaving my messes for housekeeping to clean up and then not leave a tip, as that would get expensive on a daily basis since I'm staying by the month, I try to stay on top of things and keep the place clean.

With mug in hand, I return to the bedroom and after placing the mug on the bedside table, pull the bedding together and fluff the pillows. Picking up my mug again, I head out to the front room and open the laptop up as I drop down on the sofa. After turning in the night before, I came up with several more angles to pursue before I dropped off to sleep.

While the laptop boots up and connects to the internet, I pull out the hospital admission form from when Jennifer, aka Sue, had her baby. Since she wasn't even showing and I had no idea that she was pregnant the night I met her, it's a safe presumption that my brother, Perry, or the family corporation, didn't pay the bill, since she was already on the run from Perry at the time she had his baby.

With that thought in mind, I can't help but wonder if she knew whether or not she was pregnant the night I met her and can only assume that she didn't, based on the amount of alcohol that we both consumed. Though my time with her was brief, she didn't put me in mind of someone that would endanger their unborn child so callously as to get drunk. That just doesn't fit with the mental image of her that I have been carrying around all these years.

Since I don't have any specialized software programs yet, I try a simple Google search for the hospital in question, which just so happens to be the same one where Dora's deceased husband was treated before he passed away. Opening up the website for the hospital, I use the account numbers on the admissions form and do a site search, just out of curiosity.

Without waiting for the results, I get up, swallow the last of the coffee in my mug and drop it in the sink for later. Then I head out the door, locking it behind me.

The sun is just beginning to lighten the sky and the air is at its coldest point, which feels good on my face. Taking a deep breath, I set off at a slow trot, slowly working up to a jogging speed.

By the time I reach the sidewalk, my chest feels raw and my legs are a tad wobbly, and I'm questioning my judgement about going for a run. Maybe I should settle for staying sober longer, and then try this again.

Before I get halfway to the Denny's just three blocks from the motel, my forehead is covered in sweat and I can feel a chill in my armpits and down the back of my neck from the cool morning air flowing over damp skin.

When I'm almost abreast of the Denny's, I slow down to a walk, and then pause to lean on the bike rack while catching my breath, My lungs feel like they're on fire and I have a sharp pain in my side, right beneath the scar from my bullet wound, though I realize this is only a coincidence.

My tee shirt is soaked with sweat, as well as my face and head. After catching my breath, I decide to head into the restaurant and see if my body is ready for some nourishment. As I enter, I notice that there are only a few men sitting at the counter and one table occupied by a young couple, probably lovers that spent the night together.

Grabbing a seat at the counter, I recognize the waitress at the same moment that she recognizes me. She smiles tentatively and holds up the carafe, waiting for me to acknowledge whether or not I want coffee.

"Please, and a couple pieces of toast on the side."

"Right up," she says, filling my mug. "Are you feeling better?" she asks, smiling warmly.

"Yes, much," I reply. "Sorry about running out on you the last time."

She laughs softly and then says with a grin, "You weren't the first man to run out on me."

"Maybe you shouldn't date fools," I wryly comment, surprised by my own remark. But she is really cute, now that I look at her in earnest.

"Or marry them," she throws back in the same tone of voice as I used, causing me to chuckle before she moves down the counter refilling coffee mugs of the other patrons.

Back at the motel, I notice that the search of the hospital records turned up no matches. Yet, I can't shake the feeling that I'm on the right track. Whether she paid for the visit with insurance, cash, or some other means, there has to be a record that I can follow. Plus, it would be important for her to have her son legitimately. There should be a record of his birth and a social security number for both her and her son. Ultimately, the hospital got paid or there's an outstanding bill out there still on the books.

Or is there? The information I'm after is almost eighteen years old. Except for the birth records, there's a good chance that the hospital doesn't have any other information left on file.

But there's one way to find out. Even if I can't get the information that I need, I can find out if it still exists or not.

# In the Past...Coming Clean

Nine months after completing my first case, I have quite a few more in the books, but only one or two of which have to do with following unfaithful spouses around town. My reputation as a standup kind of guy with a knack for getting to the bottom of cases is spreading and I'm no longer advertising for work, the general flow of clients and cases becoming almost more than I can handle just from word of mouth.

Coming in late one night, I find Dora sitting at the table, a black pot of brew simmering behind her and a plate of biscuits on the table beside a slab of butter and a table knife. Her face is pale and drawn and I can't remember a time that I've seen her looking more tired.

"Vic, we need to talk," she says, as I plop down in my usual seat.

She slowly rises, her joints protesting and giving her pain, something I hadn't noticed before. Turning back to the table with the carafe in hand, she fills our mugs and then replaces the carafe before dropping heavily back onto her chair with a loud expulsion of breath.

"You okay, Dora?" I ask, concerned by her apparent discomfort and pale complexion.

"I'll be fine, just give me a minute," she replies a bit breathlessly.

"Dora, I mean this in the most sincere way possible, but you don't look so fine. You're worrying me."

Speaking as if she only has so many words left in her, she ignores my comment, asking instead, "When was the last time you spoke with Tiffany?"

Confused by her question, I answer it nonetheless. "I guess it's been about a month now."

"You need to call her, tell her how you feel." Before I can ask why, she continues, "I've known you now for quite a few years, and I've seen how your face lights up every time I mention her name. It did just now, so don't try denying it. You have feelings for that girl and she needs to know that."

"Dora, Tiffany and I are good friends..."

Before I can finish, she cuts me off, her voice pulling strength from somewhere deep inside. "It's more than that and you know it. Haven't you ever wondered why she's never told you about a boyfriend, or even having gone out on a date? You can't be that thick, Vic."

"I'm sure she dates," I weakly protest, though I secretly suspect her love life is as sorry as mine.

"And I'm just as sure she doesn't," she says loudly, her voice almost angry. Then she calmly takes a deep breath and softly continues, "Vic, you may not see it, but I can. That girl has been waiting for you for as long as you've been trying to find the girl that asked you to leave that night."

She pauses to catch her breath, giving me a chance to comment in my defense, "We're just close friends, Dora."

"You keep telling yourself that, Vic, and the both of you are going to end up old and lonely when there is so much the two of you could be sharing."

My arguing with her only appears to be wearing her down, and I don't want to be the cause of anymore pain than she is already enduring. "I promise I will give your words some serious consideration, Dora. In fact, I was planning on calling Tiffany tomorrow anyway. I'll find out when she can find the time to come and visit next and when she does, I'll ask her how she feels about me. Will that make you happy, Dora?"

"You are such a fool when it comes to women," she says, the fire having gone out of her voice. "You won't learn anything asking such foolish questions. You need to _tell her_ how _you_ feel," she pauses to catch her breath. "The rest will come naturally, trust me."

"I promise, I will think about what you said," I tell her, not sure I either able or willing to question how I truly feel about Tiffany. There's no denying that my heart rate picks up at just the mention of her name, and when I see her, a desire blossoms deep down inside me, usually sending signals to my groin that are sometimes a tad embarrassing.

Yet, the thought of analyzing my feelings toward Tiffany scares the hell out of me.

"It's past my bedtime, Vic. I'm going to turn in. When you finish with the coffee, be sure and turn the pot off so it doesn't burn in the bottom of the carafe."

She slowly rises to her feet, the pain of moving evident in the grimacing lines on her face.

"Would you like me to give you a hand with the stairs, Dora?" I ask, rising to my feet.

Placing a hand on my shoulder as she moves by me, she softly mouths, "I'll be fine, you just think about what I said. Before you know it, you'll be old too. Don't let life pass you by, Vic. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Dora," I answer, turning to watch and wait until she is safely up the stairs before refilling my mug and settling back into my usual seat before pulling the plate of biscuits closer. I haven't eaten all day and my stomach is beginning to protest all the acidic coffee and caffeine that I've poured into it.

When I rise in the morning, the sun is still hiding below the horizon. Coming downstairs, I'm not surprised that the kitchen is just as I left it and set the pot up and turn it on before heading out for my morning run. The air is unseasonably warm and humid, a possible omen of rain in the near future, and my tee quickly soaks with sweat.

As I round out of the park and see the beverage cart up ahead, I slow my pace to a brisk stroll to cool down and catch my breath before reaching it. Recognizing me, the elderly gentleman that runs it pulls out a chilled water and places it on the plywood counter with a smile.

"Thanks," I say with a smile, picking it up and leaving a couple of small bills before strolling over to one of the benches along the paved path.

Sitting there, the mist slowly growing thicker and wetter with each passing minute, my mind turns to the strange conversation that I had the night before with Dora. In all the time that I've known her, she has never played matchmaker. In fact, at one point, I was of the impression that she would have disapproved of any advances had I made them toward Tiffany.

Moreover, if Tiffany feels that way toward me, why hasn't she made her feelings known to me? It's not like we can't talk about anything and everything, and usually do. Maybe I should give her a call and find out when she plans on visiting next. Then I can tell Dora that I called her at least. Maybe that will pacify her for now.

Pulling my new flip-phone out of my pant pocket, I enter Tiffany's number and subconsciously smile when she answers, her voice soft and full of sleep. A man could get used to hearing that voice first thing every morning.

"Hey Tiff, it's me," I say.

"Vic," she replies, her voice rising several octaves. "What's up? I wondered who might be calling this early in the morning. I just got up, the coffee hasn't even perked yet." And then her voice suddenly turns serious and she asks, "Is something wrong? What happened? Are you okay?"

Laughing softly at her concern, I reply, "I'm fine. Nothing's wrong. I just thought I'd give you a call and find out if you had any plans to come up and visit anytime in the near future."

The relief in her voice is instantly replaced with perplexity as she says, "What's going on, Vic? You've never called and ask me when I was coming out to visit before."

Taking a deep breath, I slowly relent, "Oh, I got into a conversation with Dora last night and she said a few things that got me to thinking."

"She's a good one for that. How is she doing?"

"I'm not sure, Tiff. She seems really tired and run down lately. To be honest, I'm worried about her."

"For you to take notice, it must be serious. How about this coming weekend? You think that's soon enough? I'll text you my flight information so you can pick me up at the airport."

"Sounds good. And thanks, Tiff. I know your being here will perk her right up," I reply, feeling my spirits lift at the thought of seeing her again despite the gloomy weather.

"I have to get ready for work. I'll see you then," she says, breaking the connection.

Finishing my water, I drop the empty into the nearest garbage receptacle and give the elderly man behind the cart a smile and nod as I resume my run. With a hot shower on my mind and looking forward to sharing my information about Tiffany coming to visit, I hurry through the door and turn toward the kitchen.

To my dismay, Dora isn't sitting in her usual place at the table. Though it's normal for her to be up and drinking coffee by the time I return from my morning run, it isn't too disturbing when I think about how tired she was the night before. She's probably just sleeping in.

Noticing that the carafe is untouched, I grab a mug, figuring I'll take it upstairs with me to drink while I get cleaned up. At the top of the stairs, I notice that Dora's bedroom door is still closed and continue on to the room that I alternately share with Tiffany.

When I come out of the bathroom, having showered and shaved, I'm surprised to see her door still closed. I had figured that the noise of me in the bathroom would have wakened her, since I didn't try to keep the noise down. I did everything short of singing in the shower, and yet she isn't up.

Staring at the closed door, I begin to grow concerned.

Before heading downstairs, I debate knocking on her door and waking her up. Though she might be grouchy at first for being disturbed, when I share the news of Tiffany coming to visit, she'll come around. And with a pot of well-brewed coffee downstairs, she'll forget all about being angry with me for waking her.

And yet, if she really needs the rest, isn't it selfish of me to wake her?

"Yep, very selfish," I say aloud before knocking on her door and saying her name. "Dora. Dora, it's me. I've got some good news for you and a pot of coffee brewing."

My knocking and words are answered by silence, and my concern kicks up ten notches.

Knocking harder, I almost yell, "Dora, it's me. Is it okay if I come in?"

When all I hear is the blood pounding in my ears, I slowly open the door, continuing to call her name. "Dora, I'm coming in. Let me know if you're not decent."

She is lying on the bed facing the open window, not moving.

"Dora, you okay," I say, moving toward her, my heart beat suddenly racing as my subconscious grasps what's wrong before my conscious mind breaks the news to my heart.

Even before I place my hand on her shoulder and give her a soft shake, I know she isn't going to respond. The words she shared with me the night before are the last words she will ever share with anyone ever again.

Going through the motions like a zombie, I call 911 on my cell phone and give them the address, my voice sounding distant, almost as if someone else were speaking. Though I realize in some surreal way that I should go downstairs to let the medics in when they arrive, I slowly lower myself down on the edge of the bed and give her shoulder a soft, affectionate squeeze as though she knows I'm there with her.

"It'll be okay, Dora. The medics are on the way," I whisper softly, my throat threatening to close up.

The sirens coming up the street pull me out of my stupor and I stiffly rise from the bed and head downstairs to let them in and tell them where she is. When they head up the stairs with their bags in hand, I head into the kitchen and drop heavily into my usual chair.

