

Trace the Dead Eye

### Smashwords Edition

## Steven D. Bennett

Trace is out to find a murderer, not an unusual task for a private eye. There's just one problem: he was the victim.

Now he walks the streets searching for his killer, his only help from Rollins, an emissary sent from above to help him in his quest. But his quest is in question as he's given the task of watching over Teresa, a young Hispanic girl caught in the world of drugs and prostitution. This he does—grudgingly—but his real desire is to reconnect with his wife and son and be the husband and father in death that he wasn't in life.

As the search for his killer intensifies, he finds the violent world of the streets and the safe world of his family begin to slide closer together, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

STEVE BENNETT was born in Boston and has remained literary ever since, even after moving to Southern California. He has written short stories, novels, humorous commentaries, light verse and songs. You can follow him on Twitter at: www.twitter.com/SBennettWriter

### or on his Facebook Fan Page at:

www.facebook.com/StevenDBennettWriter.

Email: deadllifebooks@gmail.com

Also by Steven D. Bennett

### Throne

### The Chuck-It List

### Trace the Dead Eye

### Humor of the Gospels

### Humor of the Gospels – Daily Study

### Thadeus Cochran Comes to Town

### *****

### Cursed

### Better Verse

### The Fear of E

### Cat Had a Tail

### Love in the Timeline

### Rosarita Rendezvous

### She's All I Can Think About

### Welcome to Mom's Diner!

### Teddy's Family, Now in Its Sixth Season!

## For Sandi

### And for four who deserve more than a passing reference:

Ray Bradbury -- Harlan Ellison

Raymond Chandler -- Cornell Woolrich

It's a lesson too late for the learnin'

Made of sand, made of sand

In the wink of an eye my soul is turnin'

In your hands, in your hands

Are you going away with no word of farewell?

Will there be not a trace left behind?

Well, I didn't mean to hurt you

Didn't mean to be unkind

You know that was the last thing on my mind.

THE LAST THING ON MY MIND

Tom Paxton

Trace the Dead Eye

Copyright © 2010 by Steven D. Bennett

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in a manner whatsoever without written permission by the author.

Published by DeadLife Books, P.O. Box 2008, Julian, CA 92036

ISBN 1-45-059248-1

EAN-13: 978-1-45059-248-2

THE LAST THING ON MY MIND

Words and Music by TOM PAXTON

© 1964 (Renewed) UNITED ARTISTS MUSIC CO.

All rights controlled by EMI U CATALOG, INC. (Publishing) and ALFRED PUBLISHING CO., INC (Print)

All Rights Reserved

Used by permission of ALFRED PUBLISHING CO., INC.

CHAPTER ONE

TERESA

She looked right through me as I stared into her brown eyes...two lifeless, dilated holes which reflected the world as it passed by her feet.

"Want a date?"

She wore dirty pink sneakers with white lace laces. Ankle-length white socks. Cut-off blue jeans with a hole on the left buttock. A dirty pink halter with black polka dots. She had a tattoo of a sword on her left shoulder. She had black hair, natural brown skin, and a big smile. There was a tooth missing on the upper right side of her mouth. There always was.

"Want a date?"

A date, I thought, standing next to her at the trolley station, was just what I needed. Maybe two, but not with her. There was too much experience on her end for my liking. Make that both ends. Because none of it was real. The clothes, the time, the place, the line, the life: all a cover. Only the smile revealed truth, for though it was fixed, meaningless, part of the hook, it was the key. It was apologetic in a way, demure in another, with hints of contrition around the edges. Mona Lisa on meth. It also held the last remnants of youth and innocence for this girl of twenty-one or two. All that was left was the face of an angel, beneath several layers of hell.

I stared into her eyes, searching. But those windows had been slammed shut; shattered, broken and fragmented too often on the cold concrete. The world she saw now was from a perspective of kaleidoscopic innocence.

"Want a date?"

Then, in a temporary flash of an instant, I saw the flicker of a light, a candle dancing in the deep abyss of her soul. Hope.

I peered deeper.

"Trace."

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

I didn't need or expect an answer. One came: "Yes."

I turned to the voice behind me. Rollins, of course. No one else could see or hear me, and if the people on the sidewalk had the same view I did they would have taken a tentative step or two around instead of walking through him as they were. A bulk of a man, his black, muscular body straining against a white t-shirt, his camouflage pants and Marine-cut hair outlining his squarish head with that deadly serious expression which rarely changed. The veins in his neck seemed to surge on their own, adding to the rage. But a more peaceful man I'd never met. Not being fully part of his world and unable to return to my own, he was the bridge, the life hutch, the only person I was able to speak to who would actually hear and respond. Whether friendship was possible on this side of life or simply an unnecessary reminder of the other, I didn't know, but I'd never depended on anyone as much.

I turned back to the girl with relief. I'd been staring into the eyes of prostitutes for so long I couldn't tell the difference between a hooker and a hole in the ground. It was some type of test he was putting me through, though stumbling upon this girl seemed more dumb luck than plan or Providence. Maybe I'd run through the mill and come to the bottom of the barrel. Whatever the reality, all the eyes I'd looked into prior were dead mirrors, but she was different. She had it. I just hoped it wasn't catching.

"What do I do now?" I asked.

"Find the reasons."

"For what?"

"For everything."

I groaned. "Why?"

"Why not? You've got time."

That reminder I didn't need. I reached out and put my hand on her chest, dead center, and pushed...

...and fell...

...into the arms of a tall man whose face I couldn't see because my own was pressed hard against the scratchy white hair on his chest as he held me down then tossed me away to be held by another who spun me and slapped me and pushed me to another who held me--and my cheeks were wet as I was now her, crying in terror at the thought of being her forever, struggling to get free but unable--as I felt the rip of clothes and an inside tearing...

...then thrown to another place...

...with a creaking bed in a small room with stained curtains and an old sailing ship bobbing violently on the unwashed walls. My face was turned sideways, voluntarily this time, as I lay on my stomach and the fat man on top of me groaned, "Teresa" as that was my name, repulsive coming from him. I heard other voices laughing and yelling as children played outside the window and I prayed I could be out there with them as I gasped for breath in the heat of the summer's day...

...then done, tossed to oblivion, crumpled...

...against the cold vinyl seat of an old Ford pick-up reeking of Marlboro cigarettes and burnt fluids and the feel of the metal ash tray butting against of my head while pale arms with scattered brown spots inbetween purple tattoos swung back and forth as each movement brought nausea to my stomach while cramps grabbed hard at my back...

The scattering of a thousand faces blowing by in a hot, sweaty wind; a crowd of men--all different, all the same—stopping only to smile or moan or laugh or grin. A handful of money and a slap in the face, a slap in the face and a laugh on the lips, a kiss on the mouth and a slap on the knee and a tear in the heart as pieces of my soul whirled into the air.

Mercifully, the images and feelings faded and I left Teresa to her memories, detaching from them to watch the pin-wheeled pieces collect themselves like a cloud to float down to the ground where they dissolved around...

...a young girl playing alone on soft grass in warm sun, counting blades, watching bugs, picking daffodils, doing nothing but being alone on the soft grass and counting and watching and being.

Then hands lifting, squirming against them, the warm sun fading to cold night and the soft grass hardening to black asphalt and the young girl being held down to the hardness as her face aged with each thrust and she screamed and cried and crushed daffodils in her clenched fists.

I clamped my eyes shut and pushed back with all my strength, straining to get away from the endless hell of her life, but it held me tight. A sudden terror brought extra strength, and I pushed harder. Something snapped and I broke free, leaving her trapped in her life while I hurtled peacefully toward what could only be a better destination.

I fell back on the sidewalk hard, the breath knocked out of me as I lay on my back. I opened my eyes in time to see a black stiletto step through my face before walking casually on. Teresa was standing over me. "Want a date?" she asked the wearer, oblivious to gender.

A large hand reached down and I grabbed it. Rollins. He pulled me to my feet.

"That was pleasant," I mumbled groggily.

"You know," he said, smiling, "I think you're getting better at this."

I tottered, getting my balance. "Where do I sign up to quit?"

"What did you see?"

I shook my head, feeling queasy. "Too much. I'd rather not go into it on an empty stomach. That's a joke, by the way."

"I thought jokes were supposed to be funny."

"Rollins making mirth? That won't sit well with the boss."

"What did you see?" he repeated.

I exhaled to purge the memory. "Prelude to a snuff film. Everything I hoped life would be." He waited. "I don't know," I said. "Young girl abused, young girl raped, young girl on the streets. Your basic love story. Boy meets girl, boy rapes girl, boy pimps girl."

"See what she's thinking."

"Don't you mean, see _if_ she's thinking?"

"Be brave. Just remember, knowing her isn't as bad as being her."

"Yeah," I said, "but it comes in a close second." I took a step forward, hesitated, looked back. He prodded me along with a nod. I put my hands on her head and pushed...

...and felt hunger and a throbbing and a numbing in my left leg as I...as we...as she...shifted her weight to let the blood flow. Images and impressions came with a foggy haze. A salty taste in my mouth and a picture of a refrigerator with a can of Coke on the second shelf. A half jar of peanut butter. A crumpled bag of Lays chips in a cupboard with a handful of crumbs inside. The beginnings of shaking in my hands and a smoky cloud to take care of it later. The day winding down and the weariness of walking the short distance to a beat-up couch and TV that was dying by the channel. Messy sheets on a small bed and a pile of clothes on the floor. A loud voice, greasy skin and unwashed hair. A place away from the hell of the streets but no closer to heaven. Yet, it was sanctuary.

I pulled out as if drunk. Sobriety came slowly.

"So?"

"So she's hungry and tired. She wants to go home. So do I."

"You both will, eventually."

My look held as much annoyance as I could muster. "Eventually, I hear, can be a long time."

"As I told you it would be. What else have you got to do?"

"I'm getting tired of that question." Teresa was doing her best to blend into the wall she leaned on, but beside the bleak world passing by she stood out like a tacky piñata.

"I could be with my family, but no, I have to waste my time here. What's so special about her?"

"What's so special about anybody?"

" I've got nothing against prostitutes," I said. "Some of my best friends were prostitutes...some of my best girl friends, come to think of it. But why her? She'll just end up dying a horrible death."

"As did you."

I shot him another look. "Which reminds me, oh, great guardian, where were you that night?"

"Where I was supposed to be," he said simply. Then he said something not so simply: "Where were you that night?"

I muttered some words not meant for the hearing. Two hands immediately clamped on my shoulder, causing my knees to buckle.

"What was that?"

I turned around and forced a smile. "I said, ' _Thank_ you,' thank you, Massa Rollins, for that reminder. Now when do I stop paying for that mistake?"

"Mistakes are rarely planned," he said, always correcting. "What you have are consequences."

"Fine. When?"

"Eventually." He drew the word out for emphasis. "Now you stay with her, I've got to go."

"To where?"

He didn't answer. He's good at that. So I repeated myself. I was getting good at that. Like he said, we had a lot of time to kill.

"It makes no difference."

"If it makes no difference," I said, "then why not tell me?"

"It would only distract you from your job, which is to stay with her."

"What's the point? What's the point of any of it?"

He looked thoughtful, then scanned the streets. "Look around. What do you see?"

I looked. Same thing I had seen every day, alive or dead. "People; walking, eating, working, driving. Same as yesterday. And the day before that and the day before that. And the day–"

"How many?"

I breathed out, considering. "Hundreds. Thousands. Millions, if I weren't near-sighted."

"And who of those millions is the most important?"

"Me."

Rollins teeth were like a bear trap sprung shut. "Not today. Today you pick one person and you make them the most important person in the universe. And it can never be you. Tomorrow you do the same."

My eyes moved over the rabble. "I don't like this game."

"We'll play it until you do."

I moaned, looking up the sidewalk. I moaned again. They had distinctly different meanings, for half a block away a young girl was coming toward us. It was one of those all-too-rare times when you're not running after beauty but beauty, by its own accord, is about to pass by and all you have to do is wait for the blessing. And the closer she got, the more I was blessed. She had dark black hair parted in the middle and hanging long and straight, blowing across her face as if Nature itself was intent on keeping such pure artistry hidden from the unworthy. But the girl had no intention of being so veiled, as was obvious by her dress. She wore black mesh leggings visible to mid-thigh where they met a tiny black skirt, a thin compliance to a school dress code and city obscenity law and dispelling any fear of sexual restraint. A few inches of flat stomach, from hip bones to just above belly button, offset the ensemble where it met an unzipped black jacket over a tight black shirt which had the outline of a kitten in blood red thread matching her lipstick. Underneath that, difficult to read as it caressed the side of her left breast--forcing one to examine deeper--were two words: _Gatito Caliente._

I let out a slow whistle I wished she could hear. "How about I pick her to spend the day with? At least she showered." She approached us with the exuberant bounce of youth untouched. Fifteen, sixteen maybe, with a demure smile that, unlike Teresa, hid a shy sensuality and not a bargain. Her energy radiated outward with every step, infectious and inviting. She held a small cup of coffee in her left hand she wasn't drinking and a cell phone in the other she plinked at with her thumb, and over her left shoulder a miniature backpack big enough for a few items of make-up and not much else. I marveled at her flawless brown skin, the perfectly shaped body and muscular legs trying to burn the last ounces of baby fat while her small breasts, pushed up and almost out, straining toward the future. I was taken away for a moment in a cloud of strawberry-scented shampoo and I breathed deep and watched her walk for a few magical moments before turning. "Now why couldn't she be the one–?"

His expression stopped me short. His face was darker than usual, and in turn forlorn, perplexed, uneasy, as if caught in an awkward moment. I wondered briefly if he had the same thoughts I did and was embarrassed. But there was something else.

"What?"

"She," he said after a moment, "would be a bad choice."

"Why?"

"What made her stand out, of all the people around?"

"Rollins," I said. "I know you're dead, but you're not blind."

"Besides that."

"What else is there?"

"Think," he said with a mild intensity.

"Well," I began. "She was there, for one. I don't know. She seemed so--" I watched her walk, in a less lascivious light this time. "Radiant. Cute. Alive, fresh, young." I sighed the sigh of approaching middle age that would, fortunately, never come. "She's happy, that always helps. Her skin is smooth. Her face doesn't have the deep lines from years of bad relationships." My wife came to mind, for no reason. "I guess she reminds me of what I had, what I've lost. Of when I was her age. A better time, better days, with everything new, everything exciting. Who wouldn't want to be that age again? Go back do things over, avoiding the mistakes, your biggest concern being the latest pimple. That's what she has. Your whole life ahead of you instead of behind, too eager to see the morning to be afraid of the night."

I exhaled. "I know I'm just projecting a fantasy. She's still a woman, after all. I'm sure there's a string of abusive boyfriends and an unwanted pregnancy in her immediate future. So why would she be a bad choice? Because she's underage?"

"No," he said. "Because she's going to die today."

Something moved in my stomach.

The girl seemed to almost skip down the sidewalk, giggling into her phone as she hopped off the curb to cross the busy street with the careless invincibility of youth, unmindful of the truck speeding her way.

"Rollins!"

"Not yet," he said.

The truck and its two passengers, both about my age, both Hispanic, had slowed and stopped long before she had made it half-way across the road, no doubt having spotted her from a good distance and not about to let the opportunity pass without a leer. As she walked by she gave them a smile. The man on the passenger side leaned out and said something, then laughed with his friend over the witticism as they followed her every movement to the curb and beyond. She, sensibly, had simply thrown a wave behind her without a glance, knowing instinctively how men were to be given their portion of acknowledged dismissal. She met two other girls on the far side, dressed in fashion, and they touched briefly before disappearing into a further crowd of chattering children walking to school.

I kept my eyes on her, even when there was nothing left to see except small shapes blending into one and becoming a fading pinprick moving into the distance.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yes."

"But...she's just a kid. Can't we do something?"

I pulled my eyes away to find Rollins watching as well. I wondered if there was sadness or regret behind his stoic expression, but if so it was indecipherable to me. "No."

"Then what's the point of–?"

"She'll be taken care of."

"Not very well, apparently."

"Is it up to you who lives or dies?"

"Of course not, but–" The intersection was quiet, the kids were gone. Life had moved on, the past already forgotten, nothing left but the future, for some. I felt sick. "This is awful."

He said: "What if she was going to die today," he said, indicating Teresa, "and not the other?"

Teresa was presently involved in catching the eyes of those trying to avoid hers to be concerned with future tragedies. "Then I guess...I don't know, I guess it would be different...a little. But it's not her."

"How do you know?"

"Well..." I trailed off. "I guess I don't. It's just so...unfair," I finished, knowing that was the wrong word. What in life is fair? That we should live and not die? That we should die and not live? "Isn't there something–?"

There was a softness as he spoke. "Trace, I see people die every day; young, old, and everyone inbetween. So will you."

I shuddered. "Rollins, I can't do that. I don't want to do that."

"You don't have to," he said. "Yet. For now, all you have to do is stay with Teresa."

"What's the point? She'll just end up dead, like the other, and I'll end up with a bunch of questions that have no answers."

"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe something you do will help change the direction."

"Like what, prolong her life an extra day or two?"

"What would an extra day be worth to you?"

It was a cheap shot. He knew what it meant to me; it meant everything. "And if I don't?"

"Then her life might end up like yours did, full of regrets and wishing for one more day. Or worse."

"What could be worse?"

"Knowing you could have given her another day and you chose not to."

I curled my lip. "Some choice."

"But it's a choice."

"Want a date?" Teresa was asking no one in particular, everyone in particular. I couldn't bear hearing that question all day.

"For how long?"

"Until she doesn't need you."

I growled in frustration. For whatever reason, he took that time to disappear, leaving Teresa and I alone, together.

I studied her face, hoping to see some essence of the young girl who passed and was passing, hoping to feel renewed by the lightness of innocent youth and lose myself one last time in the scent of strawberry shampoo.

No such luck. Just the lingering, greasy stench of the street. I leaned with her against the wall, patting its firmness. It could always be worse, I thought, and it will be. But at least she wouldn't die today. I narrowed my glance at her. Maybe not today. She made no sign of guarantee in that regard, no sign of recognition, either.

"Want a date?" I asked, as if she could afford me.

After a while it was becoming evident that business was slowing at the trolley station. It was nearing mid-morning and the faces out at this time were different from the stragglers of an hour before. These faces were hurried, purposeful, and brushed by Teresa without a glance, or if so, one of disdain. Crowds came, trolley's left, she stood. After a while she pushed her body from the wall and began walking to the main street. I did the same.

It was ironic, I thought, following a few steps behind; I could walk next to her or in front or even in her own footsteps. I could tap dance on her head if I tap danced. But old habits die hard so, true to my old profession (mine being the world's second oldest, that of following the world's oldest) I walked behind. I sniffed the air. Maybe not far enough behind. Still, I followed.

How many others had I tailed in my lifetime? I wondered. Dozens? Dozens of dozens? How many men thought unfaithful by jealous wives, how many wives the reverse? A block behind, in car or on foot, jotting down their every move or recording with camera or camcorder as evidence to be used against them later. There was an art to tailing the suspicious, a science. People with nothing to hide had nothing to fear or suspect. But the guilty were suspicious. They could sense someone following, even if no one was. I had honed the tail to an art, until the tail had turned and everything and everyone I loved turned with it.

_Where were you that night?_ The question for the ages, I thought bitterly. Where was Rollins that night? Where was anyone? Who was there to protect me? _Where I was supposed to be,_ he had answered. _Where were you?_

Okay, fine, I'll confess my sins, as if that did any good now. I was where I shouldn't have been. I should have been home, hugging my son before tucking him in his safe, warm bed...then snug in my own, spooning with my safe, warm wife as she angrily pushed away my feeble sexual advances until I rolled over to stare into darkness. That's where I should have been.

Teresa stopped to bend over and adjust a sneaker, exposing a good deal of butt cheek in so doing, and as I took time to admire the view I had to admit she still had certain charms that might make one break out some bills if you overlooked the filth.

Rollins had to spoil everything. Maybe I hadn't been where I should have been, but did a temporary lack of judgment require my life to end? Did it require I spend eternity as a shadow? And just as I had plans for my life that was cut short, I now had plans for my afterlife, and it didn't include following endless orders to accomplish pointless tasks. What if I simply refused the job at hand?

_Then her life might end like yours, wishing for another day._ Maybe so, but what was that to me? _Knowing you could have given her another day and you chose not to._ The bastard.

Teresa started off again. After a moment I followed. I didn't have the experience to be on my own. Where would I go? What would I do?

The frustrating helplessness of the whole thing weighed heavily, and it wasn't long before I found myself slowing and falling back. The hell of it was—the absolute hell of it—was that Rollins was right, it was my fault. And now the thing I wanted most in the world—to be with my wife and son--was being kept from me because of stupid decisions I'd made.

That thought loosed a hundred other memories that manifested in my mind; taunting, laughing, mocking my dilemma and joyous in the torment. I tried to shake them off but they were too numerous and simply moved away temporarily until safe to return. So, knowing I deserved the pain, I let them come and drag me from the present back to the dead past, to all the yesterdays which helped put me where I was

CHAPTER TWO

I WAS MURDERED

I walked because he walked.

I stopped because he stopped, I turned because he turned, I ate because he ate, I peed because he peed, I washed my hands because he didn't. I drove because he drove, I smiled because he frowned, I went to his home because he went elsewhere. And he paid me well for it.

I was his shadow.

I have a little shadow, it goes in and out with me.

Yeah, well, maybe not _with_ you.

I was invisible, a will 'o the wisp, the soft footprints which left no mark. I was the low chuckle floating in the wind, growling louder when ignored yet maddeningly faint when strained to hear. I was the prophetic whisper of doom he swatted away but which returned in a swarm to buzz endlessly in his paranoid mind.

I was the look of fear reflected in the store window, seeming to hover over one shoulder, then the next, blending with his image to become him and vanish as he spun in circles.

I was in front, I was behind, I was on the side, I was all around. Following, always following, to the ends of the earth and the edge of sanity. Then, discontent with simply following, I would reach out and administer a gentle touch to undermine precious balance and reveal the bottomless chasm underfoot.

He was walking now, half a block in front of me. He had parked his car a good distance from his destination for security. He thought that clever, as if the act of parking would still the scent. It was dusk and there were people out. There were always people out in this little storefront strip surrounded by suburbs and shoppers. Every now and then he would turn and look back to make sure no one was wise. He'd squint at times, searching, other times more casually, looking at his watch or pretending to be lost. But he wasn't lost. I knew his routine. I knew her name. I knew where she lived. He was almost there.

He actually had two; this one and the one at the office. This one, tonight's fare, was the wife of one of his managers who had been sent out of town for a three-day computer seminar. One must upgrade. The one at the office he did at the office, either behind closed doors or on one of his many lunches spent on a deserted utility road in the company Cadillac. You had to admire a man who could compartmentalize so efficiently, expending equal energies at home and at work.

As he walked I kept the camcorder ready and spoke notes into my digital recorder.

7:14 -- Subject parked black BMW at the southwest corner of Grandview and Brookhaven and began walking in an easterly direction. Walked two blocks on Grandview, headed south on 3rd Ave. one block, then east on Elmhurst to the third house on south side.

7:27 -- Subject entered the yard at 2510 Elmhurst, walked through the side gate and entered the house through the back door which he opened with his own key.

7:45 -- An elderly woman exited the house next door, 2507 Elmhurst, to walk her dog.

7:51 -- Two-tone car heading southbound on Elmhurst slowed in front of my surveillance position, driver seemed to notice me, forcing me to move location.

8:04 -- Woman came back with dog.

9:45 -- Subject had not emerged from house at 2510 Elmhurst. Assuming he was in for the night--as on previous nights--surveillance was ended.

10:05 -- Went to subject's home.

10:07 -- Gave notes and surveillance video to subject's wife.

10:10 -- Carried subject's wife to bed.

10:22 – Received payment.

10:45 – Received payment again.

End of report.

It was a tough job.

She was the exact opposite of my wife and everything I neededlike a hole in the head. Actually, she was very similar to my wife in almost every way with one very important difference: she wanted me.

She longed for me, she desired me, she needed me. She needed something. Most women do, no matter how much they have. It's just over there, right out of reach. Or it could be within reach and they'd want something else. It's the cure. The antidote. The all-purpose elixir, good for what ails you. That which will make all things right and give life meaning. That one thing, that something else, right over there.

Even if that one thing is another man.

Or another.

I fell into her hair and felt her soft skin slide against mine. She was the embodiment of love and lust and sensuality. Nothing was forbidden as we lay on the bed, touching each other, holding each other, sweating together in wave upon wave of pleasure and pain and the bittersweet loneliness of people trying to find acceptance somehow and settling for sheets and between.

Tonight it was enough.

Her name was Brenda and her husband's was Brent and their last name's were still the same, for now--Hewitt--and she hated him. And why not? He worked hard, gave her all the money she wanted, a nice car, a huge house complete with cleaning service and twice-a-week landscaping. But he was a bastard, as my report rightly reported. He had two on the side which was twice as many as me and that made him twice the bastard. He had no time for his wife and she'd had enough, but truth be told she just wanted the money and to wipe the smirk off his face. But truth be told deeper, she just wanted to be someone's honey--even his--like the honey's he'd had and was having. But the honey you don't have is sweeter than the honey you do, hence he was out and I was in and she was happy. Today. Tonight.

"Where were you all my life?" She had her head on my chest and was running her flat palm over my stomach.

"Waiting for you," I said. I knew my lines.

"I never knew anyone could be so...so..."

"Anxious?" I said, helping her out.

She moved her hand lower. "Something like that. Can you keep your wife satisfied, or do I use you all up? Or should I not ask?"

"Keep doing what you're doing and you can ask me anything." Wives, I thought, are never satisfied. I thought better of saying it, thought better again. "Wives," I said, "are never satisfied."

She laughed. "I suppose I wouldn't be satisfied with you, either."

"You'd need more money."

"You're making good money off of me."

"And on you," I said, and she bit me. "I'll take that away if you do that again." She kissed me better. "Not nearly enough," I said. "Money," I added. "I'm never home nights, I'm seldom home mornings. I get paid sporadically and spend half of that on bail. The police don't love me like you do and I spend at least one night a week in bed with a hot, young babe."

She liked that. She laughed and got on top of me. "Husbands," she said, moaning, "are never satisfied."

I closed my eyes in agreement.

I opened them again. Wrong bedroom. She was next to me, breathing deep. I pushed off the covers and eased off the bed. There was no need for conversation; we'd done our talking, consoled each other, solved the world's problems. Let her sleep and dream of better days.

I dressed quickly in the bathroom, looking in the mirror once before catching my eyes and looking away. My hair was greasy with sweat, my skin washed-out and white, my body never as hard and muscular as I think. I smelled of sex. Some nights you're proud to wear it, other nights you just need a hot shower.

I walked through the silent house and shut the heavy front door behind me with a soft click. I stopped at the top of the steps to survey the scene before walking down. It was eerie, as two a.m. should be. The fog hung low to the streetlights, reflecting their yellow illumination downward. The grass and trees were grayish green and the sidewalks full of shadows.

I started across the street to my car. The woman back in bed behind me was as far from my thoughts as I was from her dreams. Inanities crossed my mind as I hit the asphalt.

I thought about a torpedo sandwich and wished there was a place open at that hour that sold more than a micro-waved taco.

I marveled at the pruning done to a nicely shaped pepper tree two houses to my right.

I spun my head in a slow circle, feeling creaky and old and thinking it was about time I used that paid-for lifetime gym membership.

I frowned as I neared my car, tilting my head and hoping that the oil stains underneath were not my own car and that the last payment would come before a new engine.

I felt a sharp jab of heat in my right arm which jerked it up in the air as if I were a marionette. I heard a crack by my right ear and a ponk! as a spark shot off my car's trunk. A hot jolt in the back sent me falling forward toward the road with my arms lifeless at my side, my body slamming into the ground as my face broke the fall. There was surprisingly no pain.

I lay eye-level to the curb, conscious of the sound of fast footsteps, a car door opening slamming, an engine firing, the screeching of tires. The same car sped toward me, missing my face by inches and screeching off with the smell of rubber. I was I was conscious of something else: a body standing over me. A hand touched my shoulder and everything was normal again. I turned over and sat up.

A large black man loomed like a concrete block, wearing black boots, camouflage pants and a white t-shirt which barely contained all his muscles. Later I would wonder if he had anything to do with my predicament, now nothing was further from my mind. He had his arm outstretched.

"Need a lift?"

I grabbed his hand and found myself instantly on my feet. I brushed myself off, examining my clothes for rips or tears. There were none.

"Who are you?"

He shook off the question as if unimportant and moved his head to indicate I should come with him. I did, not bothering to look at the man lying on the ground behind us or to wonder about the events which had just passed. The answers, I knew, lay ahead.

"I've got some good news and some bad news," he said as I tried to match his stride. "The good news is that you won't have to worry about making that last car payment."

There's no escape, I thought, shaking my head dully. Everywhere you go, on either side of life, everybody's a comedian.

A car's headlights suddenly illuminated our steps and a vehicle pulled away from the curb. It was grey-colored in the night, a late model junker with square body, and it was heading toward us. The long-haired, bearded driver gave no look of recognition as he came closer. I thought for a crazy second that it was the Devil, come to pick up another lost soul, and a wave of panic overtook me. But the man at my side showed no concern, so when the car touched–and then drove through--the both of us, I was not surprised. I took a backwards glance as it drove off. Two large red taillights glowed like the back of an amusement park rocket, burning in a night's flight.

There was a diner ahead that I had never seen before, with red and purple neon lights surrounding a sign I couldn't read. It was brightly lit inside, with plenty of accompanying movement seen through the windows. As we reached the front the sign became legible. _Weigh Station_. Stupid name for an eatery, I thought. There were no trucks in the neighborhood. Perhaps its name held the promise of large portions. A smaller neon sign on the door spelled: OPEN. The man took two quick steps to grab the door and hold it for me. I went in and stood near another sign: _Please Seat Yourself_. The man motioned me to follow as he walked through the crowded restaurant. Half the people at each table, I noticed, looked dazed, as if they'd just been stuck with the bill.

He found an empty booth and I slid in across from him.

"Coffee?"

"Huh? Yeah."

He motioned to a waitress, who came over with pot in hand. She was blonde, beautiful, and smiling as if she expected a big tip.

"Morning, Cindy," he said.

"Morning," she said, filling the cups. "Morning," she said to me.

I nodded.

"Give us a couple minutes."

I took a sip. Hot, dark, satisfying, almost sweet enough. I held it to my lips and face for a while, letting the heat flow about me, then grabbed the sugar container and began pouring. "You never did finish," I said.

"Finish what?"

"What you were saying before."

He waited.

"You said you had good news and bad news."

"Yeah."

"What's the bad news?"

He stared, puzzled, then threw back his head and laughed deep and loud while no one turned to look.

CHAPTER THREE

ANNO DOMINI

The man's name was Rollins.

He already knew mine.

My mouth was open to speak but words were slow in coming. Rollins must have sensed it. He handed me a plastic menu from inbetween the salt and pepper shakers.

"Hungry?"

"Not really," I said, but my stomach burbled at the laminated pictures.

Rollins motioned the waitress back. "I'll have the number seven. With fries."

She nodded, scribbling, looked at me, waiting.

I scanned the pages. "Grinder, with everything. For starters."

She nodded again, scribbled, scampered.

"Come here often?" I asked.

"Every now and then," he said. "You?"

I looked around the diner. It seemed vaguely familiar yet I was sure I had never been there before. The faces were just faces; some calmly compassionate, some blankly confused. "Not that I remember." I turned back to him. Calmly compassionate. "I guess I'm dead."

"Very."

"It's odd, I don't feel dead."

"You will."

"I don't feel anything."

"You will."

"How should I feel?"

"The way you do, for now."

"Is everyone like this?"

"I don't meet everyone."

"No, I mean," I said, my mind muddled, "the ones you do meet...are they like me?"

"Everybody's different."

"How 'bout the ones that aren't."

"I haven't met any of them yet."

I scowled at his clarity. "Were you and I married in a different life?"

"In the next, I hope."

"Aren't we supposed to...?" I trailed off, getting no help from his expressionless face.

"What?"

"I don't know. Go somewhere."

"Before breakfast?"

"No, I mean..."

"Oh, go somewhere," he repeated. "Turn left at the register, second door..."

"No, no," I stammered, my mind playing catch-up with my mouth. "What I mean is, this can't be it."

"This can't be what?"

"The end of the line, the end of the trail. The last round-up, the last kiss, the big sleep, doggie heaven. There's got to be something more at the end of life than a greasy spoon. This isn't even All-You-Can-Eat. There's got to be more."

"Such as?"

"Paradise, heaven, Asgard. Something."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? Because...because there must be." I argued foolishly. "This place isn't even that big. It can't be just life and a sandwich."

"They make pretty good sandwiches," Rollins said.

"It can't end at nothing."

His tone was low. "You used to think so."

"Well, I've changed my mind," I said, my own voice rising. I cleared my throat, forcing things calm. "Besides, if there weren't, then you wouldn't be here. You're proof there's something more."

"What do you think is more? Heaven?"

"Yes." I said quickly and with as much conviction as I could. Maybe conviction counted for something in this dimension.

"What about hell?"

"No," I said even more quickly, in case that counted for something as well.

"How come one and not the other?"

"Well," I said, forming a fast philosophy. "I always thought hell was what you made of life on earth. That is, as good as life can be, compared to heaven it's still hell. So that heaven would be the afterlife and hell would be, you know, before the after. Right?"

"Interesting."

"Am I close?"

"To hell?"

"No."

"That life on earth is hell?"

"Exactly."

"It can be hell for some," he said. "Your wife, for instance."

"That," I said, "isn't funny."

He wasn't smiling. "Some people's lives come pretty close to hell. Mainly by their own doing."

"So I am right."

"No."

"Then--"

He shook me off. "For some people, the life they have on earth is the closest they'll come to heaven. For others, it's the closest they'll come to hell. Understand?"

"No."

"Haven't you read Emily Dickinson? If hell is earth, then what's heaven?"

I shrugged. "Trees, birds, clouds, harp music. Rest...beside the still waters. Like that."

He nodded back.

"So there is a heaven?"

"Of course."

"But no hell," I said.

"How can there be one without the other?"

"You've seen them both?"

"A lot of heaven," he said. "There's too much to see in one eternity. But I haven't seen much of hell. What I saw was enough."

"What was it like?"

"Which?"

"Hell."

He sat back. "Funny you'd want to know what that was like and not the other," he said. "Hot. Thirsty. Loud. Painfully loud," he said, wincing. "You don't want to know too much about what hell's like. Or who was there you might know."

A shudder pushed me back in the booth. I suddenly had no more questions needing answers. I just wanted to sit and not think.

"Anything else?" he prodded.

I shook my head.

"Don't you want to know what comes next?"

I shook my head.