When the Medical Examiner arrives, he grabs the chair that Tiffany normally sits in and lays a clipboard with forms on the table in front of him.

Woodenly, I ask him if he would care for a cup of coffee.

"Thanks, but no. I'm already floating on the stuff. I just have a few questions and then we'll be out of here," his voice about as compassionate as can be expected for a complete stranger.

"How can I help?"

"Is the deceased a relative of yours?"

"No. Well, not a blood relative. She's more like the mother I never had," I babble, aware that I'm in shock, but not able to do anything about it.

He raises his eyebrows, but doesn't push it. "Is this her house?"

"Yes. Wait, no, she gave it to us."

"Okay," he simply replies, raising his eyebrows again. "Does she have any next of kin that need to be notified?"

"Yes, but I can take care of it, if that's allowed," I respond.

"Just as long as it's her legal next of kin that contacts my office. I can't release the..." he hesitates, not sure what to refer to Dora as, and then continues, "The deceased to just anyone, you understand?"

"Yes, I understand. I'll have them contact your office to make arrangements."

Hearing a shuffle behind me, I turn in time to see the gurney transporting Dora out to the waiting van. Turning back to the ME, I provide him with the rest of the information that he needs regarding my name, Dora's daughter's name and address, and my contact information.

Rising, he lays a business card on the table and says, "If you have any questions or need anything, please, give me a call. Do you have someone you can call to come and stay with you for a while? At a time like this, it's best not to be alone."

"Yes, thank you," I reply, rising and accepting his proffered hand in a shake.

When he leaves, I drop back down heavily on my chair and look across the table at Dora's vacant chair.

"I better call Tiffany," I say softly to the empty chair.

# Chapter 17

# Present Day

Having spent as much time in Minneapolis as I have, it doesn't take long to maneuver through the city's traffic and find the hospital that once cared for Dora's husband Harold. Cruising the streets near the main entrance, I quickly realize that I'm going to have to go into the main parking lot if I'm going to have any luck finding someplace to park. If push comes to shove, I may have to park in a less busy part of town and then catch a bus that will drop me right at the hospitals main entrance.

My luck seems to have changed when I pull into the multilevel parking garage and find a recently vacated spot right near the elevators. Within minutes, I'm navigating my way through the slightly familiar hallways of the main administration building that houses all the admin offices, including the billing department.

It's nine AM and I'm one of the first in line as they've just opened for business for the day. When I reach the desk, I explain to the young woman behind the computer terminal what I need, with a little spin on it so she doesn't get suspicious. She gives me a blank stare, and I begin to wonder if my trip here was nothing more than a waste of time.

"So, let me get this straight," she starts, her voice betraying her suspicions. "You're doing a magazine article and you need to know how many years back our admittance files go?"

"If that's a problem," I begin, when another young woman steps out from an office behind the counter and pauses, her gaze studying me intently for a long moment.

"Tina," she says, causing the woman I'm speaking to, to turn and look at her at the same time that I do. She smiles at me and says, "I'll help this gentleman in my office."

Tina, the young woman at the computer turns back to me with an even more confused expression, and then shrugs her shoulders and says, "Whatever."

"Come with me sir," the young woman standing behind the counter says, indicating with her hand an opening at the end of the counter.

Moving along the counter, she keeps pace on the far side until I reach the end, then extends her hand and asks, "How have you been doing?"

Recognition suddenly hits me; this is the same young woman that assisted Tiffany and I when we paid off Dora's bill.

"Fine," I quickly reply, noticing her study the patch over my left eye. "A little worse for wear, but otherwise, fine."

"Come on back," she says with a smile, leading the way to her office, one of three behind the counter.

As we enter her office, I comment, "You've been promoted."

"Yes, I've been put in charge of 'Accounts Receivable,' making it possible for me to negotiate with people on their bills. She hesitates for a second before stating, "I overheard your request to Tina. You're not really here to do a magazine article, are you?"

"No," I reply a bit shamefacedly. And then quickly add before she can form the wrong impression of my intentions, "But I'm not trying to garner any personal information, either. Nothing illegal, anyways."

"Good, I'm really glad to hear that," she says clearly relieved, her look of concern dissipating as she takes a seat behind a large metal desk while indicating for me to take one of the two chairs facing it. "I'm really sorry, but I can't remember your name."

"Vic. Vic Smally," I reply, noticing the name plaque on her desk with the name Patricia Meeks on it. "I'm no longer with the police department," I quickly add, so there isn't any misunderstanding on her part if she remembered that I was a cop.

"I wasn't aware that you ever were," she says, her brow furrowing. "I don't believe you ever said what you did, but I got the impression from your mannerisms that you might be military."

"Yes, before I became a cop. But I'm retired now."

She doesn't pursue the topic, and I don't volunteer any more information on it.

"What information are you looking for, Mr. Smally?"

"Vic, please."

"Okay, Vic," she responds, smiling. "What can I do for you today?"

"I'm wondering how far back your admittance files or billing files go, and if they're hard copies or digital."

"That's easy," she smiles, meeting my gaze. "All of our files have been digitized within the last few years. Before that, we kept hard copies of everything going back to the beginning of this hospital. Unfortunately, there was a flood in 1965 that destroyed many of the hospital's records, but everything since then is on our servers."

Smiling coquettishly, she continues, "Now that I've answered your question, are you going to tell me why you need to know this?"

Smiling back at her while wondering if she is coming on to me or just being polite, I reply, "Since retiring from the force, I've become a private investigator. I'm currently working a case that involves a missing woman, a woman that used this hospital about eighteen years ago when she gave birth to a son."

Turning to face her monitor, she says, "I can't give you any details, but if you have a name, I can confirm whether she was ever a patient here or not."

"Jennifer Holt." I reply, holding my breath.

Within a few seconds, she turns back to me and shakes her head in the negative. "I show nothing for that entry."

"Can you try, Laura Regan?" I ask, my voice tight with anticipation.

After punching the keys and waiting for a few seconds, her face lights up and she turns back to face me. "That one is a match."

"I understand that you can't tell me anymore than that, and even confirming what you have may be entering a grey area, so I won't ask for any details, but thank you," I say with sincerity and mean it.

"I wish I could give you more, but without a court order, my hands are tied," she replies, clearly frustrated by her inability to further assist me.

"It's okay. I understand and I wouldn't want to get you into any trouble," I say, rising from the chair.

At the sight of me rising and possibly walking out of her life for good this time, she suddenly blurts, "Would you like to go out for dinner sometime?" Blushing over her blatant act of desperation, she adds, "I've never done this before. I hope you don't think it too straightforward of me."

"No, not at all. I'm flattered, really," I smile at her, not sure of my next decision.

Before I can say anything else, she says, "I don't even know if you're married or not. What was I thinking?"

"It's okay, really. I'm not married. In fact, I'm not even dating," I tell her, though I'm not sure why.

Maybe because she's boosted my ego and made me feel desired... feelings I haven't felt in way too many years.

"So, what do you say?" she shyly asks, meeting my one-eyed gaze.

"Sounds good. And I promise not to ask you for any information that I know you can't share," I tell her with a smile, feeling more like a man than I have in a long time, even though I know in my heart that I can't follow through. It would be too much like cheating. Though I'm not sure who it is that I'd be cheating on.

# In the Past...Dora's Passing

"Hello."

"Tiffany?"

"Yes. Is that you, Vic?" she answers. And then, before I can continue, she says, "Vic, I'm really busy right now. Can I call you back when I get a break?"

Unable to hold back, I blurt into the phone, "Dora's gone, Tiff."

My words are met with a long period of silence and I begin to wonder if she hung up before she heard me.

And then her voice hesitantly asks, "What do you mean, ' _she's gone_ ,' Vic?" Even before I can explain, her voice cracks and I can tell she is crying. "What happened, Vic? What happened to her?"

Taking a calming breath, I slowly reply, "She passed in her sleep last night."

"Oh, my God, Vic," she cries, her voice agonized with pain. "I'll catch the next flight out. Are you okay to drive? I can get a cab from the airport. Are you at the house?"

"Text me when you have your arrival information. I'll pick you up." I pause to take a breath, feeling as though I have to think about each breath I take or I'll forget and just stop breathing. "And Tiffany..."

"I know, Vic," she says, cutting me off. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thanks, Tiff."

Within the hour, I receive Tiffany's text. The next few hours pass in a haze. At some point, I go upstairs and pause at the door to Dora's bedroom. The bedding is lying on the floor in a heap where the medics threw it aside and the rain is pinging against her windows, no longer a simple grey mist. The day couldn't be more dismal.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice is telling me to clear my stuff out of the room that Tiffany will be using when she arrives. But my legs don't move, as I stand numbly watching the rain run down the glass.

With no recollection of driving to the airport, I'm suddenly waiting at the disembarking terminal for her flight to offload, dreading sharing the details with Tiffany and having to live through finding her all over again.

But it's time to put on my 'big boy' pants and be strong for Tiffany. She and Dora shared something special and I know Dora's passing is going to be especially difficult for her. She's going to need me to be there for her through the difficult time ahead.

The minute she sees me, she pushes past the people in front of her and runs into my arms, her eyes red and puffy from crying during the entire flight.

"I'm so sorry," she whimpers against my chest as I maneuver us out of the path of those still off boarding.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Tiff," I console her, holding her tight and noticing how we fit together like we belong together, and then just as quickly banning the thought for its inappropriateness under the circumstances.

Yet, I can't shake Dora's last words to me that she spoke just last night before she went off to bed. She wanted me to tell Tiffany how I felt toward her. But was it just wishful thinking on Dora's part, and can I find the courage to share Dora's last thoughts with her.

There'll be time for that later. Right now, I just need to console her, be strong for her, even if I don't feel the strength in myself.

"Come on. Let's go home," I say, the words surprising both of us, as she suddenly looks up into my eyes.

The ride back to Dora's house is glum, barely a word spoken the entire way. The rain hasn't let up and when I pull into the driveway, we both jump out of the Van and make a dash for the front porch. Since Tiffany left straight from work to the airport, she doesn't have anything with her but a purse. Everything she might need is already in the house from previous visits, and if she needs anything else, we can always pick it up later.

Once inside the house, we take off our wet clothes and hang them by the door to dry out of habit. Dora would have a cow if she thought we tracked water through the house, even if she isn't here to reprimand us.

"Would you mind coming upstairs with me?" Tiffany asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"Sure. If you're not comfortable sleeping up there, you can have the couch," I say, following her to the stairs.

"No, it's not that," she says, not elaborating.

When she reaches the top of the stairs, she turns toward Dora's room, and I suddenly wish that I had taken the time to make her bed and pick things up.

"Do you think she woke up, you know, before she you know...."

"No. I'm sure she just went to sleep and passed peacefully in the night," I reply, doing my best to show a strong front for her.

Moving slowly, she walks into the room, the sky outside almost dark while rain drops running down the windows are reflected by the interior lights. When she reaches the pile of bedding on the floor, she scoops it up and holds it against her chest, inhaling the scent of peaches that Dora always smelled like.

Without a word, she begins making the bed. I move to the other side of it and help her pull the sheets and bedding tight before fluffing the pillows and placing them at the head.

Following her toward the door, she slowly turns around and stands looking into the room as I move past her.

"I'm going to miss her, Vic."

"Yeah, I already do," I reply softly, stepping closer to her and wrapping my arms around her.

She rolls her head back into me before slowly turning around until we're facing each other. Her hands are on my chest and she looks into my eye. "Where do we go from here, Vic?"

Before I can stop my mouth, the words come tumbling out, and I realize that there's no stopping them. "Dora and I spoke last night. She was very tired, not like her usual self. I suggested she turn in and get a good night's rest."

"What did you talk about?"

We move out into the hall, turning off the light and pulling the door closed behind us, but not leaving each other's embrace. Though I don't believe we're even aware of it, we're holding each other up.

There's a long silence, and I'm not sure that I want to continue. Yet, I know that I have to. I owe it to Dora, and I especially owe it to Tiffany. She was like a daughter to Dora, and she deserves to know what Dora told me the last time she ever spoke.

"She told me that I needed to tell you how I feel about you," I say softly, my mouth next to her ear.

Her body tenses, and then pulls in tighter against me. It's impossible not to notice how well our bodies mold to each other. We're like two bookends. The firmness of her body igniting a desire in mine that immediately has me feeling pangs of guilt. The timing is all wrong.

Unaware of the guilt flowing through me, and clearly fearing the answer to the question hanging between us, she lifts her head and looks into my eye, pressing me to continue. "How do you feel, Vic?"

"I'm not sure, Tiffany. But I do know that I need you in my life. My heart races when I know you're coming to visit, and I miss you terribly when you're not here with me. Just looking at you stirs something inside me, and when I look into your eyes, I feel as if I'm on the precipice of a great fall."

Taking my hand, she moves slowly into her bedroom, turning back to me when I reach for the light switch.

"Stay with me tonight."

It's not a question and it's not a demand. But I'm helpless to refuse her, even though I know it's not right.

Walking backwards, she continues leading me to the bed. When her legs bump up against the edge of the bed, she stops and releases my hand. Pulling her blouse loose from the waist of her pantsuit, she begins undoing the buttons. Before she reaches the second button down, my hands move over hers, stopping their movement.

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

"It's what I've always wanted," she whispers softly, gazing into my eye, the only light in the room filtering in through the open door.

Releasing her hands, I slowly continue undoing the buttons, working my way down until the front of her blouse falls open. Gently, I push it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor at our feet. Her firm breasts are held in a light blue bra that matches the light blue cotton pantsuit she's wearing. When I reach behind her to undo the clasp, her hands reach into the waistband of my jeans and pull out my tee shirt, pulling it up and over my head before letting it drop on top of her blouse.

Running her hands over my chest, sending shivers through my body, her gaze still holding mine, she lowers her face down and tenderly licks first my right nipple, and then slides her lips across my chest to my left, nibbling gently and pulling on the tender bud with her teeth.

Sliding the straps of her bra down over her arms, she pulls back and lets it fall down, landing on the growing mound of clothing on the floor at our feet. The light from the hall is just enough to highlight her beautiful breasts, her nipples already hard little pebbles, begging for my undivided attention.

My hands move forward, enveloping one in each palm as I brush my lips over hers. My touch elicits a sharp intake of breath, and then she presses her lips hard against mine, forcing my lips apart and exploring the depths with her tongue, tasting me like she never has before.

My tongue teases hers, tasting her sweetness. Gently at first, and then with growing passion, I massage her breasts in my hands, rolling the hard little pebbles between my thumbs and forefingers as she gasps, pressing her lower body against my thigh, her hands moving up the back of my neck, her fingers working through the short hair on my head.

When I pull back, my mouth working a path of kisses down the side of her throat, and then searching out and finding first one, and then the other nipple, her breathing becomes louder, more ragged as it rushes in and out of her mouth with increasing force.

As I suckle on her left nipple, my hands work open the front of her pant, and then push it down until is slides over her hips before falling in a heap around her feet. Slowly, my hands languorously slide up the backs of her thighs until I reach the muscular cheeks of her ass. With increasing intensity, I squeeze and massage the firm, creamy flesh, my fingers exploring the crevice of her butt while my mouth leaves a trail of kisses down her stomach, pausing briefly at her naval, and then continuing on down to the waist of her low-cut panties.

Slowly, I pull her panties down, my lips following them until they are at the juncture of her smooth thighs. I pause for a second when she lifts first her right foot and then her left, allowing me to move her pant and panties to the mound of clothing next to us so there's no chance of her tripping in them.

My fingers encircle her ankles, and then slide up her calves, drinking in the smooth firmness of her beautiful legs. She groans with anticipation when I reach her thighs, and my mouth softly kisses the tender lips of her moist core before my thumbs move in from either side, softly massaging the folds of flesh. Her hands move to the top of my head, guiding my mouth and tongue into her. With my thumbs, I spread the folds of her flesh and insert my tongue, drinking in her sweetness, tasting her and knowing she's the most potent nectar under the stars.

Her hands press harder against the back of my head, forcing me deeper. She moans softly, her breath rattling in her chest.

"Oh Vic," she hisses through clenched teeth.

"Don't fight it, Tiff. Just let yourself go."

The words have barely left my mouth when her body shudders and tenses, the moisture from her folds running past my cheeks and down her thighs. Her breathing turns ragged and she lets out a long moan, her entire body suddenly wracked with spasms of ecstasy.

Licking at the juices of her orgasm, I slowly work my way back up her stomach, pausing briefly to suckle on each nipple before moving up her throat to her lips and tenderly kissing them. Her hands undo my belt and the front of my jeans and push them down over my hips. She reaches into my undershorts and takes my erection in her hands, eliciting a soft groan from between my lips.

My hands slide up her back and then reverse course, slowly moving down through the curvature in the small of her back, just above her ass before grabbing the cheeks and savoring the feel of them in my hands. With regret, I release her ass and push my undershorts down below my hips, where they fall on top of my jeans. Stepping out with my left foot, I hook them on my right and fling them clear.

Sitting back on the bed, she pulls me toward her by my erection as if I'm tethered to her. Leaning forward, she kisses my stomach, then slowly moves lower until her lips brush softly along the length of my shaft before taking it in her mouth and suckling on the end of it.

While my hands entangle in her hair, massaging her head, she reaches around and cups the cheeks of my ass, pulling me closer, and deeper into her. Her mouth is tight around me and I suddenly fear that I'm about to cum. She senses me tensing up and quickly slides me out of her mouth.

"Not so fast, big boy," she says huskily. "Do you have protection?"

"Wallet, in my jeans," I reply, straining to hold myself back.

She slides off the bed and finds my jeans where I flung them with my foot and pulls out my wallet, handing it to me. I pull out a tinfoil packet and drop my wallet on the mound of clothing beside the bed, where Tiffany dropped my jeans.

After opening the packet, Tiffany suddenly reaches out and takes my hand in hers, extracting the packet from my grasp. "Let me," she says.

Sitting back on the bed, she guides me closer until she has my swollen member in front of her. After kissing it, her lips barely brushing the highly sensitive tip, she slips the condom on and then grabs my hips and pulls me over her as she slides up further onto the bed.

Holding myself up with one arm while hovering over her, I use my free hand to tease her wet folds until she is arching her back and begging me to enter her. Moving slowly, purposely antagonizing her, I slip just the tip of my erection into the heated moisture between her legs. She instantly thrusts her hips upward, trying to capture more of me. But I'm not ready, I want her so hot that we both come at the same time. I want this to be the best night that she's ever known. And I want her to think of nothing but us and what I'm doing to her.

As I slowly move into her, she suddenly brings her legs up and wraps them around me, driving her heels into my buttocks and not letting me pull away from her. Her legs are strong, her body taut. She sets the pace with her muscular thighs and butt, driving up and down with me, a natural rhythm that slowly increases in speed until we're a frantic mess of ragged breathing and muffled screams, yet a coordinated rhythm between us that seems so right.

When I reach the point where I can't hold back any longer, she lets out an animalistic scream and clenches me tightly within her body, our bodies vibrating with the intensity of our simultaneous orgasms, before I collapse on the bed beside her. Our bodies are drenched in sweat and our breathing deep and rapid. Sex has never felt so good or fulfilling as it has just now with Tiffany, and I realize deep in my heart that I will never get enough of her. And that scares me shitless.

Taking a steadying breath, I roll up on one arm so that I'm looking down into her shadowed face. Her gaze is locked on mine and I wonder what's going through her mind.

"Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?" I whisper.

"Have I ever told you what a cute ass you have?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, you have," I grin down at her.

"No, I didn't," she says, acting shocked at the possibility.

"Yep, when we first met, back in California. I usually ate my lunch alone, which is the way I preferred it. Then one day, you strolled up and asked if you could sit by me. I said sure. And then we got to talking and I mentioned that I'd seen you around and you said that you'd noticed my nice ass around too."

"I really said that?" she exclaims, almost convincing me that she really is shocked by her earlier behavior.

"Not verbatim, but something very similar," I reply.

She grows quiet for a long moment, and then whispers softly, "I've wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you. I told Dora one time when we were having a girly talk. She told me that if I ever told you, you would probably run and I'd never see you again. Is that true? If I had told you how I felt back then, would you have run away from me?"

"Dora was a very insightful woman."

"And now?"

"As much as I want to tell you what you want to hear, I can't, Tiff. You deserve the truth. And I don't know what that truth is."

"Will you at least stay with me tonight?" she asks, her voice cracking.

Without a word, I take her in my arms and pull the blankets over us, snuggling her tight. In that moment, I want nothing more than her in my arms for all eternity. But I know the moment won't last. And come morning, I might not feel the same. I still have unfinished business.

# Chapter 18

# Present Day

Back at the motel, I finish going through the rest of my purchases. With everything laid out on top of the coffee table and sofa, I place the new backpack next to me and begin adding items to it. Out of habit, the first item I place in the very bottom is a basic first-aid kit. On top of that, I add a change of clothes encased in a plastic bag to ensure they remain dry. The next item is the spare ammo, the hunting knife, and an emergency survival kit with matches, wax, tinfoil poncho, and a length of parachute cord.

In another plastic bag, I add a container of instant coffee and a selection of protein bars. Getting up, I sort through all the torn wrappers before throwing them in the kitchen waste basket, and then pick up the laptop, leaving the top of the pack open in case something else comes to mind. While the laptop boots up, I throw a glance at my old duffle bag, noticing that it is see through in places from wear. It's carrying a lot of memories and I don't have the heart to replace it.

With the laptop positioned on my lap, I do an internet search for an application or software specific to breaking through firewalls and cracking password protected systems. Though it isn't legal, I'm going to try hacking into the hospitals old records. If I can just find out who or how Jennifer paid for her hospital visit, I'll have a solid lead.

But if this doesn't work, I still have two other much less desirable options. One is calling Patricia Meeks at the hospital, taking her out to dinner, getting a few drinks in her until her defenses are compromised, and then prying the information out of her with sweet talk. Which isn't my style at all. I've never been underhanded or anything less than up front and straight forward with people, and I'm not going to stoop to that low now. I could never put Patricia in a position of compromising her integrity.

Getting a court order would be the simplest, but that isn't an option for me, as I no longer have any authority or official capacity,

Or I can call Tiffany.

Even if she will talk to me after the way I left things, she'll never help me find the woman that is and always has been the obstacle between us. Especially since she'll have to break the law to do it. And for that reason alone, if no other, I can't bring myself to ask her. I have to do this on my own, and maybe, just maybe, when it's all over, I can call Tiffany then. But not before.

# In the Past...Parting Ways

When I wake up, Tiffany is in the shower and mine are the only clothes still lying on the floor. Climbing out of the bed, I slowly get dressed and then head downstairs to put a pot of coffee on. I'm sitting in my usual chair when Tiffany comes down, her hair still damp from the shower, wearing her light blue pantsuit that she'd arrived in. Because she left straight from work, she didn't have time to put together a travel bag.

Moving past me, she goes to the pot without a word and fills her cup, setting it on the table and lowering herself into what I had come to think of as Dora's chair, directly across the table from me.

"What am I doing here, Vic?" she asks, breaking the silence, her eyes studying me. Before I can answer her, she continues, "Dora's gone. My coming isn't going to bring her back." She pauses to take a sip of her coffee. "I booked a flight back to Colorado. It leaves out this afternoon. If there's any legal papers I need to sign or go over, just fax them to me. As far as the house goes, you can use it as your own... I won't be coming back, Vic."

Stunned, it takes me a moment to realize she is forcing my hand. I either declare my feelings for her and we move forward together, or I let her go.

While my heart suddenly feels as though it's packed in ice, I know I can't tell her the words that she so desperately needs to hear. Life just isn't fair.

When I only sit in silence, my eye locked on my mug of coffee, she suddenly pushes to her feet, fighting back an onslaught of tears, and says with a mixture of anger and hurt in her voice, "Don't get up. I'll call a cab." Moving hurriedly past me, she pauses only long enough to grab her purse off the couch before running out the front door, slamming it hard in her wake.

Though I should have seen it coming, this is not what I expected. I'm not so callous to not realize that she's hurting. But damn it, so am I!

Picking up my mug, I heave it viciously at the sink, the porcelain smashing into a thousand pieces as the brown liquid splashes everywhere. Getting up, I head out the front door, slamming it behind me. Though I should chase her down and plead with her to come back, I turn right and head down the street with my head down and my hands pushed deep into the front pockets of my jeans, my eye focused on the sidewalk directly in front of my feet to avoid meeting anyone's gaze. With determination and anger, I march forward, oblivious of the chilly rain soaking through my tee shirt, though it matches my foul mood, the anger inside me turning deeper inward with each step, knowing I am only moving further away from the one good thing left in my life.

"Bob," I say, stepping up to the bar.

"Vic? I haven't seen you in here for some time."

Laying several large bills on the counter, I say, "Put a couple of bottles on ice and keep them coming."

The sudden look of concern in his eyes speaks volumes. I'm not the first man he's witnessed taking the plunge into the deep end. And while it's good for business, he knows it's not good for the man.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Sure," I angrily lie. "If that's what it takes to get a drink around here."

Placing a tumbler and a bottle of spiced rum on the counter in front of me, he takes a step back and says, "This will get you started while the other bottles chill." He begins to move away, but then pulls up, deciding to take one more stab at helping me as a friend and not a bartender. "If you change your mind and want to talk, I'll be right here for you."

"My mother passed away and I drove away the only woman that loves me because I can't give her what she deserves. It seems pretty straight forward to me. Not much to talk about," I mouth, the anger burning my soul hotter than the rum pouring down my throat.

"I'm sorry to hear about your mother. Want to talk about it?" Bob softly remarks.