"Good," he said, smiling. "Because we've got lots of time to kill. All the time in the world. And we're waiting."

"For what?"

For a moment I thought he hadn't heard, the way he looked at me blankly. But he was thinking, maybe formulating an answer. Maybe in this dimension there was so much time everything took longer. Maybe he was teaching me a lesson about patience. Maybe he had gas. Or maybe he was as confused as I was; maybe it was his first day, too.

"Well, what are we waiting for?"

He looked over my shoulder "Breakfast."

Cindy appeared in front of us and put the food on the table and I suddenly lost my desire for answers. I dove into my plate, stuffing my mouth before giving myself a chance to swallow, dissolving bites with coffee as I went. Nothing had ever tasted better, smelled better, was more filling and fulfilling, leaving me energized instead of bloated. Taking the last crumb bite moments later I noticed Rollins' plate was empty as well, though I hadn't seen him raise a fork.

Cindy came back. "Anything else?"

"Just the bill, Cindy," he said.

I wiped my mouth.

"Good?"

"Good."

"Good."

"Are we still waiting?"

He nodded.

"For dessert?" I asked hopefully.

He shook his head.

"Then what, exactly?"

His eyes looked into mine. "Direction."

I felt chilled.

"What do you mean, direction?"

"Direction," he repeated. "You know...up, down."

The chill spread throughout my body. I rubbed my hands on my pants. My stomach juices began to boil and I quietly cursed the salami. "Is there a chance...that it could beI mean, there isn't another choice? Just two?"

Rollins was deathly silent. A shadow moved across his face. It was as if death hovered...

I pushed my plate away in horror. "My God, was this my last meal?"

He said nothing, but the silence was ominous. It hit me then that life was finally over. Thoughts raced through my mind; of all the places I'd never go, things I'd never accomplish, people I'd never see. Two faces stood preeminence. Tyler and Tina. I would never again be able to hold Tina in passionate embrace or toss Tyler high in the air while silly laughter bubbled out of his mouth. I'd never be there for another goodnight kiss. I'd never be able to read him a book or play ball in the back yard. I wouldn't be there to see the stages of his life as he grew from childhood to adolescence to manhood. I wouldn't be there for the every day problems of homework or relationships, or to lend him money for a new toy or a new girl or a new car. I wouldn't be there for his wedding, or to hold other children--his children, my grandchildren—and watch them grow. I'd never be able to put any of them on my knee, either generation, and pass along the things I knew.

Everything I Know About Life I Learned When I Was Dead.

"It's too late for me, isn't it?"

He leaned forward. "What are you thinking?"

He had become a blur through the tears. "If I had another lifetime I couldn't tell you all the things I'm thinking. And what difference would it make? I don't have another lifetime and it's too late for last minute wishes. If, for your whole life, you didn't have a prayer, what good would a last, desperate cry do? All I have are regrets. If I could only go back and see my son one last time or hug Tina and tell her all the things I wanted to say for so long, but couldn't through the arguing. But it's too, too damn late. Rollins." I reached over the table and grabbed his wrist. "Isn't there any hope? Isn't there room in heaven for one last wish? One last prayer? It can't end this way."

He turned his arms, breaking my grip, holding his hands flatly. "I have nothing to give but what's given me."

I looked at his calloused hands, the roughness, the depth of the dark crevices...his lifeline began to pulse. I pulled back from the table. "Are you the angel of death? The Grim Reaper?" I wiped my hands on my napkin frantically.

He laughed. "In a diner? Nothing so dramatic," he answered. "Besides, you're already dead. But if you could go back, if you had that one chance...what would you do?"

"Be with my son," I said. "Hold him forever. Hold my wife. Squeeze them until I could feel their hearts beating in my chest. Tell them I love them and that I would always be there to protect them."

"Anything else?"

"No."

He looked unconvinced. "What else?"

I shook my head. "Nothing. Not a thing. Nothing else. What else could there be? That's the only thing I've ever...wanted–"

Words fell away as his dark eyes drew me inside. I stared open-mouthed, as I entered the black holes and was encased in darkness. A tiny spark began to dance lightly in the distance, then began feeding on the blackness, eating the edges until it burned all around me. It turned into a roaring fire that I encouraged with insane laughter. A primitive rumbling came from the depths of my being and the laughter turned into a growling chant as any sorrow or regret turned to embers by the howling rage. A figure appeared in the smoke, an outline, but as it came closer my soul testified to its identity, and when within reach I grabbed it by the neck. Its thrashing caused no pain as it flailed, for being nothing human it could do no damage and I simply held it at arms length as it fought for breath. With a sudden twist of my hands all resistance ceased and I tossed the thing into the fire.

My eyes refocused and sanity returned. "Yeah," I said. "There is something else. I'd like to find the bastard who killed me. I'd like to hunt him down and take away everything he took from me. I want to make him feel the emptiness I feel. I want him to know pain and loss and look into his eyes as his life seeps away. I want every day he lives to be a horrible reminder of what he stole from me. I want him to be so terrified of life that he would beg for the mercy of a torturous death."

I slammed both fists on the table. "How could I have been so stupid? I trained myself to be alert, to notice the unnoticeable, to hear every sound, only to have some vermin shoot me in the back. If I could find the son of a bitch I'd break every bone in his body. How could I have been so stupid?"

"I guess you were preoccupied from the night's activities."

"What?" His eyes, normal, still penetrated. "Oh, yeah, I suppose," I mumbled to the window. "But that's one thing I would do...find who killed me."

"Trace," Rollins said, almost inaudibly, "we already know who killed you."

My head turned as if slapped. "Hey, that's right! You guys know everything. Tell me: who did it? Who killed me? I'll make him wish he had never—"

Rollins was shaking his head.

"No?" I said. "No, what?"

"You don't need to know who killed you."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because it doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter!" I stood abruptly, rattling the table with my thighs. "Maybe not to you, but it sure as hell matters to me. Some son-of-a-bitch bastard kills me and all you can say is that it doesn't matter! My life is over. Is there no justice in heaven?"

"There's only justice in heaven."

"Well, then?"

"You're not in heaven yet," he said.

"My life was taken unjustly. Something's got to be done. Someone's got to pay for it." I wanted to hit something. I hoped he wouldn't stand with me and he didn't. He just watched with the same non-expression. I breathed heavily for a while, then less so, and finally sat down. "How can you say my life didn't matter?" I tapped my cup with my spoon, not looking up. "Was I so insignificant?"

"Of course not. No one is. When you get to where I am you'll understand what I meant. Once you're here, everything about life will seem...insignificant."

I slouched. "Well, like you said, I'm not thereyet," I added. "How is my family going to get along without me? I didn't have much life insurance, no money in the bank, and Tina hasn't worked in years. They'll lose the house, the car, everything."

"They'll be taken care of."

"By who?"

"People."

Faces flashed before my eyes. Relatives. Deadbeats. Friends. What friends? Male friends. Waiting for an opportunity. You have no friends after you're dead. "Who?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Rollins, nobody could take care of them better than I could. I need to see them again. I need to protect them."

"From what?"

"From...I don't know...maybe the person who killed me."

"There's no going back."

"Then, why can't I be like you? You're some kind of angel, right?"

"No. People don't become angels."

"Rollins, I need to be with them." I was pleading. "Isn't there a way?"

Cindy came back to the table, smiling as she handed Rollins the bill. "Thank you, gentlemen," she said, gathering plates, giving me a wink. "Come again."

Rollins looked curiously at the paper as if studying the words.

"What is it?"

"It seems--," he began, then stopped and slid out of the booth.

"What?"

"It seems you're getting that chance."

"To do what?"

"Fulfill your heart's desire."

"Great!" I said. "Wait. What does that mean? What is it?"

"Just what you said it was."

"Which time?"

He tapped my head with a forefinger. "Think. What is your heart's desire?"

"Money and a harem?"

This time he hit my head. "That's not your heart talking. No, you're getting the opportunity to take care of your family. Again."

I slapped my hands. "Yes, great! Thanks, Rollins."

"I had nothing to do with it."

"Then, thanks whoever. So how does it start? Do I become an angel, like you?"

"I'm not an angel."

"Like their guardian angel?"

"Something like that." His mouth moved thoughtfully. "Not really."

"Great! What do I do?"

"You'll find out all you need to know when it's time."

I stood and shook his hand. "Thanks, I won't let you down."

"Hmm," he said, pulling his hand back.

"But I want to find the guy who killed me, too." I said, feeling bold. _Ask and you shall receive_. I remembered that one from childhood.

He hesitated. "You might find that out along the way, though it might not bring you the peace you're looking for."

"But it might bring closure."

"Trace, you're dead. You've had as much closure as a person gets."

"So what are you talking about?"

"Maybe I misspoke," he said. "When I said you were getting a chance, what I should have said was that you're getting a choice."

"A choice to do what?"

"Trace, you're at a crossroads. You have the choice to either move on, or stay here."

"Move on?"

"Forward. On your journey."

"Or stay with my family? Tough decision. I'll stay with them."

"I appreciate your passion and devotion," he said with an expression that said the opposite. "But before you make your decision, know two things. If you decide to stay here, it will be for a time."

"A time? What's a time? How long?"

"It's always different. It depends."

"On what?"

"On situations, on the person making the decision. It could be long, it could be short. But you won't know, ever, until it's over. Understand?"

I nodded. "No."

"And you won't understand," he said, "until later. The second thing is: realize that nothing is in your control, but nothing is out of control. Things will happen that you may not like, but all things work to the good."

"What things?"

"Life," he said. "Life will happen."

"Rollins, you're speaking in riddles."

"Listen. The same things that happened when you were alive will happen when you're not. God works it all to the good, but you may not like the method."

I pursed my lips.

Rollins said: "Let me explain it another way. Every man must die, right?"

"Sure," I said. "Everybody has to die."

"Right. Everybody has to die. Everyone knows that. Everyone agrees on it. But no one appreciates the timing. You knew you had to die someday, but you believe you died too soon."

"Before my time."

"When was your time?"

"I don't know," I said. "Longer than it was. Believe me, no one was more surprised than me when I died. I always thought I'd live a long life. See?" I showed him my own lifeline. It seemed shorter than I remembered..

"You hoped you would," Rollins said. "But you didn't know. All you knew was that one day you would die. And one day you did. Today. It will happen that way again. People will die, and you won't like it."

"What are you saying? Who's going to die?"

"Lis-ten," he said again, drawing out the pronunciation with a firm hand on my shoulder. "Things you don't want to happen will, and you'll have to be a part of it. Before you decide on what you want to do right now, take my advice: if you aren't sure which direction to go, go toward God."

I pushed his hand off. "My decision's made, and the sooner I start the better. The rest is all spiritual gobbledy-gook. I'm staying."

He shrugged. "All right. Forget I said a word." He turned and started walking. "You'll remember later."

I followed him up to the register and we waited for someone to ring us up.

"Does this happen a lot?" I asked. "Do they generally make exceptions to people?"

"Rarely."

"Why me?"

"The love you have for your son," he said. "That's part of it. You'd die for him, if you could."

"In a second."

"God understands a father's love for his son. He had a son, you know."

"So I heard," I said, exploring the mint jar. "What's the other part?"

"A promise. A promise you made."

"When?"

"A long time ago. You made a promise to God."

"I never did."

A man with gray hair and a warm smile came from the back wearing a tux, definitely overdressed for the diner. "Gentlemen," he said, "I hope everything was satisfactory."

"Very decent," Rollins said, handing him the bill.

The man took it and impaled it on a miniature metal spear on the counter that held other papers in its grip. "Paid in full. Thank you both. And good luck to you, sir." He said the last to me, then disappeared into the back.

"Let's go," Rollins said.

"Wait. The promise. I don't remember any promise."

"A long time ago," he said, "in a church where you grew up. Big, grey, stone. It scared you."

"I remember," I said. "A huge place. Big wooden doors. Almost like a castle. Cold as one."

"What else do you remember?"

"Ominous, oppressive." I shuddered. "And boring. Made me want to never go back."

"You went to Sunday school."

The memory brought a smile. "That was different. A lot of kids I knew from my neighborhood went there. It was downstairs in the basement. Half a basement...it led out to the playground."

"What else?"

"Colored a lot of pictures. Played outside a lot. There was a slide and swings and a sandbox. Made me want to play rather than be in church."

"Think back," he said, and touched my head.

And suddenly I was there, in the midst of a long discarded memory brought to the front of my mind. Five years old, sitting at a desk. I wore black pants and shoes with a white shirt and a red clip-on bow tie, a little man coloring a picture of an empty cave with a big rock nearby and two angels on each side. I was coloring the angels yellow. There was the taste of chocolate in my mouth. It was Easter.

"See?" Rollins said from far off.

"It's me."

"That was the day. Over thirty years ago on a day like all the rest in a small room in the basement of a church you didn't even like...you heard the story and believed."

"I had forgotten."

"God didn't. There's power when a child gives his heart to God."

"It was a long time ago. I didn't know what I believed."

"Look at him," Rollins said. The boy who was me showed his finished work to the teacher, a pleasant woman who smiled and praised it loudly. "You understood back then. But as you got older you learned too much to remain so ignorant. Funny, isn't it? You had more wisdom at five than you've had since."

The memory and the picture and the classroom and the little boy began fading. I wished for a moment I could stay with them, back when it was safe and fun and new. Before it disappeared completely the boy turned and maybe waved me goodbye as I opened my eyes and found myself back in the diner.

I stood there for a moment, eyes refocusing, as Rollins spoke.

"You just forgot where you came from, is all," he said. "I'm here to show you the way back. But first, there's work to do."

I felt woozy. "My head hurts."

He handed me a toothpick and stuck one between his teeth. "Just wait," he said, and we walked out of the diner and into the night.

CHAPTER FOUR

JIM

So that was then. So this was now. So I was doing what I was told, following Teresa as she meandered down the sidewalk. And Rollins had been right; my head still hurt.

She looked better from behind, I had to give her that. Most women do. All hookers do. I suppose she would have been considered attractive in a different day: Halloween, say. Or in another age: the Stone Age, perhaps. There's a reason hookers come out at night, but she was good enough in the light for a car with two teenage boys inside. They slowed, pacing her, gathering nerve. Teresa looked over and smiled. The kid closest said something unintelligible, stuck out his tongue. She waved. 'Come on over.' Even on the way home there would be time to break in a rookie or two. But they weren't that brave, not yet, and the car moved down the boulevard.

Across another street, down another block, further from civilization. Between a tire store and a furniture outlet were two rows of dirty, rust-stucco box buildings. Hi-Way Inn a sign read, a remnant reminder of when the road had been the main thoroughfare through town, before the freeway rumbling in the distance had brought deterioration. She walked onto the broken asphalt drive between the boxes and past three sets of bungalows before stopping at the last to open the door and let us in.

It was a pit. Even the roof seemed to sag. It was basically one big room which the different types of flooring separated into the different living areas. Dirty rust carpet: living room. Scratched and stained white linoleum: dining room. Stained and greasy white linoleum: kitchen. Another square of golf course green carpet was the hallway, leading to the bedroom and bath. A kitchen table, couch and coffee table were the extent of the furniture. Early Dumpster decor.

Teresa dropped her belongings onto the table and opened the refrigerator.

It was then he came in from the bedroom.

"You're early." He wore a dirty t-shirt and a thick leather belt around his ripped jeans and a red calico bandanna around his head, giving outline to his blond hair and long beard. Half-biker, half-Indian. Probably neither.

She shrugged without turning.

"How much?"

She shrugged again, wearily indicating the table with her eyes.

He grabbed her bag and jammed his hand inside, removing bills and counting. "Seventy-five?"

She said nothing.

He breathed out disgust, stuffed the money into his pants, and walked back to the bedroom.

She turned back to the refrigerator, scanned the shelves, picked up a Coke, put it back, shut the door. He should have been happy. Her one customer that morning had been fast and free with the cash; a twice-around-the-block with a short, fat sales type with delusions of glandular whose sweat beaded out of every pore, dripping onto Teresa's hair and soaking his dress shirt. I gathered by the approach and subsequent conversation that he was a semi-regular, and he had the usual clichés down pat.

"Oh, baby, you missed this, didn't you? You were waiting for me, weren't you? I told you I'd come back for you, now take it, take it!"

And all without running a light or over a pedestrian before reaching the stretch and taking the checkered. I was sure he'd have a heart attack before the finish, with his face beet red and other things beat purple. But this was his time to shine, to imagine himself a giant amongst dwarfs, and when he recovered I could already see the change in stature--despite diminishing returns--as he was taken to a place where short was tall and fat was svelte and an inch was the same as a foot. Just a poor sap who needed to let off a little froth now and then to prove he was alive. And the seventy-five bucks Teresa earned in that ten minute span–and she earned it--was the equivalent of $450 an hour in the corporate world, or $3,600 for an eight-hour shift, or $18,000 for the week with weekends off, or $900,000 a year with two weeks for Christmas. For the first time I was jealous of the hooker and not the john, for she was well on her way to wealth and the good life. She just needed more customers, and word of mouth, after all...

He came back fully dressed, which meant boots. He ran his hands through his hair and fixed it into a pony tail. He stroked his beard and mustache.

"I'm going out."

She squirmed. "I'm not feeling good."

He stopped at the door without turning. "Then you'll have to do better than seventy-five."

He left the door open as he strutted off. Teresa stood until he was gone from sight and a few minutes more before walking over to close the door. She walked slowly into the bedroom and over to the closet and knelt down. Pushing clothes and shoes aside, she reached until she touched the back wall, felt something and pulled. A small square of previously cut drywall came off in her hand. She reached into the hole behind it and took out a glass pipe and set on a chair nearby, then reached in again, finding a plastic bag half full of individually rolled cigarettes. She took out two and put the bag and wall and clothes and shoes back where they'd been, got up and clumsily knocked the chair, tipping the pipe which fell to the floor and broke in half.