"More drinking, less talking," I angrily reply, the blatant anger in my gaze causing him to take an involuntary step back before turning and heading toward the little fridge under the counter where he places another bottle of rum. Rising, he turns and gazes down the bar at me for a long moment before moving off and tending to another customer.

Dora's memorial and ultimate dispensing of her ashes from a bluff overlooking the Muddy Mississippi River are solemn affairs. When her daughter learned of Tiffany and me receiving life estates in the property, she didn't even want to come to Minneapolis for the memorial. And when I called her, offering to box up Dora's personal effects, she told me not to bother. If I or the _bitch_ that stole her inheritance didn't want the stuff, throw it away.

Returning to the house after following Dora's last instructions and desire with regard to her ashes, I put on a pot of coffee and listen to the silence while sitting alone at the kitchen table. If my childhood wasn't so clear in my mind, this would easily rank as the lowest point in my life. Hell, it might be anyway.

Needing something stronger than coffee, I open the fridge and retrieve my bottle of chilled rum. Pouring a tumbler full, I head up stairs, intending on going through Dora's personal effects and boxing them up for storage, though I have no idea why, and change my mind after standing in the doorway to her bedroom looking in for a long time without moving, my thoughts all over the place and unfocused.

Unable to shake the feeling that it's still Dora's room, I turn toward the bedroom across the hall and look in. Like the room across the hall, I don't feel this room is anymore mine than the other. Because of our sleeping arrangements when Tiffany and I were both here, I had come to think of this room as Tiffany's, and always will.

Heading back down the stairs, I reach the living room, the tumbler in my hand almost empty. For a long moment, I stand in silence, staring at the couch and the neatly folded pile of bedding resting on the floor by the far arm. In this entire house, the only items that are really mine fit in a worn out duffle bag that I've been dragging from one temporary place to another.

Returning to the kitchen, I place the empty tumbler on the counter next to the fridge and then open the fridge and grab out the bottle of rum. Heading back to the front room, I put the bottle of rum in my duffle bag and collect my coat from the hook in the foyer before heading out the door, no clear destination in sight, and not really caring where I end up.

# Chapter 19

# Present Day

My internet search turns up a lot of options. It had never occurred to me that there was so much effort placed in developing, and money being made in the sale of, what I think of as illegal software, even if it isn't illegal to sell it. Using my rusty computer knowledge, I slowly weed through the different applications, sorting out the chaff from the ones that seem promising and might actually be capable of doing what I need them to do.

After making a list of potential programs, I download the most promising, figuring I'll invest my time in it first, since it takes time to download, and as with any software, there's always a learning curve, especially for someone such as myself that has let his skills get rusty. It's not easy keeping up with the latest technology, even for those involved in it on a daily basis, which I'm not.

While the software downloads, I set up the coffee pot and make me a pot of coffee. Something tells me this is going to be a long night.

Back on the sofa, I make myself comfortable and begin setting up the software. Next, I go to the hospital's website and plan my attack from there. After digging through the home page, I discover employment opportunities, hospital services they offer, propaganda promoting all their great doctors and the latest in medical technologies. Submitting an employment application might get me into the mainframe, but simply attaching a Trojan horse to the _Contact Us_ link might get me there also. Once inside, the Trojan horse can open the door for me.

And then again, I can try setting up an account in the Accounting Department, and exploit the firewall there. By doing that, I will already be in the part of the system where I need to be and not buried deep in an obscure server somewhere.

Using fake information, I set up an account and attach a Trojan horse, conveniently provided by the downloaded software, a few tweaks making it do precisely what I need. And then, I sit back and wait for the magic to happen.

While I wait for my Trojan horse to kick back to me with an open door, I continue doing research, the first of which is Googling Patricia Meeks. It both bothered and flattered me that she would remember me after the amount of time that has passed. Moreover, I'd not only grown a patch over me left eye, my body shape has changed, and not for the better. Though hers also changed, she still looked good. While I was disintegrating, she was maintaining, possibly even improving, when I think back on the young girl she was when Tiffany and I first met her.

Checking out her Facebook page, I notice that she is into ice fishing, skiing, and a big fan of figure skating. No where do I see any mention of a significant other.

When a page suddenly pops up in front of the open Facebook page, I quickly close Facebook, a part of me feeling like a voyeur for looking at her page in the first place when I have no intentions of calling her. And even if I did, we have nothing in common. I can't remember the last time I did something just for the fun of it. Even my morning runs, which I used to enjoy much more than I have recently, served the purpose of keeping myself fit.

And my drinking, which consumed both me and all my time until recently, was not for the fun of it. It served a much darker purpose, a purpose I hope I never need in my life again, though I know it's a bit premature to hope that, as it's only been a few days since my last drink.

But I never considered myself an alcoholic. My life simply hit a rough patch and I resorted to alcohol to help me through it. Now, hopefully, I'm through it and won't need the alcohol anymore.

Following the link that the Trojan horse sent back to me, I am taken to the hospital's main server farm. Now I just need to figure out where the old files are stored and what, if any, passwords will be needed to access them.

Because Patricia in the accounting department told me that she got a hit on the name Laura Regan, I begin with a generic search through all the records with no date parameters. While that's working, I pull out the paperwork that my brother, Perry, provided me and find the document number on the hospital admissions form.

Glancing at the clock, I notice that the night is almost gone and morning is just around the corner. It amazes me how the time got away from me. It seems like I just sat down with the laptop and a cup of Joe, and here it is early morning already.

Getting up, I walk to the window beside the door and push the drapery aside just enough to see outside. There are halos around the parking lot lights, indicating a light mist is falling. The Valiant is also covered in a wet dew, the tiny red led light blinking on the dash, indicating that the alarm is armed and working.

Turning back to the room, I check the laptop and seeing that it might be a while yet, decide to jog down to Denny's and grab some breakfast before the morning crowd shows up.

Wearing just a black tee-shirt with ARMY stenciled in olive drab across the front and my camouflage fatigue pants and jump boots, I double check I have my wallet with me and head out the door, carefully locking it behind me. By the time I reach Denny's, my tee is soaked and clinging to my skin. As I reach the glass entrance doors, I see my reflection and have to admit, for all the lack of care and poor eating habits I put my body through for the last few years, I'm still a formidable looking man. And maybe Tiffany and Dora were right about the patch, it does add a hint of danger, almost giving me that bad boy look. Clearly, I do need to trim up my beard and hair though. Right now, I would probably be more likely to fall in the pirate category than the bad boy one.

Instead of taking an empty seat at the counter, I grab a table by the window facing the entrance so I can see who comes and goes, as well as not having my back to the door. As the waitress approaches, it dawns on me that I haven't considered situational awareness in a long time.

Smiling, feeling more like my old self with each beat of my heart, I turn up the mug setting on my placemat and give her my order as soon as she finishes pouring the coffee. It's a different waitress from the last couple of times I came in, and I'm instantly thankful.

After putting away an order of eggs and toast, I accept the offer of a refill on my coffee and consider my next move in finding Jennifer, aka Sue. If I can't make progress with the questionable programs I found on the internet, I might have to resort to calling Patricia or Tiffany, both options giving me a bad taste in my mouth.

Feeling better than I have in a longer time than I can remember, the food working wonders in me, my thoughts drift to the house that Dora gave Tiffany and me life estates in. It's been a few years since I've been there and I wonder briefly if Tiffany ever returned, maybe even looking to find me there. Though why she would care is beside me.

Maybe because I still care about her, even if I haven't picked up the phone and checked in on her since she walked out of Dora's house that day. Of course, communication is a two way street. No one ever called to check up and see how I was doing either.

The thought is barely formed in my mind, and I see it for what it is, a cop out. It's my fault that Tiffany walked out that morning, and it's my fault that we haven't spoken since. Who am I kidding?

Feeling rejuvenated, I drop some bills on the table and jog back to the motel, taking a slightly different and longer route. It's time to start taking responsibility for myself and my actions. No more excuses.

Back at my room, I take a quick shower and put on some fresh clothes. Later, I will find a barber and clean up my act. The first search turned up nothing, so I start it again, using the number from the admissions form in the search block.

Letting it do its thing, I do a quick online search for a barbershop and find one that sounds promising just a few miles up the same road that the motel is on. Jumping in the Valiant, I make a quick run to the barber, and from there, to the grocery store to stock up on supplies. Though it's considerably out of my way, I detour across town and head toward the neighborhood where Dora's house is located.

Because of the direction that I'm coming from, I pass the local bar first, noticing a sign in the window stating it has new owners and is under new management. Because of its proximity between the college and the white collar district, I have no doubt it's a money maker.

Knowing the house is just a tad further up the street, my palms begin to grow sweaty on the steering wheel and my breathing grows shallow and rapid. Who would suspect that an empty house could have such a strong, physical effect on someone?

Slowing down, I come to a stop on the opposite side of the street facing the house. Rolling down the window, I turn and look at the place for the first time in more than five years. To my surprise, though it clearly appears empty and uninhabited, it is in good nick. The paint appears fresh, the leaves raked, and all the trim in place. Moreover, there aren't any broken windows or other signs of vandalism.

Clearly, someone is looking after the place.

As I sit in the car studying the exterior, my hand moves down the side of my pants, finding the pocket with my cellphone and slowly withdrawing it. Almost in a daze, I turn away from the house and slowly scroll through the speed dial numbers on it, hesitating when I come across Tiffany's number. Even though I've changed phones several times, trying to keep up with the newer technology, I managed to keep the same phone number for myself. Anyone that had it when I got my first cell phone, still has it, if they wanted it.

My thumb rubs the button, highlighting her number, but I can't quite find the courage to press it.

Dropping the phone on the seat next to me, I put the car back in drive and make my way back to the motel. Once there, I check the search results on my laptop and almost can't believe my eyes when I see that it came back with a match. Dropping down on the sofa, I place the computer on my lap and bring up the file.

Because of the date of the file, it was manually scanned into the system at some point by someone hired to do data entry, and hence, it isn't an interactive file, the kind I would find if the information had been entered at the time the file was created.

The file is nothing more than one large PDF document, which I quickly begin downloading to my hard drive, determined not to take any chance of losing it in the ethereal of the internet and not be able to find it a second time.

With my adrenaline flowing, I put on a pot of coffee and sit down on the sofa, waiting patiently for the file to finish loading. The second it finishes, I open it up, and my heart instantly sinks.

The file contains more information than I had prior, but it ends with a balance still owing that was transferred to another account for collection.

I hurriedly make notes of the address listed on the form, the collection account number, the balance owing, and the dates of everything. It states that she gave birth to a male in good health along with the exact time of birth and birth weight, doctor attending, etcetera. Unfortunately, nothing that will bring me closer to locating Jennifer or her son. Yet, the boy's time of birth might narrow down a birth records search, which might yield a name. Of course, if she was using an alias in the hospital, the boy would have been named under the alias.

Unless she used her real last name as the father's last name on the birth certificate. That way, she wouldn't have to explain to her son when he became old enough to understand, why his last name is different from hers. Moreover, since no one would be looking for the boy, she would never have to change his name, and avoid a lot of explaining to him as well as resulting confusion later on.

Entering the collection account number into the search parameters, I hit enter and place the laptop on the coffee table. Due to the waning effects of the adrenaline rush I felt at getting more information on Jennifer, I decide to hit the sack and catch up on some much needed sleep.

# Chapter 20

# Present Day

It feels like I've barely lowered my head to the pillow, when I hear a ding from the laptop letting me know that it finished its search. Rolling out of bed, I grab a cup of black tar from the pot, noticing a slightly burnt flavor from brewing for so many hours. The search turned up another old PDF file and I start the download, not holding out much hope for learning anything new. From experience, the hospital probably just sent out a few past due notices and then passed it off to an outside collection agency. If I'm lucky enough to learn anything from the file, it might be the name of the collection agency.

With the file downloaded, I open it up and breeze through it. At first, everything appears the same as the first file, until I look a little closer and notice that the mailing address is different from the first file. In fact, there wasn't a _mail to_ address in the first file at all.

Reaching for my note pad, I jot this new information down along with the name and phone number of the collection agency that handled the account on behalf of the hospital at the time.

Time to do some recon work.

Before loading up my gear in the trunk of the Valiant, I remember to turn off the coffee pot so I don't come back to a carafe of smoldering tar or worse, a burnt down motel. After taking a minute to enter the first address I have for Jennifer, aka Laura, in this case, into the dash mounted GPS, I head off without much faith or optimism in finding anything relevant.

The sun has managed to burn its way through the mist, leaving patches of steaming pavement and smoking rooftops along the way. The drive takes me into a seedier part of Minneapolis, an area in decline that appears to have been declining for a long time. My heart twists at the thought of Jennifer retreating to this area of town while pregnant and on the run with no income and no one to help her while being chased by an animal, my brother.

The thought of my brother causing her such pain and misery makes me want to kill him. But I quickly put the thought out of my head and continue on to the address from the first file. It's an apartment building, possibly part of the ill-guided government efforts to house its indigent citizens.