Her face froze in panic, and she dropped the cigarettes and picked up the pipe. She held it gently, like a dead animal, biting her bottom lip, then turned and removed the drywall and put the pipe in the hole and put the drywall back. She pushed more clothes against it, then picked up the pot and left the room.

She went back to the couch and sat down and lit one of the cigarettes. It was then I noticed how much her hands were trembling.

It took a joint and a half before the shaking stopped and she could close her eyes. I suppose the pot could have been called medicinal, but it was a mere placebo to her. She needed something stronger to do what she did day after day, and the signs she exhibited since I'd known her all pointed to meth. Who could blame her; she needed help keeping that fixed smile on her face. But at the moment she was looking to go down, not up.

After a while she nodded off, head rolling to rest on the back of the couch. I killed time looking around. His name was Jim, I discovered from various pictures and papers. Other things: this was not the first place they had lived together; he once owned a Harley; she once played guitar; they rarely did laundry and when they did it was in the bathroom sink; she liked horses; was brought up Catholic; had very dry skin and wished she were dead.

Amazing what you could learn without touching anything or anyone, but I'd lived my life doing both and all those facts were gathered by simple observation. Except her wishing she were dead...instinct told me that. No, common sense.

I sat and watched her sleep. The smoke was dissipating, mercifully, letting the original urine/pesticide/cigarette stench of the place fill the room. She breathed in, she breathed out. She drooled slightly out of the corner of her mouth. Detective work had taught me patience. Eternity gave it a whole new meaning.

So I reflected on the task at hand. I'd seen dozens of these motels, hundreds of hookers, and there had to be people in the world more worthy of my time. Why her? I wondered. Why not? I supposed. She was the one, as Rollins said, that I would make the most important person in my life and stay with every waking, and non-waking, moment. But for what? Was she the key to the future of the world? Did she possess the knowledge which would somehow save the planet from a collision with an errant asteroid? Was she the illegitimate daughter of a former President, the result of a tete-a-tete between himself and the wife of a South American dictator, discarded at birth but soon to be an unwilling and unwitting pawn in a plot involving drug wars, arms dealing and attempted assassination?

Or was she simply a methed-out mess of a pot-headed prostitute, with more past behind than future ahead, living each day the same until she was found on the street, still standing, still smiling, still waiting for the next customer without realizing life had left with the last john and the only thing coming was the heavenly trolley to take her to that big street corner in the sky.

Whatever the reason, I was just thankful to be involved.

The afternoon was all but gone before she stirred again. A few minutes later she opened her eyes and stared at me without moving her body or head. I waved my hand in front of her face foolishly, but she wasn't seeing anything right then, or maybe seeing too much.

Jim came in the door and stopped, focusing his eyes. The perfect couple. He was drunk or stoned. He stopped and stared. "Why aren't you out?"

"I'm going now," she said, got up, fell back, stayed there.

He staggered a few steps, straightened as if with dignity, and walked into the bedroom. Moments later there was the anguished cry of a bull that had just lost its oysters. He came storming out holding the two pieces of the pipe in his hands and the bag of joints under one arm.

"You took some stuff."

Teresa leaned away. "I didn't."

"And this?" He held it out with the same look Teresa had when she had picked it off the floor.

"It was an acci–"

He grabbed her and slapped her across the face, snapping her head back. "I told you to never touch my stuff."

He grabbed a clump of Teresa's hair, pulling her to her feet and throwing her at the wall in the same motion. She hit hard, sliding back to the floor and gasping for breath. He reached down and slapped the top of her head, then picked her up and threw her face forward onto the couch. Blood appeared at her mouth and she tried to get up but he pushed her back.

"Don't!"

"Shut up!" he yelled. "You deserve this."

In what seemed one motion, he had his pants off and her skirt up and panties down and was trying to have sex with her as she cried and bled onto the couch. But he couldn't. The only thing worse than forcing yourself on a woman, I guessed, was the inability to. After thrusts of trying, he began hitting her with his fists on her back and Teresa's cries came out with a sort of jungle rhythm as they were expelled from her chest. And since he couldn't use his own equipment, he used other things, beginning with that same fist. When he reached for a knife I felt it prudent to leave.

I'd seen worse, but never so close or without a tub of popcorn. I walked out the door, leaving the love birds their nest. Rollins was sitting on the bottom step and I hit him with the screen door as I came outside.

"Oh, you finally decided to show up."

"I've been here," he said.

"What are you doing out here?"

"What are _you_ doing out here?"

"Little miss echo," I said, stretching, scanning the surroundings. The parking lot courtyard was quiet, and the cars speeding by on the main road created a steady hum that seemed to nullify life itself. The muffled cries and yells I heard behind blended into the hum to become unrecognizable. Like the waves of an ocean to people lucky enough to live so close, it created a soothing resonance never noticed unless all else were to be suddenly capped silent, and that never happened. Everything fell into the black hole of white noise; whether it was a laugh, or a cry, or a scream, or the tinkling glass of a broken pipe. Nothing was ever heard.

Or seen.

Maybe that was part of the--

"You need to stay with her."

–part of the psyche of the city, as well. Part of the gestalt. The white noise had its accompanying visual void, as well--white light--into which all action fell. The same laughter, screams or slaps would never been seen, becoming part of the visual fog with no more or less importance than any particular car passing by. Since no sound contained the human intensity to reach above the hum line, no human activity would rise above, either. In the safe suburbs it would bring the police, and fast. Here it was the ignored routine.

"Go back in there with Teresa."

Consequently, this was the birthplace of all the late night news clichés. "A body was found..." "An apparent murder..." "Another shooting..." Because of the deafness and blindness, no one saw and no one heard and no one noticed. And no one cared.

Of course, if someone happened to break your pipe or take some of your drugs, your opinion of that theory might differ.

I sat down. The early morning cloud cover was burning away and the asphalt was baking, sending up waves. Even Rollins was sweating, though it looked to be in exasperation.

"She's not out here," he said.

I motioned with my head. "They're having a private moment."

"You still need to stay with her."

"I'll wait till they're done."

He stared at me in silent expectation.

"Why?" I said. "Why do I need to be in there right now? To witness that?"

"Because of that. You need to see what her life is really like."

"I read 'Little Women.' I get the jist. So did she." I laughed.

"You need to see what she goes through."

"Thanks, but no thanks. Besides, if won't make any difference. It's the whole–" I indicated the surroundings, "–it's the whole gestalt of the thing."

He pursed his lips. "You need to gestalt your butt back in there."

"Hah. Bad joke."

"It's nothing you haven't seen before."

"And nothing I want to see again."

"And it's nothing you haven't done before."

I snorted dismissively. "Yeah, right." His face had a blank expectancy. "What?"

"Go back inside."

"Why?"

"Maybe you'll see your reflection in Jim's face."

"Whatever that means."

"What do you think it means?"

"I think it means I'm wasting my time. This is idiotic. I could be with my family and I'm stuck here. What is this all about, anyway? I already know how whores live."

"I thought you would have noticed the parallels."

"To what?"

"Their life, your life."

I leaned away, glaring. "Are you trying to tick me off? Between our lives?" I leaned back. "Yeah, now that you mention it, I do see the parallels... because parallel lines never meet. So I agree, one-hundred percent."

"They're not so different."

I made a deep, guttural grunt of warning.

He remained unfazed. "It's right in front of you."

His face looked serious enough, but I also knew he sometimes said things to get a rise. It was working. "Rollins, you don't know what my life was like. You said so yourself. There's no question I've seen a lot of this type of thing. In my line of work you couldn't help not. But I've only seen it. That–" I began, looking into the bungalow, then I shook my head and waved off the rest.

"You've just forgotten."

I stood up, taking a breath. "Rollins, the difference between them and me is like night and day, good and bad, or, if I may be so bold, black and white."

He stood, brushing off his pants. He looked me in the eye and said again, gently, "You've just forgotten."

I pushed my finger in his chest. "I didn't forget anything. You don't know. Why do you think I want my life back if it was so horrible? Now, if this had been my life...my lie...my wife..."

Words started forming on their own, then falling off my lips as if bouncing on jelly. I reached up to move them but they felt numb as if full of Novocain. I began to feel dull and drowsy and wondered if somehow the drugs I'd been around were having affect. I squinted. He had an out-of-focus, mocking smile that tilted in the sunlight. His hand reached out to me slowly. I tried to push it away but found my arms stuck to my sides, my brain no longer controlling my actions, and he put his hand to my chest and gave it the slightest push.

I left the ground and floated backwards up the steps and through the door and into the bungalow. I came to a stop standing over Teresa who was kneeling on the carpet and holding her face and heaving out tears onto the carpet. I could hear Jim in the back bedroom, and as I turned toward the noise the hallway suddenly began to close. I watched with stupid wonder. A breeze blew through the room and the clapping of the screen door made me look over dully to see it close, becoming solid, then popping out as if it were a children's book to become a shower. Windows closed, furniture dissolved, the wall moved inward. The girl at my feet blurred, transformed, and became someone more familiar. A feeling of anxiety filled my chest, a loud slap took my energy and my right hand began to throb.

I squeezed my eyes shut and forced a tremor through my body to shake me back to reality, then opened them again to find myself in a place I no longer wished to see and could no longer touch.

CHAPTER 5

FIVE MINUTES BEFORE

I stood over my wife in shocked surprise. She lay on the bathroom floor of our home, holding her face as tears seeped through her fingers to drip on the carpet. I wondered inanely what she was doing down there, but the trembling of my arms and the stinging in my right hand were a painful reminder. Overcome by a surge of anger, I'd hit her with the back of my hand and she'd fallen and now we were both too stunned to move or speak.

Foolish thoughts came into my mind: all the hours I'd spent on the tennis courts perfecting my backhand; relief that Tina hadn't hit her head on the toilet or tub; stupid pride that I had been able to hold back at the point of contact to keep the force of the slap in check; all the other times I'd been on the brink of hitting her--all the other times she had deserved it--but had restrained myself. Until now.

Thoughts less foolish followed; of police, lawyers, jail, anger management classes. Amazing how a simple action could change the path of your life, no matter how you might diminish that action in your mind and hoped others would do the same. But there was no time for regret or wishing what might have been or what might soon be, there was only blocking out the now and moving on to any possible future we had together. Still, I couldn't help wondering how Tina and I had come so far and endured so much to be so close to the end...

..when only...

...five minutes before she had brushed by, shoving me with her elbow as I stood blocking the bathroom door. Too angry to express anything but hatred, she turned to the sink, teeth clenched.

"Get out of here!" She grabbed everything she could from the counter and threw them at me one by one as I let them fly by without moving until the counter was empty and there was nothing left to throw and nothing left for her to do except take two steps forward and slap me in the face as hard as she could as I stood stunned until she did it again and I felt the sting of anger and drew back my arm...

...and five minutes before that, arguing in the bedroom about money and sex and no relationship because I was never home and I didn't need her or sex anyway since I was out all night doing God knew what with God knew who...

...and five minutes before, coming into the bedroom and seeing her sitting in bed reading a book about English gardens, feeling the tender warmth of love which still existed between us after so long, until she looked up with an expression that changed from annoyance to anger to the cold hatred which still existed between us after so long...

...and five minutes before, tucking Tyler into his bed, feeling those chubby arms around my neck after waking him by walking clumsily down the dark hall. Perhaps, at this young age, he had already made himself into a light sleeper in case dad came home. Opening his door and seeing him awake and holding him tight, then pulling the covers to his chin and calming his fears of the night...everything would be fine and dad would always be there, sealed like a promise with a goodnight kiss to his forehead before closing the door to all but a sliver of light...

...and five minutes before...giving the car door a push and letting it shut behind me as I stumbled, aching, up to the house, trying to leave any thoughts or memories or tastes or smells back with the stains on the driveway or on the bed before that...trying to shake off the night quickly on the too short walk to the house and my family.

...and five minutes before...and five minutes before...and five and five and five...a whole handful of fives, one for each finger...holding another, head dulled by the taste of alcohol and shame of sobriety, bucking like a bull as the peak of our passion drove us to a frenzy, then more dullness as it ended and we lay in each other's arms on the bed with eyes closed, holding tight while thinking of others who might love us for five minutes or more.

Then, ending the embarrassed embrace and stopping the backwards movement of the clock—pushing the hands in the right direction—forward--in a mad rush to the end.

Five minutes later...in the shower...

...and five minutes later...drying off, getting dressed....

...and five minutes later...back to the bedroom to find her asleep, or pretending....

...and five minutes later...leaving her house and heading for home....

...and five minutes later...five minutes later...another handful of fives...pulling up to the curb, knowing as I turned off the motor and rubbed my face that my day had yet to begin.

Five minutes later opening the door slowly, hoping against hope that everyone would be asleep in the house, then seeing lights and knowing otherwise.

Five minutes later running water under my son's toothbrush in the front bathroom as mine was elsewhere, trying to quietly scrape the dead taste from my mouth.

Five minutes later hearing a voice calling out gently as I walked down the hallway. My son, still awake, calling out.

"Dad. Dad, is that you?"

I opened the door, already cracked a sliver, and peered into his darkened room. "Yes. Yes, it's me."

"You didn't kiss me."

I felt for the switch, thought better, stepped on a stuffed animal and thought better again. I flipped the switch and lit the room.

Tyler was sitting up in bed, his eyes squinting painfully at me through the brightness. I squinted back, head throbbing, and tried not to fall over as I picked up the animal under my foot. I carried it to his bed.

"My teddy," he said, stretching out his arms and hugging it tight. I sat down beside him. "Are you just getting home?"

"Yup."

"Did you bring me anything?"

My mind quickly inventoried my pockets. A ten-dollar bill, three quarters, a restaurant receipt in one. A bullet, pen, condom in the other. No gum, no candy, no toys.

"Just me."

"Awww."

"Isn't that enough?"

He hugged me along with his teddy. "I love you, dad."

"I love you, too." I squeezed him, my face wet on his damp hair. He'd been sweating. "You're hot. Don't you feel good?"

He shook his head. "I never have good dreams."

I looked into his five-year-old face, one that never had good dreams. "How come?"

"I always have bad dreams."

"About what?"

"I don't know," he said, closing his eyes, which made me think he did know, but maybe if he didn't think about them all the bad things would go away. I understood. I'd spent a lifetime doing the same. "But they scare me."

I held him tight. "Never be afraid. I'm here."

"I love you, dad."

"I love you, too."

He squeezed me tighter. "I'm never going to let you go."

I swallowed hard. "I'll never let you go, either."

For a moment that's all we did. Then he spoke. "Do you have to work tonight?"

"Yeah, dad's got to work tonight."

"I don't want you to leave."

"Dad's got to make money."

"Don't go, dad."

"I'll be back."

"I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"That you won't come back."

"I will, always."

"Don't go."

"I won't be long."

"Will you get me something?"

I smiled. "You know I will."

"What will you get me?"

"What do you want?"

He thought. "I don't know."

"I'll find something, just for you. Time for bed."

"Dad, don't go."

He put his arms around me, trying to encircle my body. How I wished they could. How I wished I didn't have to go, ever. How I wished at that moment I could be his size again, his age again, to never leave but to be five forever and to play with my boy forever and laugh again and to love the stupid important things of life again and to run together through the summer days and never have to worry about sex or money or clients or wives and be able to sleep through a whole night without bad dreams...

"Don't go, dad."

I had to pry his arms away and give him the promise of treats and the hope of love and family and togetherness before being able to rise. A kiss on the cheek, a tousle of the hair, a lie on the lips and a closing of the door, leaving the innocent in darkness.

And five minutes later, opening another door to the first love of my life. On the bed with her book, Tina looked so young, so fresh. There were the beginnings of lines in her forehead, the same under her eyes, but the time that had brought them was time we had shared together and it only added to her beauty. I wanted to jump in bed next to her and hold her and say, "Look, we were different once, long before today. We were in love and lived every day better than the last because we had each other and a whole lifetime of experiences ahead. Let's go back. Let's forgive and forget and bury the past and start at the beginning. I'll erase what's inbetween and cleanse my heart of the rest. You?"

But then she looked up at me and her face aged in an instant and I knew the beginning was long gone.

"I'm glad you decided to show up for a few minutes."

My stomach and jaw muscles tightened. "I'm here every night."

"Oh, yes, you stop by inbetween bars. I can smell you from here. I suppose you're going out again."

"I need to."

"Heaven forbid one of your needs goes unmet."

"It's what I do. It's what pays the bills. You knew that when you married me."

"You never worked this many nights before. Every night you're gone."

"The client wants her husband's every move monitored," I said honestly, editing the rest. "Which means every day and night, which means good, steady money."

"Which I never see."

"Which doesn't mean it isn't there," I said. "Look, you handle the checkbook, you should know--"

"How can I do anything when you don't get paid for weeks at a time?" She shut her book and threw it on the floor. "Do you know how many bills I have to juggle because of that? No, you don't, and you don't care."

I stood there helplessly, waiting for a break. None came.

"If you asked me one time what our budget for the month looked like I'd fall over dead."

"What's our budget for the month look like?"

"You think it's easy getting late notices with each bill?"

"Easy getting them or easy paying them?"

"I can never count on how much money you'll make..."

"You knew that when..." I started to say with hands outstretched. I suddenly realized I had already said the words and done the action. I dropped my hands. "Maybe you shouldn't have married me."