Pulling over to the side of the street, I glance at the red brick, six story structure, noticing all the broken windows, only a few of which were boarded up before the effort became an exercise in futility. The building next to me and directly across the street from it is in identical condition, and I worry about leaving the Valiant unattended while checking out the unit in question. Though it has a state of the art alarm system, it's no match for a determined vandal.

Before climbing out, I slip my magnum into the waistband of my fatigues, praying that the shabby appearance of the car is enough to protect it, while I determine to make my inspection quick. In and out before anyone even knows I'm here.

"Yeah, right," I mouth aloud, fully aware that the minute I pulled down the street, I was under some gang's surveillance, and the condition I find my poor car in when I return depends entirely on their mood today. Maybe because the sun's out, they'll take pity on the poor white boy and leave his car alone.

As I reach the cavernous entryway, an open stairwell structure with stairs working their way up to the top floor, an open landing on each level with four apartment doors opening onto them, two young black men are coming down the stairs, both of them sporting faded tattoos on the backs of their hands and climbing up their respective necks. They stare at me, daring me to look them in the eye, and if I do, it's the equivalent of accepting an unspoken challenge.

The unit I'm looking for is on the second floor, one of four opening onto the landing, and I stroll past them without acknowledging them, yet acutely aware of their eyes on my back as I climb the stairs one at a time, resisting the urge to move faster and possibly triggering their chase and attack instinct like a pair of wild dogs.

I'm less than half the distance to the second floor when one of them yells, "Yo!"

Stopping, I slowly turn to face them, preparing myself for anything. They are standing on the landing, each balancing a foot on the first step and blocking any possible chance of retreat.

"What can I do for ya?" I ask, keeping my voice calm while weighing my chances of reaching the magnum if I should need it.

I'm also thinking that I have the advantage of being above them, when a voice from above and behind me says, "What you doing here, white boy? You don't belong here. This ain't your neighborhood. A white boy like you could get lost or hurt if you ain't careful."

Silently chastising myself for being distracted and walking into an ambush on gang turf, I turn, trying to put both pair in my peripheral vision and finding it impossible with only one good eye. "I'm looking for someone," I say loud enough for everyone to hear without turning my back to any of them. "A white woman. She might have a seventeen year old son living with her."

"What kind of fool you be, man? There ain't no white women in this hood. I think you done entered the wrong turf, bro," says the same one that spoke previously, and is setting himself up as their leader.

Hoping I'm correct, I turn toward the one doing all the talking, believing that the ones down below won't do anything without his orders or approval. "Then let me check the unit and if she's not there, I'll leave. Be gone before you know it. No harm, no foul."

"You calling me a liar?" he says, intentionally escalating the situation. "Because, I think you done just called me a liar, honkey." Speaking with all the bravado of someone that feels confident in his position of authority with his peers, he says even louder, "Didn't that sound to you like he just called me a liar?" his question not spoken to anyone in particular.

One of his boys on the steps below me, agrees with him. "Yea bitch, sounds to me like you're lying all right."

Taking a few steps toward the tall skinny one doing most of the talking, I begin fervently apologizing, feigning fear in the hopes that I can get close enough to him to keep the inevitable fight to fists, or maybe even knives, but not wanting it to escalate to guns. It's not that I'm afraid of getting killed, that can still happen in a physical fight without guns. It's that I don't want to have to deal with all the paperwork and the interrogation that will surely come from the responding cops, followed by the detectives that will be assigned, not to mention that there's surely a gang enforcement task force already covering this territory and they'll be upset because I treaded on their operation or something equally frustrating to them, and it will just never end. I have too many more important things to do today than deal with that kind of crap.

"Hey man. I didn't mean for it to sound that way. Really, I would never call you a liar. In fact, you look like a real honest man to me," I babble nonstop while slowly moving toward him until I am on the top step and less than six-feet from him and his sidekick. "I'm really sorry if you thought I called you a liar, because that was never my intention. No sir, not my intention at all," I continue, my words nothing more than a distraction to make him think more about what I'm saying and how he's going to interrupt me without losing face with his boys than anything else while planting my right foot on the landing and simultaneously shifting my weight back onto my left foot, readying myself for a lunging push off.

The man on his left, my right facing him, pushes his jacket flap aside, showing off an automatic handgun tucked into his front waistband in a show of intimidation.

When the man that accused me of calling him a liar suddenly shouts out, "Shut the fuck up, Mutherfucker!" while taking a threatening step forward, his sidekick moving forward with him.

With the words still half in his mouth and half out in the air, I launch myself up and forward, pushing off the top step with my left foot for all I'm worth.

Before the shorter guy next to his leader can pull the pistol out of his waistband, my right hand is over his, forcing the weapon down into the crotch of his pants and driving him backwards, causing him to stumble and lose his balance.

His hand automatically comes out of his pants to brace himself in an effort to retain his footing, the gun having slid down into his underwear. At the same time that my shoulder is pressing into his chest to keep him moving backwards and off balance, I plant my right foot and pivot my left leg out and around in a backwards swinging arc, catching the gang leader square in the mouth with the back of my heel just as he's opening it to shout something else, possibly orders to his flunkies.

Even through the thick heel of my combat grade jump boot, I can feel his teeth surrendering to the impact. His shout becomes a scream of pain and bewilderment as the force of my foot drives him backwards. With my back now up against the one with the gun in his pants, I throw my head back and up, the impact catching him full in the face, the cartilage in his nose shattering from the force.

By now, the two down below have started climbing up the steps two at a time. Just as they reach the landing, I spin toward them and step to the side of the two that are now both holding their faces and bending over in a combination of pain and surprise, while a combination of blood and saliva runs through their fingers. Pulling the magnum out of my waistband, I cock it at the same time as I level it on the two coming at me.

"Far enough!" I shout. When they freeze less than six-feet from me, I continue shifting off to the side, putting distance between all of them so that I can keep them all in my line of sight. "Unless you guys want some of what they got, I suggest you just step off to the side and back up to the wall." When they start to do what I ask, I wave the gun at the two injured guys, indicating for them to follow suit, giving the one nearest me a shove with my left hand when he doesn't move fast enough for my liking.

Covering them with the magnum, I reach forward and slip my left hand into the guy's pants where the automatic fell. "No one move," I say, pulling out the automatic and glancing at it briefly to note that it's a nine-millimeter Glock. A lot of firepower for a punk, I think silently to myself.

Slipping it into the back of my waistband, I comment to him, his eyes burning with hatred and humiliation, "I'll just hang onto this for now. If you want it back, you can claim at your local police precinct." Like that's going to happen, I think to myself. I am definitely going to hand it off before I get caught with it on me. There's no telling what criminal history the weapon might have attached to it, the least of which might just be the fact that it's been reported stolen.

"What you want, mutherfucker?" the guy missing a couple of front teeth slurs, his mouth not working quite right, unsurprisingly.

"All I wanted to know is if there's a certain woman staying in unit 2B, right through that door there behind you," I calmly answer him, pointing the magnum toward the door directly behind him.

"We already told you, there ain't no white woman living here," the one that I still haven't touched pipes up.

"Then you won't mind if I take a quick look for myself, now will you? Open the door."

Shuffling off to the side, the leader with the bloody mouth and missing teeth turns the knob and pushes the door inward. Before I move forward, I indicate for all of them to move down to the end of the landing and stand with their backs toward me.

With them momentarily out of the way, I move toward the door to be struck full in the face with the strong stench of urine, decay, and stale cigarette smoke, among other undesirable odors. Not sure I want to enter the unit without the benefit of a hazmat suit, I poke my head in and realize immediately that Jennifer Holt can't be living here. She may have at one time, a long time ago, but there's no way she's living here any longer. Though I hardly got to know the girl in our short time together, I can't bring myself to believe she could have sank this low.

Not wanting to take my eyes off the punks any longer than necessary, I hurry across the front room and kick open the bedroom door. The stench that greets me is enough to make my eyes water, but I can tell there isn't anyone in it. Turning, I hurry back out to the landing, just as the one I took the gun from is moving toward the door.

When he sees me, he back peddles without a word, and rejoins his friends. One of the untouched ones, as I have come to think of them in my mind, is trying to conceal a cellphone in his palm, like he might have just called someone and didn't have time to hide it before I came out.

Satisfied that this address is a dead end, I run down the steps two at a time and don't slow down until I'm behind the wheel of the Valiant and two blocks away and moving at a good clip. Just to cover my ass in case they notified some of their drug running buddies about me and possibly even what I'm driving, I make a series of turns and eventually work my way out of their neighborhood.

That was a complete bust, but I still have the mailing address to check out.

# Chapter 21

# Present Day

Once clear of the neighborhood and the danger of being surprised by some gun toting buddies of the punks that I just embarrassed, I pull over and reprogram the GPS with the address of the post office based on the zip code and mail box number from the mailing address the hospital has of record for Laura Regan. Not surprisingly, the address isn't that far from where I'm currently parked, leading me to believe that she might actually have lived in the apartment unit that I just left.

Finding the street that the address is on, I follow it to a large strip mall that appears to have been around for a long time. Possibly one of the first of its kind, back in the day.

Pulling into the parking lot, I look first for an American flag, the symbol above all government businesses. Not seeing one, my eye is drawn to a bright yellow marquis near the far end of the mall. Driving slowly past the fronts of the businesses, I notice that most of them are out of business, the barbershop being the only one with the appearance of still thriving, and I get the impression the bulk of its paying customers aren't there to get their hair cut.

To my surprise, the address isn't a post office, but one of those private mailbox businesses, and it's still in business. Pulling up in front, I park the Valiant and study the interior through the glass doors and windows before climbing out and heading in.

A bell dings with the opening of the door and a man behind a counter near the rear right of another open area beyond the front area, calls out, "Good day sir. What can we do for you today?"

Lining both sides of the open area leading to the main business area are standard sized postal boxes. Then there's a single glass door, currently propped open, leading to an area with a counter on the right and a work station with scales and packaging supplies to the left and open sacks for mail straight ahead. Though business seems slow, I might just have come in during a lull. Behind the counter, the man congenially inquires, "Are you looking to rent a box today? We have a special going on right now, comes with a monthly forwarding service at no extra charge, except for the postage, of course."

Smiling at him, I reply, "No, thanks, not today." I pause for a moment until I am directly across the counter from him. "No, today I need information."

His eyes turn suspicious and he asks, "Are you a cop or something?"

"Let's leave it at _or something_ , for now. You might not even be able to help, but if you can, I'll try to make it worth your while," I tell him, knowing that most people are willing to remember things if the wheel is greased beforehand.

"What do you need to know, because I take my customer's personal information seriously?"

"If I'm right, the information that I'm looking for won't involve any current customers of yours," I begin, seeing him visibly relax while simultaneously piquing his interest.

"If you're sure," he hesitantly remarks.

"First off, I'm wondering if you can tell me if you were in business eighteen years ago."

"We were," he says, now completely relaxed. "I've been here almost thirty-years, ever since the mall was put in," he proudly states.

"Then maybe you can tell me if you had a customer by the name of Laura Regan. It would date back about eighteen years, but I don't know how long or the specific dates she would have had a box here."

"Let me take a look," he replies, his demeanor now that of a helpful counter person. While punching keys on a keyboard lying on the counter, a cord snaking down through a hole next to it, he brags, "I put this system in almost ten-years ago. The wife and I went through all our paper records and added them to the system at that time. If she was a customer of ours, she'll be in here. Okay, here we go. Now, what was that name again?"

"Laura Regan," I reply, spelling it out for him.

He punches at the keyboard and then waits for a second while it boots up the match. "Yep, right here. Laura Regan, box 296. She surrendered the box approximately six-months after leasing it. That was our minimum term at the time, so she probably abandoned it long before the rent was due. Most of our customers do it that way. When they're done with the box, they just keep it tied up until the rent is due and we can legally take it back for unpaid rents. We keep the key deposit and just have the lock rekeyed. Whereas, if they came in and told us they didn't need the box any longer, we'd gladly give them their deposit back in exchange for the keys. It sure would be a lot less hassle for us and cheaper for them."

Looking out the door to be sure no one is near the Valiant, I comment, "I can't imagine the clientele you get here would be too interested in their key deposits."

"It didn't always used to be like it is now," he says defensively. "This was a nice neighborhood until the government decided to put in government housing for the underprivileged people, which if you're not a politician, loosely translates to drugs and crime. I never knew there were so many people on the government teat."

"Do your records show if she had a forwarding address?" I ask, knowing that I was lucky to find the place still in business and even had a record of her having rented a box. Anything more will be like hitting the lottery. But I was a tad relieved, knowing for certain now that Jennifer got out of the neighborhood before it declined to its current state of slovenliness.

"Not a forwarding address, just what she provided as a physical address. It's been almost eighteen years, do you still want it?"

Suspecting that it's going to be the same one that I already have and had just left from, I'm about to tell him not to worry about it, and then have second thoughts. Being thorough is my trademark in business, despite the influence of alcohol that I've usually been under, and this is no time to change.

Pulling out my notepad and pencil, I say, "Yeah, go ahead."

What he rattles off catches me by surprise and I have to ask him to repeat it. After writing it down, I ask him if he has anything else, to which he replies in the negative.

"All right, thanks man," I tell him before turning and hurrying out to the Valiant. After plugging the information into the GPS, I study the led map and then plot a course, surprised that the address is almost clear across town in an established residential neighborhood, which might turn out to be in decline, or it might be upper middle class. The GPS can't tell me that information and so I won't know what's there until I get there.

It's late afternoon and I catch all the rush hour traffic of the worker bees fighting to get home. What should have taken forty-five minutes or less, turns into a crawl that only starts picking up speed after more than two hours of frustration. When I finally reach the neighborhood, I'm mildly surprised to find a nice blend of older, well-maintained homes mixed in with newer, upscale homes. For the first time in a long time, my Valiant looks completely out of place, and I briefly wonder if I leave it parked on the street, if someone's going to call the cops to report a suspicious vehicle.

When I pull up to the address the man in the postal box business gave me, I feel slightly intimidated about approaching the massive front door.

Putting my hesitation aside, I climb out of the Valiant, not even feeling a need to set the alarm, but doing it out of habit, and stroll slowly up to the large wooden doors painted white to match the rest of the two story colonial style structure. Seeing a doorbell, I push it and then stand in front of the window to the side of the door, making myself visible to anyone approaching the door from the other side. If I expect to get any information from the people that live here, I have to appear as unintimidating as possible, and hiding behind the door where I can't be seen isn't the way to do it.

To my surprise, the door is slowly opened by an elderly woman that can't be much more than four-feet tall. Smiling up at me with a smile that reeks of sincerity, she says, "Good day, sir. May I help you?"

In that split second, I decide to be as honest with this person as I can be. "Hi, my name is Vic Smally and I was given this address by a person that thought I might be able to find someone here that I'm trying to locate."

"Would you like to come in, sir?"

"That won't be necessary if you can just answer a couple of my questions," I respond, not wanting to put her out, yet taken aback by her fearless hospitality.

"Who is it that you're looking for, then?" she asks, and then, before I can respond, continues, "Are you sure you don't want to come in. I've already had my supper, but I've got a fresh pot of coffee on that I'd be more than happy to share with you."

"Coffee sounds good," I relent, stepping through the door as she turns and pushes it closed behind me. "If you're sure it's no trouble," I reiterate, the thought of a hot cup of java being more than I can resist.

Following along slowly behind her, I find myself impressed with the quantity and quality of the various pieces of furniture that appear Victorian, though I'm no expert in antiques.

When we reach the kitchen, I'm even further impressed with all the stainless steel appliances and the solid oak table in the middle of the room with only four chairs pushed up to it, leaving ample space for people to use it as a prepping surface.

"Have a seat," she says, going to the cupboard and retrieving a couple of mugs. "You look like a man that drinks it black."

"Please," I reply, watching her back as she fills the cups. When she turns, I say, "You have a very beautiful home..."

"Lynn."

"The furniture looks Victorian, Lynn."

"Most of the pieces, yes. I wish I could take credit for finding them, but they came with the house," she says, showing pride in her furnishings. Placing a mug of hot coffee in front of me, she takes the chair next to mine, not intimidated by my presence in the least. "So Mr. Smally..."

"Vic, please."

"Okay, Vic," she says with a genuine smile. It's weird, but she is treating me like an old friend and she doesn't even know me. Kinda like Dora. "What can I help you with today, Vic?"

"I'm looking for a woman that goes by the name Jennifer Holt. She has a son approximately eighteen years of age that she may be living with. She used this address as her place of residence almost eighteen years ago. It's important that I find her," I added, not sure if I should tell her the whole truth or simply that Jennifer's son is an heir to a large fortune, and let it go at that.

"Holt? That name sounds familiar." She scrunches up her face and concentrates for a long moment, so I take a swallow from the mug before me and am immediately impressed with the robust flavor of the blend. "Oh, I remember now," she suddenly exclaims, her face lighting up. "My husband, God rest his soul, purchased this place when he retired. That was almost fifteen-years ago. I didn't have much to do with my husband's business dealings, so except for getting a tour of this home before we bought it, I didn't know any of the other details. But shortly after, I was cleaning up in the attic, you know, looking for some overlooked treasures that I could use to decorate with, and I came across an old shoebox of letters, most of them from overseas. The name on the address they were mailed to was something Holt."

"That might have been Jennifer's mother," I say, trying to contain my excitement. Although this information doesn't give me a direct link to Jennifer, it gets me one step closer. "You don't have any idea where they may have moved to, do you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Vic. I do know that the only reason we were able to keep the furniture with the house is because the previous owners passed away. That was mentioned at some point after I commented how much I liked the furnishings and stated that it would be just wonderful if they could be purchased along with the house."

"So, if the owners had passed, your husband must have purchased the home through an estate attorney. And if there was an heir, such as Jennifer, it only makes sense they or he would have known how to contact her," I ponder aloud, my thoughts picking up speed to match my racing heart.

"That I wouldn't know. Like I said, my husband took care of all our business dealings. But it does make sense," she smiles sweetly.

"You wouldn't have any paperwork from the transaction, by chance?" I ask, hoping against hope to get lucky and at least learn which attorney had handled the transaction for them.

"Oh, I'm afraid not. All of that would have been disposed of after my husband passed and we cleaned out his things, you know, so I wouldn't have the constant reminder of him in the house. I'm sorry." Before I can say anything, she adds, "My grief counselor suggested it. In fact, she even helped me go through the place."

"Oh, no need to apologize," I quickly tell her, my heart sinking.

After finishing my coffee, I rise from the table, noticing that in the time I spent with her, it had grown into full darkness outside.

"Do you have to go? I know I've eaten already, but it wouldn't be any bother to fix you something. Surely, you must be hungry. Have you eaten yet?"

"Your husband remodeled this kitchen for you, didn't he?" I softly ask, suddenly realizing that the new appliances couldn't have been here when Jennifer's parents lived here. I also realized that Lynn is a very lonely old woman. And it suddenly bothers me that she would let a complete stranger into her home where she obviously lives alone, out of sheer loneliness.

"Yes, he knew how much I liked to cook, and when the kids moved away, it was just the two of us. He complained constantly that I was going to kill him with kindness, because he swore he loved everything I made," she says with a wistful smile on her face.

"Would you mind if I come back and visit you, Lynn. Maybe take a raincheck on that dinner?"

"Oh, that would be wonderful," she says, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "I'll give you my number and the next time you get out this way, you just give me a call and I'll have everything ready by the time you arrive. And bring a friend. A good looking young man like yourself must have a missus or a lady friend, if you don't mind me saying."

"I don't mind at all," I reply, my thoughts momentarily flicking to Tiffany and where she might be today, and then, just as suddenly they flick to Jennifer, the woman that I'm trying to locate.

# Chapter 22

# Present Day

Back out in the car, I promise myself that I will return some day in the near future, but who I'll bring with me is a complete mystery. Reaching across the seat, I pull out my notes and reprogram the GPS unit with the collection agencies address. Since it's too late to head there tonight, if they're even still in business, I decide to look someone else up instead, though I haven't seen them in a long time either.

Strolling through the new front door, I am immediately taken aback by all the changes. The place has had a complete makeover. No longer does it have the ambiance of an English pub, replete with dance floor and attached gaming room. But now it has a stylish bar with a brass leaning rail, large green plants placed about for ambiance, and tables out in the middle of what was once the dance floor. Fancy lights are suspended from the ceiling, giving the entire place an upscale feel to it.

When I reach the bar, a beautiful young woman in a thigh length pencil skirt and white satiny blouse asks me what I'd like. "Does Bob still work here?" I ask, glancing around and noticing quite a few others sitting around drinking, small motif candles on the tables highlighting a mixture of men's and women's faces. The door that used to lead to the gaming area is set further back, the space having been added to the main flooring area, while the space behind it is now marked with a sign that states _MANAGER_ in big bold letters.

Just then, the door to the office opens and a middle-aged man comes out, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Recognition is instant and when he looks around to see his clientele, recognition is mutual, a broad smile lighting up his face as he tells the person on the phone that he has to go and cuts the call short. Stepping up, he grabs my hand and shakes it vigorously, telling the girl behind the bar to put a bottle of their best rum in the fridge.

"Hold up on that," I quickly tell her, my own face a huge smile. "Just a seltzer water tonight, I'm still on the job," I lie, hoping not to get dragged into my life's sad details, or that I'm a recovering alcoholic.

He nods to the girl behind the bar and I notice that she fills two glasses from the same bottle. "Okay, I won't press you about all the details of the job you're on, but you have to tell me the story behind the patch," he says with enthusiasm. "Come on, join me at a table."

We spend the next while catching up. As it turns out, he'd been saving his money for years, putting his tips in a jar and depositing them in the bank each week. When the original owner wanted to retire, he made him an offer the man couldn't refuse, and the rest is history, or so the story goes.

After an hour of trading stories and jabs, I beg off and return to the motel room, not daring myself to drive past the house just up the street a few blocks. In my current nostalgic mood brought on by Lynn, I might break down and end up calling Tiffany, which would be a bad move on my part. For all I know, she's found someone special now that I'm out of her life, and may even have a family of her own, though it's hard to imagine Tiffany having kids.

Back at the motel, I open the laptop and log on to the internet. The information that I'm looking for now should be readily available through a mortgage title insurance company. Someone received the proceeds of the sale for the property that is now owned and occupied by Lynn. All I have to do is find the latest information from that transaction, even if it's just the attorney that handled the estate, and contact them to find out where or how they disposed of the funds. And pray to God they went to Jennifer and not some charity.

My downloaded software might be good for most things, but I'm not sure it's very wise to break into a government computer system, especially when I can wait for the business to open and simply put in a request for the information. Of course, that might take weeks, government bureaucracy being what it is.

And even then, the information I need might be confidential and not available to the general public because it goes beyond the simple transfer of property. I need the names of the litigants involved, which will surely be confidential information.

Unable to keep my eye open any longer, I crawl into bed and toss and turn, unable to shut my brain off. This is the closest I've come to finding Jennifer yet, and now it's only a matter of time before we're face to face.

But then what?

At one time, many years ago, my life revolved around finding her. Back then, I knew why I needed to find her. It was crystal clear to me. But that was many years ago and time has changed me. It only makes sense that time will have changed her also.

At some point during the night, I doze off. When I wake, the sun hasn't come up yet and I head out for my morning run, hoping the combination of fresh air and endorphins clear some of the cobwebs and confusion from my mind.

My legs are feeling better and my wind stronger, so I forego the coffee shop and continue on, eventually working my way back to the motel room. With a fresh pot of coffee brewing, I sit on the sofa with the laptop situated on my lap, my growing pile of notes scattered on the cushions to my right. Where to next?

After a breakfast of frozen waffles smothered in syrup, I head outside to the Valiant. Having located the nearest title company to me with a simple internet search, I plug the address into the GPS unit and head in that direction. Five minutes later, I'm standing at the counter of Trust Financial and Title Insurance. The young lady behind the counter takes the address and plugs it into her computer terminal, not batting an eye at my request it's so routine.

Less than a minute later, the printer behind her comes to life and she smiles, saying, "That'll be three dollars, please."

Giving her the money, she hands me the printed sheets and a receipt. "Thank you," I respond to her smile, and head out to the car.

Looking over the pages, I see exactly what I expected to see. Only the principals in the transaction of the real property are mentioned, along with the value for which Lynn and her now deceased husband paid. There is no mention of the beneficiary of the funds, only that the property was sold by the estate's attorney of record. All typical of a transaction that takes place after the original owners are deceased.

Grabbing the laptop off the seat beside me, I do a quick online search for the attorney of record, thankful that I'd taken the time to purchase the cell data option when I bought the laptop. Unfortunately, the search doesn't give me the answers that I'm looking for. There is a birth date and a deceased date. No mention of surviving relatives or which law firm, if any, he once worked for.

Using people search, I discover the address of record for him before he passed away, and plug that information into the GPS. Though I don't have any hopes of finding someone at the address that knew him, and possibly a law firm that he was with at the time of the transaction, I head down the road, following the directions provided by the GPS unit.

Finding the address in an up-scale neighborhood, I park the car and march right up to the door, deciding not to beat around the bush, as I'm sure I'm only going to be met with more disappointment. There is no surprise when a middle-aged Korean woman opens the door and asks if she can help me. After giving her the attorney's name and seeing no indication of recognition in her eyes to dispute her comment, I thank her for her time and return to the Valiant.

Sitting in the car, I finally pull out my cellphone and push the speed dial number for Tiffany. Though it goes against everything that makes me who I am, I need her help, and I need her to hack into the government records that will give me the answers I need to move forward.

Though I can't think of a single reason for her to help me, I can't shake the feeling that she will. And even though we haven't been in touch for several years, in the back of my mind, she's always been there for me.