"There's no shouldn't's about it," she continued, and I turned away. "Don't you walk away from me," were the last words I heard before shutting the bathroom door.

I found myself shaking my head as I glanced in the mirror. Some people, I thought, confiding to myself with a smirk, never change. I squinted and looked closer. One of us was changing. It wasn't me, and the aging face in the mirror agreed. Pale, stubble, dark circles under the eyes. It had been a long day, and a long night. And it wasn't over. I thought about the night I had already had with Brenda Hewitt. I found my reflection grinning like the idiot he was.

The door opened and hit the wall. Tina stood with hands clenched fiercely and saw the grin before it left my face. "You think everything's a damn joke."

"Not everything."

"If you cared about anybody but yourself..."

"This again."

"If you ever dealt with any problems it wouldn't be 'this again'."

"No, it would be something else--again."

"You never listen."

"Never listen!" I said, throwing my hands in the air. "I've got it memorized. 'You're never here, you don't make enough money, you're a lousy father and worse husband...and you're ugly.' That about cover it?"

"Be glib," she said through her teeth, "but do it somewhere else." She pushed by me with her elbow and walked to the sink.

"I'll be gone in a few minutes," I said, opening a drawer and rummaging through it for no reason. "I need a few things first."

"No, get out. Now!"

I looked at her without interest. She grabbed the soap dish and threw it at me. It hit my left shoulder and fell on the scale on the floor. No weight. I sneered as she picked up the tissue box and hurled it, then a bag of potpourri, then a vase with a silk rose I'd given her in better days, better bathrooms. I flinched but held my ground when she threw that and it hit the wall and fell to the carpet without breaking. She started to storm out of the room and suddenly turned and slapped me in the face. Then she slapped me again.

The first one was a shock. The second brought nothing but rage. I cocked my right elbow over my left shoulder and brought the back of my hand across her face like the crack of a whip. Her head snapped backwards and she seemed to rise off of her feet in slow motion as her body followed the momentum of the blow. In that slowness my thoughts were lightning fast:

Her neck's broken.

She'll hit her head on the counter.

She'll die.

She'll hit her head on the toilet.

She's not insured.

She'll hit her head on the tub.

I'll go to jail.

Tyler...

But her body fell straight back and down and she landed harmlessly on the padded carpet.

I looked at her, then at my hand. It stung. It would leave a mark. There would be no hiding.

She cried for a few seconds, then stopped suddenly and glared up at me. "This time you've gone too far."

I thought of lies, excuses, apologies. None would save me in her eyes. I thought of reasons, justifications, defenses. All would save me in mine.

Without either, I hop-stepped over her and walked out, stopping outside Tyler's bedroom long enough to hear his deep breaths. Satisfied of his sleep, I went down the hall to the front door and out of the house, locking the door behind me.

Five minutes later found me driving through the dark streets and wondering what it was I had gone home for in the first place.

CHAPTER 6

HELL AGAIN

I was in the bungalow with Teresa; far removed from ethereal dimensions where time could be stretched for spiritual accommodation and back in the compartmentalized confines of a world where lives were lived between minutes and wasted over years.

She had made her way to the couch and was whimpering into the cushions as I sat beside her. Jim had long gone. The whole scene between the two of them had disturbed me, as had the scene between Tina and I. But it was their encounter which stayed in my mind. It wasn't so much the violence as the sex, for reasons I wished to avoid.

"What now?" I asked, not looking at Rollins who was still there, watching, not helping. I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of mentioning he might have been distantly right about the parallels. I knew he wouldn't bring it up.

"Talk to her."

"Will she hear?"

"She won't. But she will."

"I have nothing to say."

"Comfort her."

"How?"

"I'll give you a memory."

Something like a cool breeze swept by my face. I leaned into it and inhaled. Images played on my closed eyelids and filtered into my mind. I opened my eyes and put my hand on Teresa's head. It passed into her and my body jerked at the touch of her soul--cold, hard, full of fear--but as I spoke the vision it began to soften.

"Once there was a girl who was never afraid," it began. "She lived in a small house with a big yard that ended at the woods. But the woods weren't dark or frightening, for she had made trails through them and played there with her friends. One trail she took to school and one led to the toy store which sold her favorite candy necklaces. She loved the woods so much it made her imagine she was an explorer, like her favorite cartoon character, and she dreamed that when she was older she would travel the world.

"One day she went further than usual and got lost, and couldn't find her way home. It started to get dark and she began to cry. She heard footsteps in the dead leaves behind her and began to run. She tripped, got up, then ran into something that knocked her to the ground. Strong hands picked her up and carried her off as she cried.

"Then she stopped struggling, for she recognized a familiar smell. It came from the bathroom in her house and was sweet and warm, like a pine tree on a summer's day. It was the smell of her father's face after shaving, and she suddenly realized he was the one holding her. She held him tightly as he carried her through the woods and home.

"But later, older, when fear was not enough to keep her home, she would wander into the woods not caring if she got lost or if her father came looking for her. Sometimes he didn't.

"Later still, no longer in the woods, lost for days and weeks, she would keep walking, even now, remembering the times he wouldn't come for her. But he thinks of her often, and waits for the day she'll come home."

The almost meaningless words to me brought tears running down her face as she slept, and her body shuddered lightly in intervals. I sat back, exhausted. I could sense something had changed. There was an intervention taking place, not only with her but somewhere distant as well. I looked to Rollins who nodded as if reading my thoughts, then he walked out of the bungalow without a word or look back.

She woke slowly, rubbing her face, then her eyes, sniffling. She stood suddenly and walked into the back bedroom as I followed. She went to the pile of clothes on the floor and began making another on the bed as she sorted. She was packing to leave.

The front screen slammed and we both jumped. Footsteps and the rough clearing of a throat announced Jim's arrival, and a moment later he stood at the door.

"What are you doing?"

She dropped the panties in her hand, looking almost forlornly at the bed. "Separating laundry. I need some clean clothes."

He nodded. "Crying?"

She wiped her eyes in reply.

"Babe." He walked over, taking her hand and sitting her down on the bed. "I'm...sorry. I don't know why I...are you okay?"

She nodded, looking down.

"I know it's been hard. But things are going to change."

"How?" She raised her head, wiping her nose and eyes.

He shook his head impatiently. "Don't you worry about how. Let's just say I tapped into some money. Maybe we can get out of this dump soon, go somewhere nice."

"Really?" Her face was overly animated with hope, as if to make up for the myriad disappointments of the past.

"Really. And you won't have to trick anymore. I got you something." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag of white powder.

Teresa straightened, her eyes focused intently on it.

"It's yours," he said, but pulled it back when she reached for it. "Soon."

She nodded, watching as he stuffed the bag back into his pants. He put his arms around her and kissed the top of her head, then held her tightly as he spoke: "It'll be better now, I promise. Doesn't daddy always do right by his little girl?"

CHAPTER 7

ONE LIFETIME LATER

"When will dad be home?"

My son, speaking to my wife. I had left the bungalow, frustrated and disgusted, to reconnect with peace and comfort, the normalcy of my other life. I was finally home.

"I don't know," Tina answered, fixing his covers. Nap time.

"Is he working?"

"No."

"Is he dead?"

"What?"

"Grandma said he was in heaven. That means he's dead, right?"

"I'll have to have a talk with your grandmother," Tina said, sitting on the bed. "But wherever your father is, he's not in heaven."

I ground my teeth. As usual, my wife was accurate in a way I did not appreciate.

"I miss daddy."

"I know."

"Do you?"

Tina hesitated. "Of course."

"When will I see him again?"

She hesitated again, not as long this time. "Soon. Very soon. Now go to sleep."

"I can't. I always have bad dreams."

"Well...you won't now."

"Can you pray for me?"

She straightened. "What?"

"Pray for me. Grandma does when I stay at her house."

"Well, I'm sure...I'm sure you won't have bad dreams."

"Please."

She kissed his forehead, fixed the covers. "Go to sleep." She got up and flipped off the light switch by the door.

"Don't close it all the way."

She stopped. "I won't." And she left, leaving a shaft of hall light touching the bottom of the bed's covers.

Tyler turned, hugging his teddy bear, shifting restlessly again a moment later.

I sat on the bed next to him and ran my hands through his hair which didn't move. I leaned over and kissed his face which held no feeling for my lips. I held him tightly and felt nothing but my own arms. I sat up as he whimpered, faintly, maybe on the outskirts of unconsciousness, and a short time later I found myself trying to dry his cheek of the tear which squeezed from his eye. Soon two drops hit the sheets, one of them leaving a spot.

I stroked his head again. "Bring him peace."

A breeze came from the hall. I leaned into it and touched his dreams.

"You're running, running, in a huge field of green grass and you're never tired and always running and the field seems to never end. There, a little further, is a playground and you run to it and jump into the warm sand. You run over to the slide and climb the ladder and slide down, then to the swing, then to the monkey bars and over to the hanging rings and the metal bar carousel and the little pirate ship and finally to the horse on the big spring which sways and tries to topple you off as you ride and hang on until...you lose your grip and land head over heels on your back and you sit up and shake your head in a shower of sand which falls from your hair and you wipe your face and start to cry when...

...you look over to the bench just beyond the playground where your dad sits, smiling, watching and waving, yelling your name, happy to be with you, and your tears disappear and you smile and wave back and get up and slap off the dirt and run to him with arms open wide and you jump in his arms and hug and never let go..."

I lifted my hands from his head. There was a calm expression on his face now, maybe even the hint of a smile. Content now, I began to get up, then suddenly put my hands back on his head.

"Never forget how much your dad loves you. Never forget the man on the bench."

A loud voice brought me quickly up and out the door and into the hall. An angry, familiar sound, spilling out of the master bedroom and through the house. I followed it to Tina's mouth.

"That was not the agreement," she was saying as I entered our bedroom. "That's impossible."

She was sitting on the bed, one foot on the floor, holding the portable phone with clenched red fingers. Her budget folder was on the bed, bills spread out on top. She was wearing her salmon-pink bathrobe, the one she had gotten in exchange for the white teddy I bought her for her birthday. Her hair was wound up tightly and her face matched the robe. Never a good look.

"No. Give me a few days. I'll have it by then."

She clicked off the phone but kept a firm grip, her hand trembling as she suddenly raised it over her head as if to throw it against the wall. But a second later she put it down slowly and tossed it to the foot of the bed. "Trace, you bastard."

Even death, I thought as I studied her face, was not enough to quench her anger. It just made the conversation more one-sided. Not only could she blame me for everything bad that happened in her life when I was alive, now she could continue the habit unchallenged.

I touched her mind with my hand but thoughts swirled like a storm, and I spun out with no solid contact and a slight burning on my fingertips. The exact cause of the call and her subsequent anger I couldn't pinpoint, though the general idea came through clearly because one word stood out in her mind.

Money.

Now that I was gone and money was scarce, bills were mounting. We'd had enough bill collectors calling when I was alive. Now that I was gone she was able to experience the full benefit of a no-income family. Phone, gas and electric, satellite, embalmers, all overdue and needing to be paid.

I wished she could hear my thoughts: _You always said you could do better without me. Well, babe, how's it going so far? Ain't this the time of your life?_

"Be careful what you pray for," I said, as she walked to the dresser. She opened the drawer and took out a check book, studying it with a frown as I finished, "Because you just might get it."

She grabbed a stack of bills from the top of the dresser and dropped them onto the bed. I sat next to her as she filed through them, organizing, making piles.

The anger in her voice had brought back memories, all bad. Yelling, cursing, the usual marriage fare. Never happy, never satisfied, a by-product of the culture. The last year had been my best financially and checks were steadily pouring in. Maybe dribbling would be a better word, but it was a steady dribble. It wasn't enough.

She would say: "You're never home. We have no relationship."

And I would counter with: "I'm out working. You remember, w-o-r-k-i-n-g?"

Or if jobs were hard to find and I was home more often and able to spend time working on our relationship: "We can't pay the bills. We need more money and less sitting around the house."

"So I should be out more," I would say, "working. You remember, w-o-r-k-i-n-g?"

A lose-lose situation.

"Is this how you want to be remembered?" I asked her more than once. "Discontented and contentious?"

And she'd respond with the closest object hurled at my head. On one occasion it was a box of Kleenex which I caught and flipped back at her, hitting her square in the forehead. She was so surprised she stood in shock for a moment. I was so surprised I burst out laughing, causing her to storm out, not returning until the next morning. Fine, I thought, leave your husband, forget your son. But whatever you do, don't be wrong and never say you're sorry. Be right.

I remembered it all too well, and for the first time in a lifetime I didn't miss not being there.

"And another thing," I said, as she sat on the bed, dropping papers in exasperation. She got up and started for the bathroom. I followed. "And another thing," I said, "you always said if I were gone you would be free to do all those things I kept you from doing."

She opened the shower door and turned the hot water until steam billowed out.

"You'd go back to college, finish your degree, start a business."

She took down her hair until it fell like blond ribbons on her shoulders.

"You'd have all the money you'd need, a new car, new house, get to date some real men with real jobs and real money. Or rekindle those lost romances. Remember? How are things going so far? Lot easier than you thought, right? Men beating down the door to date someone with a kid? All your dreams coming true? Life must be better, you must be happier. Right?"

She undid her robe and let it fall behind her back to her fingers before turning to toss it on the sink. I stared at her beautiful back and firm buttocks and long, muscular legs, her flat stomach, succulent belly button and everything underneath.

She opened the shower door and stepped in and shut it with a click.

I sighed.

And sighed again.

There had been _some_ good times, now that I thought about it. Good times in the living room, good times on the dining room table, a few times in the kitchen. Several on the back porch. Even an encounter one warm fourth of July on the roof. Lots of fireworks that night, some even in the sky, I was told. My vantage point hadn't been skyward. Good memories.

I walked closer to the shower, buffed the outside glass, and peered in. Incredible. Still firm after thirty-three years and looking better every day. The best body I'd ever had the pleasure of. Her skin glistened, the water giving more definition to her toned body. She was shampooing her hair and drops of soap began falling. A drop landed on her chest and ran slowly down her breast, stopping at the tip before rolling over and falling to the floor. I had an urge to blow bubbles. I took a breath and a step inside.

A vise clamped down on my shoulder and jerked me backwards. I slid off-balance on the tile near the shower and righted myself, face red and fists clenched.

Rollins stood calmly by the door. "Trace, what are you doing?"

"Nothing," I said, straightening my pants. "Just keeping an eye on my wife...uh, my family."

"Just make sure that's all you're keeping on her."

My eyes narrowed as I glanced back at the shower and back to him. "What are you doing in here?"

"You left Teresa."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Tina bent down to wash her legs, her cheeks pushing tightly against the shower door. "Nothing was happening. They were napping. Since they were taking a break I thought I would, too. Why are you here, again?"

"I needed to see you. This," he said, "is where you were."

The water in the shower squeaked off. The door opened and Tina snaked her arm around until she grabbed the towel hanging on the rack. Her hand disappeared with it and the door clicked closed.

"Fine," I said. "Let's finish this outside." I grabbed his arm and took a step, but he didn't budge.

"I need to tell you a few things," he said, as if I hadn't spoken.

"We can do it in another room. Or another building. Or another state."

"It's about Teresa. She's going to need your help."

"Great. You can fill me in outside. Not here."

"Here is good."

"Move," I said, pulling his arm. Tina was wiping down the shower with a wash cloth and her body was becoming more and more clear as the excess water disappeared. "Now. Let's go."

He looked confused, then bemused as understanding came. "She's got nothing I haven't seen before."

My neck got hot. "Well, you can see anybody else, but not my wife."

"Trace," he said. "She's not your wife. She's not anyone's wife. Not anymore."

I gritted my teeth. "Move."

He just looked at me.

The door clicked open and warm air filtered out.

I leapt against him and shoved with all my strength. "Move it! Get your goddamn black ass the hell out of here before I cut off your--!"

I was suddenly moving through the air as Rollins jerked to the side. I slipped and hit the wall hard, shoulder first, and grabbed it with a bellow. I was still rubbing it as he walked out of the bathroom without a look behind.

I looked at Tina, who was standing on the tile with a towel wrapped around her, exposing nothing. She grabbed the robe off the counter, shivering, and slipped into it before dropping the towel on the floor.

I frowned, cursed myself, thought of Rollins, cursed him, and went out.

He was in the living room, sitting at the piano tinkling the ivories. I fumbled with my hands and cleared my throat. "Hey, Rollins, uh...sorry about, uh, you know, what I said back there. I was just...you know..."

He kept playing, undistracted. After a moment he stopped. "Would it make any difference," he said, "if I told you I wasn't black?"

"What?"

"If seems to matter to you. At least it did in there. Would it make any difference if I wasn't?"

"Of course not." I leaned against the piano and stared at him. "How can you not be black? You look black." I pushed a finger against his arm. It felt normal, nothing rubbed off. "You even sound black...sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"Not like any black people I ever knew."

"How many did you know?"

"Several. Okay, four. But they were pretty street."

"Street?"

"Street. From the hood. Okay, they were homeless. You can't get more street than that."

"Would it help if I swore from time to time?"

"Probably," I said.

"Trace, there is no color up there," he said. "This is more for your benefit. And a little bit mine. When I'm here, I'm black. This is how I looked when I was alive."

"There's no color? How can there be no color?"

"There's plenty of color," he said. "Just not for people."

"Everybody's white?"

He laughed. "Not white, not black, not brown, not tan. No color."

"Transparent?"

"People are only transparent down here. Up there it's not an issue. Anything else I could say you wouldn't understand."