With my heart in my throat, I listen to the phone ringing on the other end. After seven long rings where I suspect she's staring at the caller ID and trying to decide whether to answer it or not, it's finally answered by the sweetest female voice with only a hint of trepidation. "Hello, is this Vic?"

Clearing the lump from my throat, I croak, "Tiffany?"

"Yes, Vic," she softly replies. "It's me."

Not sure where to begin, I ask, "I didn't call at a bad time, did I?"

"No, not at all." Her voice, though soft and steady, yields just the slightest hint of apprehension. "It's been a while."

"Yes," I slowly reply. "It has. I'm sorry for that."

"You don't have to apologize. As I remember it, I was the one that walked out," she graciously reminds me.

"So, how have you been?" I hesitantly inquire, not sure how to ask her if she's with someone, since it's not really any business of mine. And yet, hearing her voice so warm and accepting, I suddenly need to know.

"Fine."

"I missed you, Tiffany."

"Yeah, me too," she replies. I hear her take a deep breath, and then she asks, "What do you need, Vic?"

"I've always admired that about you, Tiff, the way you could cut right to the chase," I remark, a load of tension sliding off my shoulders. "I got some new leads, but I've run them all down and I'm up against a wall. I need to get into a database and back out without being discovered. You used to be good at that sort of thing."

It isn't necessary for me to tell her who I'm looking for and what new leads I have, she knows there's only one person in my life important enough for me to cross the chasm between us and ask for her help in finding.

"You're asking me to do something illegal, Vic. I could lose my job, my reputation, my whole career if I get caught doing what you're asking of me."

"Yes," is all I can think of to say. I can't tell her that everything will be all right, because I don't know that it will be if she does this for me.

"I'll be on the next flight. Can you pick me up at the airport if I text you the details?"

"I'll be there. And Tiffany, thank you."

"Don't thank me yet, I still haven't decided if I'm going to do what you ask," she replies, a smirk evident in her voice.

# Chapter 23

# Present Day

I'm waiting at the gate when she off boards, her face lighting up the moment it lands on mine. To think that she might not recognize the guy with the patch would be stupid. To think that she doesn't look even more beautiful than the last time I saw her, would also be stupid. The years have been more than kind to her. Her face is fuller, her hips a tad broader, and she's exuding a healthy glow.

Her brown eyes are flashing with golden flecks as her smile reaches from ear to ear. On the way to the airport, I had envisioned a multitude of ways our meeting might play out, but for her to be so happy to see me, wasn't exactly one of them.

Dropping her carryon bag, she throws herself into my open arms, almost knocking me off balance.

"You're more beautiful than I remember," I huskily blurt, a blush instantly working its way up my neck.

When she finally releases me, she takes a step back and openly studies me. "You've lost weight."

"Yeah, I haven't been on the best of diets for a while," I reply, moving to pick up her bag. "Do you have any other luggage?"

"Nope. Just what you see," she quickly replies, reaching for my hand. "Can we stop at the restaurant on the way?"

"It's a little out of the way, but sure," I agree, taken aback by her request.

"I always thought it was right on the way," she says, it sounding more like a question than a statement.

"I don't live at the house," I hesitantly explain. "I haven't been there since you left," I add, coughing to clear the frog that suddenly climbed up my throat.

My statement doesn't bring any surprise to her face, which causes me to silently question things. Only then do I realize that the hand I'm holding, her left hand, isn't sporting a ring. Not an engagement ring, not a wedding ring, and not even a friendship ring. And my heart soars, though her relationship status is still none of my business.

"I know that, Vic," she says in a whisper, her eyes down.

When she glances in my direction and sees me quizzically studying her, she hesitantly says, "We'll talk. But not here."

After she's in the car and I've maneuvered us back onto the surface streets, she looks across at me, her eyes dancing furtively, afraid to make eye contact with me. "Forget the restaurant," she suddenly says. "Let's go see Bob."

"Do you mean, Bartender Bob?" I ask, growing more perplexed by the minute.

"Yeah."

We finish the drive to the bar in silence. I luck into a parking spot right outside the front door, as it's still early and the evening crowd hasn't started arriving yet. I hold the door open for her and follow her inside. She lifts a hand to signal the girl standing by the bar talking to the barmaid that we're going to a booth. Though I can't swear to it, it looks like a flash of recognition passes between Tiffany and the waitress.

Still following Tiffany, I notice that the waitress goes to the little office in the corner and opens the door briefly, saying something to someone inside before heading in our direction. "Two seltzer waters, please," Tiffany says when she draws close.

As the waitress walks toward the bar to get our drinks, I look at Tiffany and say, "You mind telling me what I'm missing here?"

"Patience, Vic," she says, nodding toward the office.

Turning to look over my shoulder, I see Bob striding toward us, a big smile on his face.

"Vic, Tiffany," he says, taking first Tiffany's hand and shaking it, and then mine before sliding into the booth next to me. His handshake is warm and sincere.

"Okay, does someone want to tell me what's going on here?" I demand.

"I'll start," Tiffany says. "Don't be upset with Bob, but I've stayed in touch with him over the years. He's been a real friend. He's been keeping an eye on the house for us." She pauses, her eyes darting around again like she's not sure how to continue. Then she takes a breath and says, "I've also had Bob check on you from time to time. When he called me a couple of days ago and said you were in and all you had to drink was seltzer water, I knew something was up, something had changed. Please don't be mad at us, we were only looking out for you because we care."

This is a first in my life, and I have to take a minute to sort through my emotions. Except for Dora, no one has ever cared like this before, especially after the way I treated them. They should have just kicked me to the curb and moved on, but they didn't.

Looking up at first Bob, and then Tiffany, it takes all my self-control to hold back the tears. "Thanks, guys," I manage to get out before my throat tightens up completely.

They both breathe a deep sigh of relief, and now I'm not sure I can still go forward with my request for Tiffany. It suddenly seems so selfish on my part after their selfless acts of kindness toward me. Even to me, I look like a shmuck.

"Thank you. Both of you. I'll make it up to you," I say to Bob, my words sounding almost cheap to my ears.

"You don't owe me anything," he says with a smile. "But, I do have some paperwork to get through tonight yet, so if you'll both excuse me. It was really good seeing the two of you together again."

Rising with him, Tiffany and I both give him a brotherly hug and a warm goodbye. When he's gone, I ask Tiffany if she wants to stay here and talk, or if we should go to my motel room.

"I'd like to go home, Vic, if that's okay with you," she says, her face unreadable.

"Yes, yeah, sure," I stutter, rising and following her out to the car.

When I pull into the driveway, she doesn't immediately get out of the car, so I sit in silence, waiting on a signal from her. My mind is going in a thousand directions all at the same time, not sure what to expect next.

"Bob told me that he never noticed anything to indicate you came here since I left," she suddenly says, her voice barely audible. "Even when you hit rock bottom and had nowhere else to go, you slept on the streets instead of coming back here."

"Without you here, there wasn't any reason to come back," I lamely remark when she pauses.

"Well, I'm here now, so let's go in and I'll put on a pot of coffee," she tentatively smiles at me, reaching to open the door.

While she sets up the pot, I bring in our bags along with my laptop. Leaving her carryon and my duffle at the foot of the stairway, I carry the laptop and my notes into the kitchen, dropping everything on the table.

"This is everything I have," I tell her as she pulls a couple of mugs out of the cupboard. It doesn't pass my notice that the mess I made the last time I was here is gone, no stains and no broken china anywhere.

"Let me take a look," she says, pulling the pile of papers toward her. "Jennifer Holt, huh?"

"Yeah. I got that from my brother, Perry," I say, briefly telling her about his visit to the warehouse and why he needs to find Jennifer's son, his heir.

When I finish my narrative, she gets up and fills the two mugs with black coffee. She is sitting in Dora's seat, as we had come to think of the respective chairs, and I have a flashback to the morning she got out of that chair and walked out of my life. It doesn't escape me that I didn't have to let her go. I could have met her demands and kept her here. But I wasn't ready then. I'm not ready now. But that can change anytime.

Turning the laptop to face her, she begins hammering rapid-fire on the keyboard. While the keys are clattering loudly beneath her expert touch, she murmurs softly, "So this is the woman that has been standing between us since the day we met."

Her comment doesn't warrant a response, so I remain quiet, letting her do her thing while sipping on my mug of coffee. When she pauses for a moment, I comment, "Peaches."

"Yeah, it was Dora's favorite. She loaned me her shampoo one time, and I haven't been able to use anything else since."

"It's nice," I say, as she resumes working the keys, a hint of a smile turning up the corners of her oh so kissable mouth.

At some point during the afternoon. I put on another pot of coffee, while Tiffany keeps working the keys. Every now and then, she huffs in frustration, then smiles and continues working. The sun is long gone and I've carried her bag up to the main bedroom in the front of the house, hoping she doesn't mind taking Dora's old room so I can have the smaller one, at least for the night.

Sitting across from her at the table, silently studying her face, I slowly realize that I could never tire of watching her, no matter what she's doing. Whether she's running, working on the computer, or simply sleeping, I could watch her forever.

Deep in thought and lost in her vision, I'm startled back to reality by her voice penetrating my thoughts. "Okay, Vic, this is where we're at," she says, looking tired. "I tracked down the money from the sale of the property to a trust account being managed by the law firm of Whitney and Jamison. Once I got into their accounts, I found the trust account set up in the right time frame to be of interest and the name fits."

"What's the name?" I ask, my heart rate picking up at being so close to the end.

"It's in the name of Lawrence J. Holt, beneficiary. Are you interested in the details right now, or should I just save the entire file to the hard drive as a PDF?"

"Save it for now. Do you know if anyone has been drawing from the funds? And if so, who?"

"It looks like the trustee has been drawing from it since its inception. But not in a regular monthly allowance. The withdrawals appear much more like they're only taking what he needs for special occasions or tuition costs, if he's in a private school. But that's just my guess. It could just as easily be monies they withdraw when he needs to score drugs or some such thing. I'm keeping an open mind at this point," she says, her voice noncommittal.

"Did you find a bank account and branch location that's being used?"

"Oh, I did better than that," she says with a smile. "I got Lawrence's current address where all his estate statements go."

My heart pounding in my chest, I ask her, "Do you think he knows where his mother is?"

"We could just call him, but I think it would be better if we wait until tomorrow and go pay him a personal visit. It is a Minneapolis address, after all," she replies, her smile fading. "Right now, I need to eat before I pass out."

Glancing at the clock on the wall, I quickly reply, "It's not too late. My treat."

It isn't necessary for me to say where I have in mind, she already knows.

# Chapter 24

# Present Day

At the restaurant, we're seated by a hostess that neither of us recognizes. When Tiffany inquires of the young lady whether Kat's mom still owns the restaurant, she informs us that yes, indeed, the ownership is the same, but now Kat is head chef.

"If you want, I'll let her know that she has some friends out here that would like to see her," the young lady says, after having taken our orders.

Within moments of her disappearing beyond the kitchen entrance, she comes back out and returns to her regular duties. Then, while I'm still watching the swinging doors, a head with a white chef's hat perched atop it looks out, the face instantly lighting up when she recognizes Tiffany and me sitting at the table.

"Hey guys," she calls out excitedly, charging through the doors and heading straight toward our table. "I can't remember the last time you guys were here it's been so long."

"Yes, we've been busy," Tiffany explains. "Congratulations on your new position."

"Yes, mom sent me to France to study. It was tough, but so exciting. I love what I'm doing now," she says animatedly.

"How is your mother doing?" I ask.

"She's doing great. She still comes in to help clean up after the lunch crowd most days. But she considers herself retired and likes it that way."

"Good, good," I say, smiling happily for her.

"If I can escape the kitchen for a minute, I'll be back to join you for a glass of wine. Right now, I've got orders in the works and can't stay to chat," she says apologetically.

"It's okay, Kat. We can catch up later. Vic and I might be hanging around the city for a while and we'll be back if we do," Tiffany quickly explains, so Kat doesn't feel obligated to make time for us. "We can always catch up then." And then, in a more conspiratorial tone adds, "Maybe you won't be so busy then."

"Sounds good. But I'm still going to send you guys a complimentary bottle of our finest, no obligations."

"Thanks, Kat," I say to her retreating back as she hurries back to the kitchen.

"I'm happy for her," Tiffany says, watching after her until she disappears through the kitchen doors.

Since neither of us are currently drinking, we have the young lady include the bottle of wine with our doggy bag to take with us, rather than leave it and give Kat the impression that we're not appreciative of the gesture. The food is delicious, explaining the brisk business for such a late hour, and we can see that Kat has found her true calling.

On the way back to the house, Tiffany comments that she notices a difference in my old Valiant. "Yes, a client of mine did some fine-tuning to her," I simply explain, not wanting to get into all the details.

"It feels much more powerful than it looks."

"Yeah, that was the general plan," I reply, then decide to share some of the details with her just to make small talk, since any other conversation seems forced and awkward, and yet, she seems to want to talk.

"You feel like a cup of java before bed?" I ask, as we pull into the driveway.