"I didn't understand what you did say," I said, "let alone what you didn't."

He nodded, then closed his eyes as he continued playing. It was a bluesy song, slow and soulful, with no words but lots of humming. It didn't need them; the tune told it all. Full of the depths of pain but always stretching to reach the higher octaves of hope, only to fall back into the baser notes again.

"Nice," I said when he finished. "I didn't know you could play."

He was looking at his fingers, still on the keys. "The song was given to me."

"Someone wrote it for you?"

He shook his head. "It's my song. The song of my life. We all have one."

"The song of your life?"

"Written just for you." He continued playing, and I kept hoping the notes would find fulfillment in reaching those a fingertip away. But they never did. They stayed apart, untouched and unrequited, like a love gone wrong or a childhood cut short. Sadness. Promises. Endings.

"Who wrote it?" I asked when he stopped.

He thought for a moment. "It writes itself. Or maybe it doesn't. It's the summation of your life playing back."

"When did you get it?"

"When the song's over," he said with a slight smile, "but the singin's just begun."

"What does that mean?"

He stopped playing. "When you're dead."

"I'm dead," I said. "When do I get mine?"

"When it's time," he said. "Now. Teresa."

I groaned.

"She's going to need your help."

I muttered, "I didn't get as much help in my whole life as I've given her these past few days."

"That shows how much you know."

"This is a waste of time."

"Time," he said, "is in sudden abundance."

I averted his eyes before speaking. "Hey, Rollins, uh, I–I'm really sorry about, you know, in there, with my wife. My ex-wife. My widow."

He smiled. "Don't worry about it. She can still be your wife, if you want. It takes time. I had a wife myself." His eyes set on a photo on the piano I'd never seen in my house before, and for good reason; it had never been there before. It was a typical studio photo with the typical stony pose and smiles. A black woman, maybe thirty, looking very hot in a low cut black silk dress, and looking very much the proud mother with a young boy and girl on either side, six or seven years old. A little older than Tyler. "This is my family," he said, picking it up and handing it to me.

"Nice," I said. "Very nice," I drawled, studying his wife with a leer. "How come you're not in the picture?"

He took a breath. "This was taken the day I died. I was going to go with them to have it taken. I didn't make it."

"What happened?"

He took the picture and stared into it. "I was somewhere else, some place I wasn't supposed to be. This is my reminder."

"I'm sorry."

He nodded. "You're my reminder, too."

"How?"

His expression was uncomfortable and sad. "We're a lot alike. Too much. We both had good families, good lives, but it wasn't good enough. That's the real original sin. Give a person paradise and they still want the world. Both of us went looking for what we didn't have, thinking it would satisfy. We both found that it didn't. We both found out too late."

He put the picture back on the piano, not taking his eyes off the images.

"Do you ever check up on them, see how they're doing?"

"I can't." He paused, and it was only later that I tried reading into the inflection of what he said next. "I wasn't given the option you were." There was another silence before he got up. "There's a certain distance I have to keep from them. If I get too close, or if they do, then I'm...moved."

"Moved?"

He nodded. "I find myself somewhere else, all of a sudden."

"Like a supernatural restraining order?"

He made a noise like a half-laugh. "Not quite. Just a reminder. It's better if I don't see them." There was no emotion in those words, they were just words.

"So the times you fade away..."

"Sometimes it's because they're too close," he said, starting out. "Sometimes I have other things that need doing. Come on."

"You're just going to leave that picture there?" I asked, as we went outside.

"Sure."

"Don't you think Tina will wonder what some other family's photo is doing on our piano?"

"She won't see it."

"Oh," I said, without understanding.

"Trace," he said, "you don't have a piano."

I looked back through the window. "I knew there was something different about that room."

We stood on the lawn in the warm sun and watched cars drive by and kids play and people talk on the sidewalk. "Rollins," I said. "Does it ever get better?"

"What?"

"Anything. Everything."

"The loneliness?" he asked. "The regrets? Or the sex?"

I laughed. "I guess you do know what I'm going through. All three. The first two, mainly. I had lots of practice not having sex."

"Sure, it gets better."

"When?"

He gave me a wry smile. "In a time," he said, starting down the sidewalk.

"If I hear that once more–"

"It's up to you, mostly," he said. "The more you indulge yourself in thinking it can ever be the same, the harder it will be."

"Harder how?"

"You've got to let go, like it's not part of you. Like it died when you did. Don't worry," he said, seeing my fallen expression. "You don't have to do it today. It takes time."

"How do you do it?"

"You don't. You don't do it by trying, anyway. The less you try, the easier it becomes."

I waited but he didn't continue. "That's not much help."

He stopped. "How do you walk?"

I shrugged. "Right foot, left foot. You just start moving."

"Exactly. You don't think about it. You just do it. That's how you let go."

"Aren't there any more details than that? Maybe a book I could read?"

He shook his head.

We walked for a while. "Well, I guess I can try. But, dammit, I wish I could have sex one more time."

He looked at me sideways. "What if you could?"

My eyes widened. "You mean I can?"

"I didn't say that. I said, what if you could?"

"I'd say, great, let's go. I get to pick the girl, right?" I paused. "It is a girl, right?"

"If you could have sex one more time," he said, answering for me, "then you'd want to have sex two more times, then again after that."

"That sounds like me."

"But if you know you can never have sex again..." He paused, waiting expectantly.

"Then...I guess I'd want to kill myself. But I can't because I'm dead, so I might as well forget the whole thing."

He slapped me on the back. "You figured it out all by yourself. Besides, when you look back on it, sex wasn't that great."

"Speak for yourself," I said.

"I was speaking for your wife."

I put my hand on my chest as if shot. "Rollins, that hurts. Besides, how would you know?" I stopped, spinning him around. "Hey, you never saw the two of us, you know, Tina and I–"

He gave me a look. "I've seen enough to last a few lifetimes. I don't need to see your skinny white butt."

"Yeah," I said. "I guess you've seen just about everything, anyway. People, I mean. Women. All types."

"Just about."

"I mean, you can see what everybody does when they're home."

"As can you."

"Right. Hey, that's right!"

"I wouldn't make a habit of it."

"Why not?"

He pursed his lips. "It only makes things worse. And most people you wouldn't want to see naked."

"So..." I began again. "You would have no reason to..."

"What?"

"Want to see a woman--any woman--no matter how beautiful she was..."

"No."

"Naked."

"No, no reason. No matter how beautiful she was. And your wife," he said with a smile, "is very beautiful."

He walked on.

"So what you're saying," I said, trying to catch up, "is you didn't. See her. Naked. Right? Rollins?"

CHAPTER EIGHT

BLOW BY BLOW

It was the six p.m. rush at the liquor store; bums, vendors and hookers. And there was Teresa, next in line, a fifth of vodka in her hands. In front of her was a fat bag lady with a Coke and a donut, the dinner of champions. She was arguing with the kid behind the counter about the price of cigarettes and how they should think about lowering the price because they'd lose valuable customers like her if they didn't.

The kid just smiled and nodded, amused by the freak show, in no hurry to move her along.

Teresa stared at the floor. I thought at first she might be stoned, looking at nothing with that vacant smile. Then I checked her eyes and saw that she was worse than stoned...she was straight. She was straight and realizing who she was and where she was and why. And how the night to come and day after that were the reality she hoped was the dream, said reality she would now attempt to turn into a dream via the vodka. At least it would shut out the near future, as nothing would change the too sober present. So she stared at tile and tried to avoid eye contact with the next step up in the chain of humanity.

The fat lady left and it was her turn. The kid leered, looking her over as she handed him the bottle and he rang it up.

"Nice to see you again," he said, with a greasy smile. He shook out a small bag. "Four fifty-five. Or free, if you know what I mean."

She tossed a five on the counter and the kid lost a fraction of his smile momentarily. But he recovered and made change, dropping coins on the counter that bounced to the floor. Teresa grabbed the bag and left, leaving it where it lay.

"Forgot your change," the kid sing-songed after her. He walked out from behind the counter. "Works every time," he said, and bent over to grab the money. I kicked him hard in the ass. He hopped and fell against a display of chips, then to the ground as the bags dropped around him. He jumped up, holding his jaw, turning every which way in mock fury. But he was alone.

Teresa walked around the building to the dark side, avoiding the sunset. It would be night within the hour but she wasn't waiting for the alignment of heavenly bodies. Her general area, I had learned, consisted of the same few blocks which she covered in entirety three or four times a day, depending on the traffic. Early morning or late evening, the trolley station was usually good for a few bites. During the day, any liquor store. During the night, any liquor store. Rarely did she cruise the streets other than going from point A to B. Position in prostitution, I had learned, was everything.

Now the few moments of serenity she hoped to attain would be against the urine-stained back wall of Main Street Liquor, which was not on Main Street. She found a spot a few feet from the store's dumpster and sat down, cross-legged, then fixed her skirt before taking a gulp of vodka. The dumpster would give cover, hiding her from cops or customers, and the smell would keep away anyone or anything except lovers of Greek food. She took another gulp, closing her eyes at the brief break.

A later model black BMW pulled around the corner to pull parallel to the building, taking two parking spaces at it did so, and it sat with light illuminating the dusk for a moment before the engine shut off. A man with a pony tail, blue jeans and a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and top buttons undone, got out and took a long look at Teresa. She had hidden the bottle under her skirt and replaced it with an inviting smile, which he returned to a lesser extent before going into the store. He came out moments later tapping a cigarette out of a pack of Marlboro's, pulled it out with his teeth, lit it, then looked at Teresa again. He motioned with his head, then his eyes. Even I heard the message. 'Meet me around the corner.' She nodded and he glanced around the parking lot before getting in the car and making a slow u-turn around the building.

Teresa took another swig of the bottle, then another, then finished it with a long third before getting to her feet and dropping it in the dumpster. She walked down the sidewalk slowly, with all the time in the world, and found the car with lights off, idling in the alley. She walked up to the passenger window.

"Need something?"

"Get in." The man's voice was hurried.

"What for?"

"Get in."

"Tell me why."

He told her.

"Fifty."

"Get in."

She did, and I got in the back seconds before he spend off.

"What's the hurry?" she asked.

"I don't have much time."

"It's still fifty."

"I don't have that much on me."

"I know where every ATM in the city is. Even the drive-thrus."

"Thirty."

"You can let me out here."

"Forty."

"Or here."

"Okay, okay. Fifty."

"First."

He snorted, pulled the bills out of his pocket and tossed them with a brief glance onto her lap.

She scooped them up and put them in her bra, but not before counting them at a glance. "You gonna pull over?"

The guy shook his head. "Too many cops. No, now, while I'm driving."

"Somebody'll see us."

"It's almost dark. I'll stay in the alley and go slow."

Teresa hesitated.

He held out his hand, flat, empty, and motioned the money back.

She held her chest where she'd stashed the money, then shrugged. "Watch the pot holes," she said, and leaned over.

I took in the beautiful sights of he alley.

Teresa sat up and we drove another block before the man pulled over. He was breathing hard, in a trance.

"Worth fifty?" Teresa asked, smiling.

The man nodded, smiled, then hit her in the face with the back of his right hand. Teresa was more stunned than hurt until he did it again. She half-raised her hands to her face, stopping as if numbed. He grabbed her hair and pushed her face into the seat.

"Jim said you'd be worth it, but fifty bucks ain't so easy to come by these days. But you know that." He pulled her hair back, stretching her neck, and whipped a long knife blade through the air with his left hand to stop and rest on her throat. "Besides, I need it more than you. Now let's have that fifty, unless you want that smile widened a few inches."

It had all taken less than ten seconds which could have been ten minutes to me. But something kept me from moving. An impression, a thought. _Not yet_ , it said. _Wait_. So I did, even after the blade touched Teresa's throat. Then it let me go.

I reached through the seat and hit the man's back. Grabbing his spine, I worked my way up to the base of his neck. I twisted my hand. He looked suddenly left. I twisted my hand again. He turned just as quickly right, then left, then right, like a confused marionette.

"What is that, what is it?" he asked no one.

Teresa could only moan, her hair still held tightly.

"Do you hear it? Co you feel it?"

He looked around as I moved my hand down and deep, searching...

"God, it's all around me!"

...and found something cold, his heart, and closed my fingers around it...and the ice became a burning, sticky emptiness that pulled me deeper until I touched his soul and the horror of it threw me back and we screamed as one...

The knife dropped and bounced onto the floor, and he took his hands from Teresa, then pushed her. "Get out, get out!"

She fumbled for the handle, found it locked, tried again, popped it open and dove for the street as the man jammed his foot on the gas and the car bounced down the alley.

I walked over and knelt beside Teresa as she vomited onto the oily ground.

She stumbled through the door, took a few steps, then fell, kneeling on the carpet. She hadn't cried since the alley but now, home, it came again. She held onto the coffee table with both hands and heaved out tears.

The sound of spinning made us both look up. Jim was standing in the hallway holding a pistol and spinning its chamber with a big, stupid grin on his face.

"How was your day?" His voice was hoarse. "Meet anyone interesting?" He knelt down, resting the gun on the table in front of her. "That was just a reminder," he said with a clownish grin. "Don't ever mess with my stuff. And don't ever forget how quickly I can take everything away. Just like that," he said, snapping his fingers. "Or like this." He moved the gun and pointed it at her head as her big eyes followed. And he pulled the trigger.

It clicked emptily.

Teresa grabbed her head with both hands and rubbed them frantically, crying as she did, as if trying to get rid of unseen bugs.

He stood and raised his head and yelled like an ape, then smashed against the screen door as it flew open and he stomped out.

Rollins walked in before it shut.

"Where have you been?" I asked.

"Busy. You too, I see."

"For whatever good it did."

"It did good."

Teresa pushed herself up and ran into the bathroom. There was the creak of the bed and more sobs, muffled but still heard.

"Rollins," I started, "I still don't know what I'm doing. I feel like I'm groping in the dark."

"That's exactly what you're supposed to be doing, groping in faith. Don't worry about anything else. And don't think too much. Just watch her."

"Watch her why? Nothing's different. She's the same this week as last and the same next week as now."

"Maybe. But today you helped."

I threw my hands in the air. "What's the point? As long as that guy--" I pointed at the door "--is around, nothing will change. Why can't we just get rid of him?"

Rollins paused. "How would you do that?"

"Take him out. Move up his day of departure. Nobody'd miss him and the world would be a better place."

"It's not up to us."

"Can't we at least give an opinion? Drop a note in the suggestion box?"

"It doesn't work that way."

"Maybe because nobody's ever tried. Let's try."

"You're forgetting something," he said.

"What?"

"Him."

"I don't get you."

"There's a plan for him as well."

I snorted. "I hope it involves a short walk to a hot chair."

"Forget Jim, for now. Stay with her."

"Of course," I said, as he started out the door, forcing me to yell the rest: "What else could I possibly be doing?"

I waited a few minutes before walking down the hall. I found Teresa on the bed, breathing loudly, finding relief in sleep. She was safe.

I considered Rollins' words long and hard, about thirty seconds worth, before leaving her alone in the bedroom.

He was easy enough to find, lumbering along the main drag toward the even worse part of town. A few minutes found him cutting over a half block west and down an alley and another block to end up behind a two-story apartment complex with cement courtyard, the outline of a filled-in pool sadly visible in the middle. Toys and pieces of junk were scattered around the grounds, some closer to specific doors as if someone were actually laying claim to the trash. Noises of all types and no distinction emanated from different apartments; the usual loud rock music, the crying baby, the mindless yells and curses directed at no one and everyone. The basic bubbling of anger at the frustrations of life, which would reveal itself further in verbal or physical attacks over important issues such as burnt toast or dirty dishes or parking in a neighbor's space. The trivial became important as the meaningful could not be attained.

Jim knocked on apartment six, stood with as much life and worth as a sack of crap, then walked in when the door opened.

I went in behind him and was almost blown back. Choking fumes filled my head. Crack, pot, feces, urine. A smorgasbord of stimulation. I tripped over a body lying on the floor, losing my balance, falling through Jim and landing against a wall. I wasn't going to last long here.

"Hey." Jim was speaking to a dark dressed man with greasy hair. He put money into the man's hand. The guy counted bills and disappeared. He came back a moment later with a plastic bag full of the rock candy.

"That's not enough," Jim said, holding the bag as if his hands were a scale.

"It's hard times for everybody," the man said. "That's less what I fronted you last week."

"You're ripping me."

"No problem," the man said, extending his hand. "I'll take that back and you get your money."

Jim held the bag tighter.

The guy smiled.

"I need a pipe."

"How 'bout some foil," he said, ripping a rectangular piece from a roll and beginning to fold it. "Just put it in here, heat it up and..."

"I want a pipe."

"A pipe, a pipe," the guy grumbled. "Everybody wants a pipe. This ain't, uh....this ain't like a fancy, uh..." He bent down behind the counter and came back with a box of light bulbs. He took one out, and threw the box back over the counter and onto the floor.

"Don't you got somethin' better?"

"All I got's is forty watts."

"That's not what I mean."

"I know what you mean," the guy said. "Take what you can get or take off." He took a pair of pliers and squeezed the black part of the silver screw thread, moving it back and forth until it popped off. Inserting the pliers, he grabbed the guts of the bulb and pulled it out with the deftness of a blind dentist. He scraped out the inside with a metal spoon, then took a big Morton's salt container and poured some in the bulb, swirled it around and then dumped the contents on the counter. "Hope nobody snorts that," he said, handing the empty bulb to Jim. "Enjoy."

Jim found a spot on the floor and pulled out a lighter. He placed a few rocks from the bag into the bulb, holding the thin metal thread as he held the lighter's flame on the glass. Smoke began coming forming and he sucked at the opening. A moment later he put in a few more rocks, then more...

My mind clouded over and I felt woozy and weak-kneed, as if something was pulling at me. The room seemed to tilt, my head suddenly too heavy to hold up. I felt hands on my body and pushed them off. Faces appeared and disappeared. I stumbled over something solid which spun me as I lost my balance and hit the floor hard. More hands touched me, pulling, and I crawled with all strength to the door, was pulled back, then heaved forward until I found myself outside, coughing out smoke and breathing the fresh city air.

An hour and a half later found me waiting still, as Jim had come out. I took a reluctant breath and stepped through the wall.

He was standing, weaving, against the kitchen counter and the greasy guy was talking to him. "That's all for you. No more."

"Front me some...I'm good."

"No more. You had good cash for a while, but not now. Now it's a problem. Get more. Come back. No problem."

"I need more."

"Get more, come back."

The guy led him to the door and I followed him out.

Jim stood wide-eyed, grinning, and looked up at the sky. He made a circle with both hands touching thumbs and fingers and chuckled at some incredible sight in the cosmos before heading back through the alley under the starless sky.

CHAPTER NINE

THE SQUEEZE

I followed him to a pay phone which in a stroke of someone's genius had been stuck on a sidewalk in the middle of a residential block. It now sat askew on a bent cement post. Graffiti covered every inch of its surface. The small box was a survivor of a dying age, a lesser technology in a cheaper day, and it seemed as if the anger of the area had been taken out on the defenseless machine. But it had withstood the beating to remain stubbornly useful. Jim fumbled in his pockets for change. He pulled out a handful of coins, flipping through them with his forefinger and separating two. He dropped them into the slot and pushed some buttons, only to hit the Coin Return and begin the process again. In the midst of dialing he stopped, swore, then suddenly smashed the phone with the handset three times. He leaned his head against the phone and took deep breaths, then got his money back and dialed again. Slower.

I pressed my ear through the receiver and listened as the phone rang and rang and answered.

"Hello." A man's voice, gruff, no-nonsense.

"It's me."

A long pause. "Who is this?"

Jim chuckled. "That's right. Who am I? Just a nobody...a nobody you know. And you know why."

Another pause, then in low, firm tones of disgust: "What do you want?"

"I'm changing our deal."

"What?"

"Our arrangement."

"No. Don't call here again."

"I want more."

"I said no."

"Say it again," Jim said. "I still want more.."

"There is no more."

"There's always more. The world's full of more. Your world."

Silence. "And if I don't?"

"Then you'll lose it all."

"I have nothing to fear from you."

"I still have a gun," Jim snarled, then his tone went calm. "One phone call and you'd be in jail."

"You'd be the one going to jail, not me." The voice sounded weak and tinny.

"Maybe," he said. "There are ways around things. I could just as well walk. Besides, I've been there, and it's as bad as you think. But I survived. Who knows if you would?"

Lots of silence now, breaths. "What are we talking about?"

Jim smiled. "Not much. Another thousand...every month. Starting tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? You're crazy."

"Crazy enough to kill. Again."

There was a pause. "I need more time."

"Time's up. Tomorrow."

"Wait," the voice yelped. "When? Where?"

"Our favorite place. Six p.m." A pause. "Bring dinner."

The man cleared his throat and started to speak but as he did Jim hung up and laughed.

He walked away and I let him. In his state there was little he would do tonight besides sleep, and even if we were both headed in the same direction I was tired of his company. But I was impressed. Not content with drugs and prostitution, Jim had gotten mixed up in extortion, maybe murder. He had killed before, he said, and maybe again. Or perhaps it was simply bravado. Life was full of surprises.

I wondered as I walked back to the bungalow about the who and the why and the where, but those thoughts drifted away as others drifted in, and with them a plan for Jim's removal was slowly beginning to form.

CHAPTER TEN

RUMMAGE

I watched her sleep.

I had promised Rollins that, for whatever good it would do, I'd stay with her. And so I had, fixed to a spot beside Teresa's bed. Her head was turned and she was breathing loudly through her mouth. Her parted lips exposed gaps in her teeth, the few missing in the back, and twitched now and then as if lost in unconscious conversation or a reminiscence of a previous trick. As she dreamt I had visions of my own; of Jim wandering the streets in his drugged stupor, stumbling into more immediate trouble than he was in, though extortion set the bar pretty high. So did murder, for that matter, though I wasn't sure if what was said to the person on the phone held any truth or was simply posturing for weightier leverage. But with a little luck and a slap of a providential hand he could be out of everyone's life by morning, though I wasn't content on waiting for either.

Still, I kept vigil, ever at the ready, until the guilt Rollins had affixed concerning Teresa began to wane and all that was left was blind obedience which asked no questions, for questions denoted thought and thought would reveal the utter uselessness of the task at hand. So, without thought, I kept track of the mindless details.

Breathe in, breathe out. Count the breaths. One, two, three, four. Keep good track, log them in, you never know which one might be the last and the people upstairs were watching. A fly buzzed about her face and I waved it away. I would keep her safe. So breathe, little prostitute, breathe, and dream of better days.

What would be a good day be to a prostitute? I wondered. Surviving it, of course, would be the very basic basis of what constituted "good" in such profession. Beyond that, on a deeper level, might find a day full of men and money, quick entrances and exits, like an actor on a stage. All the world was a stage, after all, even a sidewalk, and a whore in her life played many parts with the few parts she had. The characters she played, having no character of their own, were of low repute and spent most of Acts I and II on their knees, praying (no doubt) for intermission to come. Then Act III and the soliloquy, an oral history of the past where we are recounted with teary-eyes how these people came to be in their predicaments. Finally, all hands on stage for Act IV and the Finale, as the loose ends are tied and the tight ends are loosed and the audience applauds and the players take their bows.

This time of sleep, then, was Teresa's backstage respite between acts; a brief time away from the glamorous facade to seek peace and regain energy for that closing curtain which would come, as they all do, sooner than expected.

My mind's incoherent wanderings only increased my anxiety and the more I watched Teresa the angrier I became. For Tyler, asleep in his own bed, was far away and getting further with every breath, with every night. Safe, I hoped, safe and dreaming good dreams, where the only bad guys in life were comic book villains who always lost to the illustrated hero. Danger was on the cover but salvation would be found before the last page had turned. No drugs in that world, no hookers either, and no fathers shot to death on lonely roads after leaving their married mistresses. No fathers anywhere, for they were out chasing the bad guy and risking their lives and saving the world. Never home, but the universe was at peace once again...

...as I watched her breathe, in, out, in...

and all was right in heaven and earth as our hero...

in, out, inhale, exhale

...kept the world from felons and flies...

...out with the bad air, in with the good...

...until I rose and left.

I stood over my son's bed.

Breathe in, breathe out, count the breaths: one, two, three, four. The dreams, count them as well: one thousand, two thousand, a lifetime to come. Dreams of teddy and his stuffed playmates who could never be hurt by an accidental fall or a too-hard hug. Dreams of cartoon images that would mesmerize with color and sound and were as close as friends but whom you could never touch.

Where did I fall on that scale of unreality?

Dreaming, perhaps, of his favorite things in the world: pigs, cows, horses. The basics of childhood. As a lover of animals, Tyler and I had talked about the future a few times, what he might want to be when he grew up. Maybe a farmer or veterinarian, though the latter word was too foreign and frightening to be understood, as was the future, for he lived in the land of Today and tomorrow's were for grown-ups. Today was for play and dreams and imagination. Tomorrow...well, tomorrow never came.

I smiled as he slept, mouth open a sliver, a slight snore as he exhaled. My future farmer boy, crazy for cats and dogs. And hamsters and mice and birds and bugs. Always exploring, always curious. Curiosity and cats, I thought, and hoped him safe in a world of unsafe creatures as I kept vigil throughout the night.

It was morning pushing on seven-thirty and Tina had been up for over an hour. She had taken a shower that I painfully refrained from viewing, though I did help her dress. The attire wasn't to my likings, but she could make jeans and a sweatshirt look good, and did. Her blonde curls bounced as she opened Tyler's bedroom door and came in.

"Tyler, time to wake up," she said, opening the curtain. Light cut across his face and he scrunched his eyes and turned away. "Come on." She shook him lightly. "Time for breakfast. Time to get ready for school."

"Grrumph," he mumbled.

"Time for cereal."

"What kind?"

Tina sighed. "Trix, Lucky Charms...granola," she added hopefully. "You name it."

"Both," he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Lucky Charms and Trix. Trix on top."

Tina and I smiled at our tiny connoisseur and she sat on the bed and began helping him with his clothes.

I sat in the back seat, leaning over the front as we drove Tyler to Kindergarten. He was quiet, looking out the window. Tina's face was blank, and she had been silent through breakfast until now.

Suddenly Tyler looked over at her. "When will I see dad again?"

Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "I don't know."

"I want to see him. Where is he?"

"He's...around."

I patted her head.

"Where did he go?"

"I'm not sure."

I patted her head again.

"When will he be home?"

"I don't know," she said sharply. "Stop asking me."

Tyler stuck out his bottom lip and he lowered his head.

Tina sighed. "I'm sorry, honey," she said, stroking his hair. "Mommy's just a little upset this morning. I'm sure you'll see daddy soon, real soon."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Soon?"

"Sure."

"When?"

"Here we are."

She pulled the car into the parking lot of the school and led him over to where a group of children were congregating around an older woman who smiled as if she didn't have to work with small children all day. By the time Tina came back, Tyler was already talking happily with his friends, and a moment later they all marched to their classroom.

"You're driving too fast," I told her as I sat in the passenger seat, holding on for dear life. "Don't slow down now, the light's green. Go, you have the right of way. Ignore that bus. Go, already. Watch that guy on your left, he's trying to merge. Give him room. That's better. Don't...stop...keep...what are you doing? You had plenty of time, now you'll have to wait for that whole group of cars to go. Now, go. No! Now! Aaaah!"

I slapped my forehead in mock agony. Just like old times.

She paid no attention, as if I wasn't there. Just like old times.

Her face was tense, worried. The spot near her upper jaw was pulsing in and out as her teeth clenched. I'd seen that often enough, usually when I was talking to her. Or, more accurately, listening to her. I touched her mind and felt foggy muck. Cloudy images, like looking through a glass darkly. Just like old...

Rollins had told me that there were reasons some people's minds were clear and others were not, and some clear at some times, and some clear once and never again, and some clear only when sober. Reasons, and reasons for the reasons. There was certainly no right to know what someone was thinking, just as there was no wrong to it, either. There was no guarantee you would connect with what they were thinking at the moment or what they had been thinking an hour before. You might even tap into a memory that was ten years old. Rollins explained it as walking through a Fun House, wading through a lifetime of memories while they popped in and out at you along the path. The most recent thoughts, or the most important, were usually on the surface, but, again, that all-encompassing "no guarantee" clause was still in effect. What you found was just as likely to lead you astray than give you any concrete answers.

"And sometimes," he had told me, "you're just not supposed to know what someone is thinking."

"And sometimes," I had replied, "it's good you don't always know what I'm thinking."

Even so, not seeing or hearing or feeling, I kept my hand on my wife's face. Caressing her cheek, running a finger down her straight nose, over her lips, her eyebrows, holding my hand over her eyes, trying to rub the worry out of her temples.

If money was the big problem, I did have life insurance, though not a great deal. Three-hundred thousand. Not nothing, but not the lap of luxury. She had made me take out a policy after I spent a night in a hospital, unconscious. A client's wife's boyfriend hadn't been hep to me taking a few indiscreet pictures of him and said client's wife's bedroom activities, and had spelt out his displeasure on my face, a pummeling of prose. Tina was adamant from that day on my being insured so that I would not leave her and any future children an inheritance of debt should I (God forbid) die.

So, not money. Then why the worry? Probably nothing. Probably everything. Not every day your husband dies. Might need a little adjustment period. A few days, at least. Get used to having the whole bed to yourself. Get used to not cooking for one less person. Get used to not having sex. No, she would need no adjustment period there; she'd begun that discipline a good year before my demise.

She parked in the driveway and I followed her into the house. She threw her keys onto the table and hit the phone's message button.

"This is Carole Kern of Mutual Life," a voice said. "Can you give me a call when you get in?"

Tina copied the number and picked up the phone and dialed as soon as it ended.

"Carole Kern, please. Miss Kern? I'm calling in regard a message you left. This is Tina...yes, that's right. Yes. No, I was concerned with the amount...of time..."

I patted myself on the back as a reward for my deduction. It was money, yet it wasn't. Some trouble with the insurance company. I put my head to the phone and listened closer.

"...not up to us, you understand. As soon as the police finish their investigation we'll be able to settle the matter..."

"Their investigation? How long will that be?"

"I'm sure I don't know," the woman said. "If you like I could find out for you."

"Yes, yes, Please," she added with effort.

"I'll do what I can and be in touch soon."

Tina thanked her and slammed the phone down on the table.

I stayed away from her until she had a chance to calm down. She was never attractive angry. So I toured the grounds. The grass needed mowing, weeds were sprouting on the sides of the house like vines, and the trash cans near the garage were overflowing, like I'd never been gone. Some tools sat rusting where I'd left them, on the side of a shed I'd put up a year prior, and I was proud to see it still stood. I looked behind it and found two cans of paint upside down in the bushes. That area had been my toxic dump. Paint, thinner, oil. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, all elements returning to their beginnings. The shrubbery didn't seem to mind.

I went back inside and found Tina in the bedroom. She was on my side of the closet, grabbing armfuls of clothes on hangers and dropping them carelessly on the bed, then turning to grab another armful and repeating the process until the pole was empty. Then she attacked the shirts and sweaters and sweatshirts on the wire shelves in the corner, dropping them onto the bed haphazardly. As she did, the different pieces of material brought back memories.

An old tuxedo t-shirt I'd worn one New Year's Eve to a party memorable for the big-busted red-head who tried putting drunken moves on me, and succeeded, until her husband showed up.

Another shirt I had made with a photo of my favorite album on the front, back in the days when there were albums. The image was worn but still recognizable to any ELP fan.

A long sleeve shirt that fit a few sizes and few years before, one I bought on our honeymoon in San Francisco.

Dress shirts I had worn, with accompanying tie still attached, for the occasional funeral or just-as-frequent night out with Tina.

Second hand suits that didn't fit, other clothes worn once, some worn too often. All scattered on the bed in one big pile.

To that she began adding all the items on the shelf above. Books on ballistics, articles about crimes, old yearbooks. Tina put it all on the bed, separating the yearbooks. She picked one up almost as an afterthought and began flipping pages. We'd met in college. She was majoring in business. My major was, and remained, undetermined.

"It sure isn't communications," Tina would say straight-faced, and I'd laugh like I was having dental work. Crime was my main interest, though she never tired of trying to steer me toward something useful.

Now she smiled at the pages, the pictures, turning them tenderly. Good times, good memories. Youth, hope, dreams. She stopped at a page, lost in the past, eyes glistening. Thinking, I supposed, about all the time we'd wasted arguing over meaningless things when we should have been holding each other and speaking words of love. Regretting the hours and days and weeks lost to the pride of being right while the other wronged us, wishing we could go back to that glorious past and start afresh. Wipe the slate clean and be cleansed, white as snow.

I peered over her shoulder as she wiped her cheek dry to see what brought about such remorse.

It was not a picture of me.

Ronny Heinz, the caption said, though I needed no reminder. He had been Tina's boyfriend when we met, she one of his many girlfriends. A no-name basketball player, a minus game point average, no personality, intellect or interest outside a rubber orb. I had won Tina over with my charm and ambitionless non-athletic aspirations. Ronny Heinz had twisted his knee soon after I made my appearance--pity--and he and I had shared aspirations ever since.

He fell out of the limelight and was never heard from again, as far as I knew.

I, on the other hand...

But there sat Tina, full of regrets and probably wondering the big 'What if..?' I wished Mr. Heinz would materialize right then so I could beat the crap out of him and rah-rah-ree, kick him in the knee a time or two. Or maybe rah-rah-rass, kick him back to the past. But even if he could materialize to meet the challenge, he wouldn't. He didn't need to. He was a smiling memory from another day, another page. That was how he was beating me and winning Tina, by staying an unchanged memory.

But I was far from jealous. Envious, maybe. Maybe I'd even go back to the past and join him, buy him a drink and talk over old times, as there wouldn't be any new ones. It was safer there, where he lived. I had been dumb enough to go along for the ride, through all the years right up to the present, dragging all the baggage the two of us had along the way. A two-dimensional photo skims time with a smirk, as _What if?_ is always preferable to what is.

Still, something within wished for one shot, right between his eyes. But only a fool tries to fight a memory.

Tina closed the yearbook and put it on her dresser for another lonely night and left the room. When she returned she was wheeling one of our large, plastic trash cans. It was empty. I wondered, as she leaned it toward the bed, what she had done with all the trash that had been inside, and immediately pictured a bigger mess on the side of the garage that I wouldn't have to clean up.

"What are you going to do with that?"

With its mouth aimed at the bed, Tina swept her arm across and began filling the can.

"Hey! Stop that! What are you doing?"

Into it fell shirts and papers and notes, beginnings of reports and half-filled tax forms, and everything else of mine she had previously dumped onto the bed. When that was empty and the trash can full, she walked to her dresser and picked up an eight-by-ten framed photo we had taken one weekend in Catalina, and sent it spinning toward the container. It flew in, hitting the side and smashing glass, then settling silent. Looking around the room, satisfied there were no more treasures, she grabbed the trash can and wheeled it out of the room.