"Not tonight, Vic. It's been a long day and I feel dead on my feet," she softly replies, gathering the bottle of wine and doggie bags together.

Inside the house, I follow her up the steps. When she begins to turn left, I place a hand on her shoulder and exert just enough pressure to turn her toward the master bedroom. "I put your stuff in the master bedroom," I say, as she keeps turning until she is facing me.

"I noticed you still have that old duffle bag," she smiles, nodding toward the bedroom on the left.

"Yeah, it's like an old friend. Even though it's seen better days, I just can't seem to part with it," I reply, my eyes going to her lips while my mind remembers how sweet they tasted the last time I kissed them.

My hand is still resting lightly on her shoulder, and I subconsciously squeeze it lightly, affectionately. Her head tilts to the side, rubbing the side of her face over the back of my hand. Her eyes are shut, and a soft tremor runs through her entire body when I softly stroke the side of her cheek with my hand, gently pushing her hair back behind her ear.

Her hands come up and take my hand in between them, rubbing it tenderly. Looking at my face, she quietly whispers, her voice husky with emotion, "You've never been one to part with things."

Placing a hand to either side of her face and looking into her eyes, I reply equally softly, "Yeah, kind of like the old car."

Though our conversation has nothing to do with the emotions flowing through us, we're both finding it difficult to move forward. The need is evident in her eyes, as I'm certain she can see it in mine, and yet, we don't fall into each other's embrace, and not for fear of rejection. The charged current flowing between and through us is undeniable.

"Good night, Vic," she finally says, taking a step back and letting her hands fall to her sides.

"Good night, Tiff," I reply, continuing to stare longingly at her, and noticing that she's not moving.

"Ah hell," I mouth, reaching out and pulling her into my embrace and placing my lips over hers in a crushing kiss. She tastes even sweeter than I remember and I wonder how I ever let her out of my life. I'm a damned fool.

Her hands go to my chest, and at first she responds in kind to the kiss. Then suddenly, she pushes me away and holds me at arm's length, her eyes belying the hurt and confusion in her mind.

Before I can apologize for my actions, she says, "Goodnight, Vic," and hurries into the bedroom, quickly closing the door behind her.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I turn to the left and enter my own room, dropping heavily on top of the made bed and rolling onto my back. "Shit, what was I thinking?" I mouth aloud, my arm draped over my face. I don't even know if she's with someone and I kissed her. I'm such a selfish asswipe. But damn if she isn't more beautiful than I remember. And even sweeter tasting.

After a long night of tossing and turning, I rise early and take a cold shower before heading downstairs. To my surprise, Tiffany is already up, a stack of hot cakes setting on the table with a pitcher of syrup and the pot of coffee waiting to be tapped.

"Morning," I stutter, not sure what kind of greeting I'm going to get after the way I acted the night before.

"Good morning," she says brightly, a twinkle in her eye. "Thought you might like to put a little food in your stomach before we get started today. I had Bob lay in a few groceries last week."

"How did you know...?"

"I told you, when Bob said you came into the bar and only drank seltzer water, I knew something was going on. Just thought I'd prepare for any eventuality," she explains, smiling like the cat that just caught the canary.

"Hey, Tiff," I slowly start, taking my seat at the table as she pushes a mug of coffee toward me. "I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have done that. I don't even know if you're married or seeing someone. I was out of line and it won't happen again."

"Well, if we're clearing the air, I'm not married. In fact, I don't even have a steady boyfriend. I think most men find me too intimidating," she laughs. "Here," she says, pushing the pitcher of syrup toward me. "I know how you like them floating in the stuff. You don't have to apologize for last night," she slowly continues. "Truth be known, I wanted you to come to my room all night. I lay awake, hoping that I wasn't being an idiot. But then I started thinking about all the years I've been waiting for you and shit, what more of an idiot could I be than I've already been?"

"You're not an idiot, Tiff. If anyone fits that description sitting at this table, it would be me."

"So, Vic, that's why I'm going to say what I'm going to say," she states. It doesn't escape my notice that she doesn't argue the fact that I'm an idiot. "You've had almost eighteen years to resolve this thing with Jennifer Holt and it hasn't happened. So today, we are going to find her son, hopefully her too. Now, I've broken the law to get you to this point, and I'm willing to break it again if that's what it takes to bring this to a conclusion. But after we find her, you settle this thing you've got going on in your head, and then for better or worse, we move on with our lives. That's the deal, take it or leave it."

"One of the things I love about you Tiff is the way you don't beat around the bush. No games, just shit or get off the pot. Well, that's a deal I can live with," I reply, meeting her gaze and seeing how she just bared her soul and opened her heart to me.

Out in the Valiant, I program the GPS with the address for Lawrence J. Holt. Being a Friday, the rush hour traffic is horrendous, and it takes us almost two hours to find the address using mostly surface streets and back roads. There is a bit of mutual relief when we see the neighborhood is lower middle class, but not slums. I don't want a repeat of the last time I went into a gang's hood.

Pulling up in front of a single story beige colored ranch style with blue trim, I look over at Tiffany before getting out, wondering if there's any last exchange we need to have before approaching the house. But she is already opening the door, her eyes on the blue Subaru in the driveway, a good indication that someone's home.

Stepping around the front of the Valiant, she pauses by my door, waiting for me to get out. As I close the door behind me, she sets out across the street toward the sidewalk leading up to the front door. The houses are set up a couple of feet higher than street level with a thirty-foot set back.

Climbing the two steps up from the sidewalk, she reaches in her bag and withdraws her official credentials. Following her lead, I pull out the official PI badge that I carry on a cord and slip it over my head so it hangs in front of my chest like law enforcement. If someone mistakes me for a police detective, that's just the way of it.

Though I'm carrying my magnum in a concealed holster, I'm fairly certain that Tiffany isn't armed, so when we reach the front door, I place a hand on her arm and ease her aside while I take the forward position and ring the doorbell. There is no reason to expect any trouble, but we don't have any idea whether Lawrence knows he's being hunted by my brother or anyone else that might not want him to show his face for the opposite reason my brother does.

What happens next knocks me for a loop, and I literally stagger back a step, only slightly aware that Tiffany figured out the situation immediately and jumped in to cover for my momentary lack of ability to speak. Standing in the doorway, a simple aluminum screen door the only thing separating us, is Jennifer Holt, aka Susan McDonald, the woman that has eluded me for almost eighteen years.

"Can I help you?" she says, her voice uncertain, as she sees the back of my badge, the bold printed _Private Investigator_ facing my chest while Tiffany is holding her credentials up for her to get a glimpse of before she pulls them away and slips them back into her pocket and out of sight.

While Tiffany has figured out who the woman in the doorway is, and I've instantly recognized the woman in the doorway, despite her unkempt, dishwater blonde hair and that she's about fifty-pounds heavier and wearing a pink and red faded single piece shift... the woman has no idea who I am. She doesn't recognize me. And it's not just the patch over my left eye.

With all the clarity of being hit over the head by a ton of bricks, I suddenly realize that I meant nothing more to this woman standing before me than a one night stand. I feel like such a damned fool.

"Jennifer Holt?" Tiffany asks in her most professional demeanor.

"How do you know my name? What's going on?"

"Do you mind if we come in? We have some information that might be of interest to you. Is your son home?"

"Larry!" she yells without bothering to turn around. Pushing the door open, she says, "Sure, come on in. Larry should be getting up now, anyway. He works the graveyard shift at Smurfit Paper Products."

Tiffany enters first, stepping past Jennifer and looking around the front room, an old sofa, a small television, and a coffee table covered in outdated magazines and unopened mail. Taking the door in hand, I indicate for Jennifer to go in before me.

"Larry, there are a couple of cops out here that want to talk to us. Hurry up and get out here," she yells down the hallway, and then clears her throat by hacking brashly into her hand. Turning back to face us, she asks, "Would you like to come into the kitchen? We can sit at the table. I was about to put on some coffee for Larry, would either of you care for some?"

"No thanks," we both say at the same time. While the house doesn't necessarily appear overly dirty aside from a faint scent of stale cigarettes, it doesn't appear spotless either, and Tiffany and I are the type of people that are conscious of the unseen in our environment.

"If you're sure," she abruptly replies, not pushing the offer. "Have a seat," she adds, indicating the dinette set in the kitchen while she picks up a coffee stained mug and fills it from a drip style coffee maker, a few stray drops hissing on the hotplate beneath the carafe.

We move in unison, taking seats where we can each keep an eye on the rest of the house, just as Lawrence J. Holt, or Larry, as his mother refers to him, comes into view from the hallway.

My first impression is that he's a large boy, easily three-hundred pounds, a good six-foot-two or better in height with a rosy complexion, possibly a mild case of Rosacea. He wears his blondish white hair cut short. He doesn't appear to have any facial hair, but he also appears too young to grow facial hair, though we know he's close to eighteen years of age.

As he enters the kitchen area, Tiffany and I both get to our feet. "Larry, this is..." she pauses, a line of consternation creasing her forehead. "I'm not sure I caught your names," she says, and then pauses again, clearly expecting us to give her our names.

"I'm sorry, but you must be Lawrence, Lawrence J. Holt," I say, extending my hand without offering up my name.

Out of conditioned reflex, he accepts my hand and nods his head while confirming, "Yes, that's me."

Before he or Jennifer can say anymore, Tiffany quickly cuts in, "If everyone will please take a seat, I'll explain everything as best I can."

Because Tiffany knows me better than I know myself, she takes the lead and steers the conversation away from us. It's fairly obvious that my reaction toward Jennifer, especially since she doesn't even remember me, told Tiffany everything she wanted to know. If my demeanor seems a bit detached, Tiffany's is like a person on drugs, she is higher than a kite and doing everything in her power to keep her feet on the ground. She clearly just wants to share the information that we have regarding Lawrence and his biological father's shared interests so we can get out of here.

And though I'm coming out of an eighteen yearlong miasma, I'm beginning to feel the same way. Sitting across the table from the woman that has kept me from living my life beyond a self-imposed prison for almost eighteen years, and not feeling anything more toward her than I would feel for a complete stranger, I'm suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of freedom.

Looking out the window, the sun seems brighter, the sparkle in Tiffany's chocolate eyes sharper, and the highlights in her brown hair almost blinding. Why couldn't I see this when I first met her almost eighteen years ago? So much wasted time to make up for. How will I ever do it? She deserves so much more than a private investigator working on a drinking problem. So much more.

In silence, I listen to Tiffany explain to Lawrence and Jennifer about the trust fund that is waiting for Perry Smally's first heir, and how he hired detectives to locate him so that he can make him an offer in exchange for the shares of Smally stock included in the trust.

Though I have a hard time taking my eyes off Tiffany, I notice the fear flash across Jennifer's eyes at the mention of my brother's name. It's been almost eighteen years since she's seen him and she still fears him. What the hell did he do to her?

# Chapter 25

# Present Day

Obviously, we are not going to inform my brother of Jennifer's or her son's whereabouts. After Tiffany explains everything to them at the table, purposely neglecting to give them our names and true occupations, she recommends that they contact an attorney to be the go-between Lawrence and Perry. Surely, they can work out some kind of arrangement that benefits both parties, though I really don't care whether they do or not, so long as Jennifer and her son are not injured any more than they've already been by spending so many years hiding from the monster that is my brother.

Leaving them with Perry's contact information for their attorney, Tiffany and I return to the Valiant. As we cross the street, I flip the keys to her. "Do you mind driving?" I ask, still distracted by everything that has just taken place.

Sliding into the driver's seat, she looks over at me, a frown on her face. "Will your brother be able to come after you for breach of contract? He did hire you to find her, and now that you have, doesn't the information legally belong to him?"

"If he wants his money back, it's lying on the floor of the warehouse where he threw it. Of course, the rats might be using some of it for nesting material, they're like that," I smile at her. There is nothing in this world that is going to bring me down from the high that's beginning to push the fog out of my mind for the first time in almost eighteen years. "There is no legal agreement between my brother and me, so put it out of your mind, Tiff. That episode of my life is now over and I have no intentions of reliving it or revisiting it."

Her hand slides across the seat and covers mine. When I pick it up and kiss it, she throws me a shy smile, and my heart kicks into double time.

"Do you know where we're going?" I ask, watching the scenery fly by.

"Yes, Vic, I know exactly where we're going."

"And where's that, Tiff?"

"We're going home, Vic. We're going home."

# THE END
More by Will Decker:

DRIVEN

FIRE BABY

HYBRID KILLERS

The 'HEÄLF' Collection:

MORTALITY REVISITED

CLONE WARS

DAY OF NIGHT

REGENERATIONS

HORSPAW

The 'Mac" Collection:

THE WITNESS

TOXIC RAIN

BETRAYAL

RECORD KEEPER

DEATH IN THE DUNES

WIT-SEC FAIL

SIMPLY PERFECT BINDING 2ND Ed.

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Authors starve or eat based on reviews. Thanking you from the pit of my stomach.