I followed, yelling. "You can't throw that stuff away. It took me a lifetime to collect that junk."

Unhearing, she moved it down the hall, then thumped it down the stairs and to the kitchen where she pushed it over the tile to the side door. She pulled it outside and around the house to the front curb, depositing it with two other cans, both full. Then she turned and went back.

I stood staring at the trash containers helplessly, turning my head to the rumbling sound of an oncoming truck, then ran in after her.

"You couldn't even save one thing?" I asked as she walked by. "Not one picture? One scrapbook? What about all the notes I had made on that golf tee business I had wanted to start, or the first five pages from my autobiography, 'A Dick's Life?' That would have been a bestseller. What about all those pictures of you I had saved? Sure, you were naked in all of them, but they held some good times for me. I had some good times holding them. Post those on the internet and you'd see some hits. And those baseball cards from last year...probably worth a fortune in another ten or twenty. Here you are worried about money and you're throwing away a gold mine. Couldn't you even have saved something? Is that all I meant to you? Not even one reminder left of my existence?"

She walked back into our bedroom and over to the closet. It was empty now, nothing but bare hangers dangling on the pole, like bare bones on a corpse. She scanned the shelves above, also empty, and stood on her tip toes, feeling the top shelf for something. She found it and grabbed it with her fingers, jumping twice to move it closer to the edge, then walked it out with her fingertips. It was a blue tin, somewhat rusty on the bottom, with pictures of cookies all around the sides and lid. Sugar cookies, the ones with the big crystal droppings. My favorite. She sat on the bed and put it in front of her. I'd never seen it before. Maybe it contained all the love letter I had written to her, or all the poetry I hadn't.

She opened it and held the contents in her hands. My wedding ring? I looked down to make sure I wasn't still wearing it. I wasn't. She held something else.

Glistening like a jewel, as fragile as a hammer, as ominous as a grave. My gun.

I'd bought it about a year before, a little 9mm Smith and Wesson luger. Because of the type of people I was dealing with at the time, I thought I might need some protection. I carried it once and it probably saved my life. A software firm hired me to follow an executive whose behavior was becoming erratic. It was soon apparent that he had a badly hidden heroin habit, but my surveillance found me spending time in areas not known for their cordiality. Spotted taking video of a transaction, and stupidly blocks from my car, I was chased by a group of irate salesmen. Knowing I couldn't possibly outrun them, I took out the gun and fired a few times at the ground behind me. I heard yelling and turned some time later to find they had disappeared.

After reaching my car, driving for ten minutes, then pulling over to throw up, I vowed to refuse other such assignments. Once home, I stuck it in the bottom of a box of papers and lived a safe life from that time on.

Tina held it now, weighing it, bouncing it, no longer trembling. Then she popped the magazine out and sprung it back in. She took sudden aim at me, took an imaginary shot, checked the safety, put it under her pillow, picked up the tin, put on its lid and took it from the room.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

NEW GIRL

I walked until the morning was tapping on noon and beyond. Sometimes all I wanted was to be with my family. Other times all I wanted was to be as far away as possible.

I had hoped the simple act of walking would help me escape the debilitating depression I felt, but it remained, slowing each step and permeating my body like a poison working its way through the system.

Had I been such a bad husband, such a bad father, such an awful human being that the person closest to me in life would do her best to eliminate any possible memory of my existence before the body was even cold?

The answer stood out by the curb in a black plastic receptacle. If Tina could have found a way, I was sure, I would have been standing there with it.

It had been easy in my countless arguments with her to rebut an action or inaction, to explain away this adultery or that indiscretion, but how do you justify an entire life from beyond the grave? How do you debate with tangible argument that the love you had for someone should mean as much to them? How do you convince them that they should now feel a great loss and suggest a timetable for their grief?

What words can you say that will give them pause to at least recognize that all you have been in life is now stored in a box--or two--and that it would only be proper and decent to save something as a last memorial, before all is erased, out of simple respect for the dead?

There are none.

The living have the only words which will be heard, and it's in their memories and impressions and prejudices that will make the judgments which stand. They will measure out loss and love and give it meaning from what they remember or choose to forget. The dead can just shut the hell up and rest in peaceful silence with the knowledge that their time for argument or testimony was in their time for living.

And nothing will change that, ever. So you come to grips with it in death the way you did in life.

You don't.

You leave it down the road and keep moving, always moving toward the job at hand while the poison makes its way through your soul.

So I walked and searched, seeking familiarity in the former world that was now my only reality. I called her name: Here, Teresa, come out, come out, whosever in you. Are you under this rock? In this dumpster? No. Not yet. In the morgue? Not yet.

I found her near the trolley station, making the Grand Loop from one side of the street, down the block, then over to the other side and repeating the process, moving, always moving toward the job at hand. It was not the busy time of the workday, but like any street vendor she was out showing her wares for future customers.

I walked beside her for a moment, then reached over and touched her head...

...and found her cowering in the corner of the bungalow as blackness engulfed her, then picked her up and threw her outside before seeping back in...

I pulled out impatiently. I was in no mood for self-pity that wasn't mine.

Third trip around and no business. A scraggly black woman stood at the back of the liquor store. She was standing propped against the wall and as we neared she put the gaze on us, the basic look of the street, seeing if we were marks for money, sex, or simple diversion from life. Her eyes were glazed and focused on anything upright out of force of habit. She had half a cigarette in her mouth that defied gravity by sticking to her upper lip. Her skin was a leathery film that hung on her bones like a wet sheet over a clothesline. Her face was the perfect example of why it's called the world's oldest profession; maybe she had been the first. She was anywhere from forty-five to a hundred. I guessed ninety-nine. And a half.

"Pretty baby," she said to Teresa, who unwisely walked to her. I folded my arms and waited. "Got a light?" she asked. She took the butt from her lips with two fingers yet her lips remained frozen in a pucker and she took a step and nearly fell over.

"Here, sit here." Teresa led her to the shady side of the building and helped her slide down the stucco to a sitting position.

The woman coughed, waving her hand.

Teresa patted her on the back until she stopped choking. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, sure. Thank you, honey. What's your name?"

"Teresa."

"Kenya." She started another coughing spree.

"Can I get you something?"

"A match."

Or an extra lung, I thought.

"Wait here." Teresa walked into the liquor store.

Great, I thought. My son is growing up without me, my wife is doing her best to forget I ever existed, and I spend eternity babysitting Skank and Skankette. I looked away, annoyed, and thought about the idea I'd had earlier. It had been a small seed of a vision, but as I stood and stared it became a hazy picture forming in my mind's eye. Then it grew into inspiration, either by my will or another, until it blossomed into something more tangible.

I stepped over the woman while she coughed phlegm onto the sidewalk and hurried off toward the bungalow. If my plan worked, then Jim would be out of everyone's life and all the tasks I'd been assigned would be completed. Relieved of obligation, I would then be free to stay with my family and perhaps give them some reminder that I had, at one time, existed.

I found none of the blackness in the bungalow which had so terrified Teresa's mind, though I did find Jim lying on the couch, so I suppose he qualified in a different form. I stood over him and tried to massage thoughts into his mind.

"They're all over you, little legs crawling over your skin, down your back, on your neck, touching your ears. You can't get them off, you can't brush them away. They're all over the house, the dirty, sticky house. You need to escape, get out, get away, before they crawl in your ears and nostrils and mouth..."

He was sweating, running his hands through his greasy hair and breathing hard as drops ran off his face.

"You need to get to a place where they can't find you. You need another dose, a pure dose, an overdose. Get away, get away, while there's still time, before they get inside your brain..."

His eyes opened wide and he looked around the room. He got up and shook his body, hitting at imaginary things. But I still had a grip.

"Here they come, buzzing in your brain, you can't shut them out, they're coming in to eat away at what's left. They'll ooze through your fingers, no matter how tightly you clamp them to your ears. Here they come!"

Jim yelled and ran out the front door with his hands holding his head.

I walked quickly back to Teresa. With Jim out of the way for a little while, it was time for part two of the plan. If I could get her on the way out of town while he was occupied, all would be taken care of. My job with her would be over and I could begin rebuilding my life, or at least my legacy.

I got back to the liquor store and found them both against the wall where I'd left them. Except now Teresa was sitting with eyes closed against the wall and the old woman was kneeling in front of her.

"Don't you worry, pretty baby," the woman was saying as she held Teresa's head and patted it softly. "It'll be all right now." She let go of Teresa as if putting her to bed, kissed the top of her head, stood and walked off. Teresa had a peaceful expression on her face though dirty streaks from her eyes showed she'd been crying.

I'd missed something.

I dropped to my knees and put my hand on her head, pushing indelicately into her thoughts. I felt her squirm as I met her outer consciousness but kept pushing beyond that and began searching in the dark maze of her memories. People popped out at me from everywhere, images and feelings and faces that beckoned like lascivious demons and tried to draw me in and share their fleshly experiences. I kept my eyes straight, twisting like a blind rat in that gooey cavern. Then, up ahead, I saw a light more luminous than the others. Her last memory. So strong was it, I squinted as I got near and it took all my strength and will to get close enough to dive in...

...and suddenly I was her, stooping to light the old woman's cigarette. Up close she really wasn't old at all. Maybe late-forties, early fifties. The time on the street had been ruinous. She inhaled, closing her eyes and resting against the building, then she coughed into her arm.

"Are you all right?" I asked, sitting beside her.

She smiled. "I am now. Why are you here?"

I looked at her, confused. Had she forgotten? "You wanted a match..."

"No. I mean here, on the street. You're too pure to be here."

"Pure?" I laughed and crossed my legs. It was a word from a different language. "That's funny."

"Here," the old woman said, and tapped my chest. It sounded hollow in my ears. "You're too pure of heart. Why are you here?"

I shook my head and shrugged. The shrug was because I couldn't remember. How did I get here? I thought. It was a blur of days. "I don't remember. I feel like I've always been."

"But you haven't.

"No, I haven't."

"Tell me about that, before the time you haven't."

I closed my eyes. It was hard to think, as if something was in the way. "It's been Jim and me for so long. I had a friend, Darcy, I had known since high school. We lived together. One day Jim gave her boyfriend, Zack, a ride over to our place on his Harley. Boy, when I heard that the first time I thought the world was falling in. It looked so big and powerful, and him with his long hair and muscles. He had the whitest teeth when he looked up and smiled at me and asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I can still feel the power under me, and those muscles. I got on and put my arms around and held on tight. We've been together ever since." I stopped.

"What happened then?"

Memories came slowly, and when they did they were as if they belonged to someone else. A story I'd heard before, maybe a movie I'd seen but never lived. I couldn't remember ever really living. "We moved in together and it was great for a while. I'd never been happier. We'd go places, be with friends, talk about what we wanted to do with our lives...but then he got hurt at work. He went on disability and couldn't do what he had done before because of his back. Not working made him itchy, he said, and he started hanging around with different people. He started using pot more, then coke, meth. After he was arrested, he lost his disability so he sold his bike. I had to make some money and we kept moving because we couldn't pay rent and I lost touch with Darcy and I've been alone every since."

"A long time."

I nodded.

"Before that?"

I looked at her and wiped my eyes. They were wet. "Before that?" I stared through the moistness for a long time, my mind blank. Pictures formed on the surface of my eyes, strange images which took on stranger shapes. A place I'd been long ago. "Before that I lived at home. It was good...mostly good. But a lot of rules. My parents...didn't like me out late. Yelling. Anger. That's what I remember most before I left, all the rules. I wanted to be free. So I left."

"Are you free?"

"Free? No. Fifty bucks." The words came out without thinking. I began to giggle which became a laugh which became a gurgle which became a moan of desperate aloneness that seemed to go on forever until tears were steaming down my cheeks. I buried my face in my hands so no one would see and cried until my head hurt. I wiped my eyes with my palms and my nose with my shirt. Kenya's eyes were wet, as if she were crying with me, for me, but she was smiling. It seemed like that smile never left her face.

"Would you like it to stop?"

"What?"

"The pain. Would you like to get away?"

"Away? There is no away. There's only today, now, getting money and food. I used to dream of a house with a garden. Now my dream is a warm day and a warm night and warm food."

"How did you get that?" she asked, pointing.

I put my hand to my face. "I fell."

She looked at me without pity, but her eyes were full of the sadness of the streets. "If you could go anywhere, where would it be?"

I laughed. "That's easy, Mama Bella's." I pointed to an Italian restaurant across the street and down a bit. "I smell it every day. I'd go in and get a table and order one of everything and take all day to eat."

She laughed with me. "What about away from here Where would you go?"

I looked around. This spot and four blocks either way was my world. The whole universe. What could possibly be beyond? I said nothing for a long time. But an answer came.

"Home."

It was a strange word, but as I spoke, pictures came. Me as a little girl, a black and white plaid dress I wore to church. Friends coming over with their dolls, all of us having tea in my plastic playhouse. My mother in the kitchen with apron and big hair, cooking or preparing to cook. My father with a scowl, bringing cold impatience to whatever room he entered and an anger which he brought home from work and hissed out at everyone to relieve the pressures.

Fear. Love. Food. Home.

"Home."

"Why don't you go there?"

"It's not that easy."

"Why not?"

"Nothing is."

"What if it was?"

I shook my head as if she were crazy and I didn't understand. "All this time, all these years..." I shivered, trying to keep down the memories of yesterday which rose with the taste of vomit. I shook them off with a shiver. "It's not that easy," I said again.

"What if it was?"

I stared into her eyes, into her old face. What if it was? "I've lost the way."

"What if you could find it?"

"I'd start walking. I'd walk down that road away from the city until there was nothing but blue sky ahead and brown haze behind. I'd walk until I was surrounded by trees and I'd drop to the ground and cover myself with the dead leaves."

Another memory came: me, maybe five years old, playing in the back yard of our house, walking slowly through the autumn leaves covering the grass, making huge piles my father would later burn but now to jump in and scatter then gather and jump in again and again. My father coming out of the garage and yelling at me for destroying his work, then helping me rake them in piles only to watch me scatter them as he laughed. One of the few times I remember him laughing.

I looked at the woman. "It's not so easy. I've tried before."

"Now you'll have help. You'll be able to go home again, soon."

I nodded without knowing why and she began to get fuzzy and unfocused. I blinked, then again, then closed my eyes and leaned against the wall of the building and slept under the warmth of the late afternoon sun.

I backed out drowsily, falling to the asphalt with a bump and finding myself sitting with legs crossed in front of Teresa who was still asleep. Kenya was gone. Someone was standing next to me, watching. Rollins.

"How long--?" I began, stopping to yawn.

"Long enough. Trace, you need to stay with her."

"Stay with her? I was just inside of her. I can't get much closer than that."

"You've been everywhere else, as well," he said. "What were you were doing with Jim?"

"Oh, that," I said. "Don't you already know?"

"Tell me anyway."

I bounced to my knees, then stood. "I've got a plan. Listen, if we can get him out of the way for a day or two, her troubles will be over. We get rid of Jim and Teresa is free."

"How?"

"I've already got him on the run," I said. "I implanted some thoughts in his head and he took off. If I can keep doing that I can buy enough time so Teresa can get out of here."

He had a skeptical look.

"It'll work."

"Trace," he said, "let me give you the best advice you'll ever get in any life: Don't think. Do what you're told."

"I also found out something else," I said, ignoring him. "Jim might be involved in a murder."

"Oh?"

"Didn't know that, huh? See what happens when you don't not think?"

"Involved how?"

"Indirectly. I don't know the details. Right now it's a matter of simple extortion. He knows something about it and is trying to get money from whoever was directly involved. If I can find out who and how and why, and then relay that information to the cops, we can get him put away for a long time."

He nodded, considering. "Maybe. But until then, stay with--"

"Yeah, yeah. But what about my plan?"

He hesitated. "There's a lot I can't tell you, but you're partly right."

"I knew it. Which part? The murder?"

"Partly."

"He's involved?"

"Somewhat."

"He knows about it."

He hesitated. "Yes."

"What about my plan to get rid of him?"

"What about it?"

"Am I on the right track?" I asked.

"Partly."

"I knew it," I said. "I felt it. I knew the minute it came to mind it was the right thing. Hey, is that significant? I mean, was it inspired?"

"Slow down," he said. "In a way you're on the right path, but in another way you're not even close. Either way, you need to stay with Teresa. That's your main task."

"What about Jim?"

"We'll take care of him. You take care of her."

"But," I started, then closed my mouth and moved my lips around like a chewing cow. "It's so damn slow."

"You in a hurry?"

"I've already got him going in the right direction. If I keep pushing it won't be long before he's out of the picture."

"You've got him going in a direction, but not necessarily the one that's best for her, or anyone else."

"I don't understand. All things work to the good, right?"

"If a plan is the right one, there's no need to rush it. It will happen because it will happen. So do your part and don't worry about the rest. Now, what's your part?"

I said it in a slow monotone. "Stay with the girl."

"Right. And don't think."

I looked down at Teresa, sound asleep and beginning to snore. "This is so frustrating."

"Why?"

"It's so endlessly tiresome."

He paused. "Then try something different."

"Like what?"

"Try being her friend," he said, fading away.

"Her friend?" I asked, watching drool move over her chin. "How do I do that?"

CHAPTER TWELVE

MEETING

After a few minutes of slapping Teresa awake I managed to get her to her feet, and if that's not friendship

Even after the two hours sleep she'd gotten she was still lethargic. It was a lazy afternoon quickly becoming a dusky evening, another day without my family which brought rising resentment. But I needed her involvement to implement my plan. I jumped into her legs and kept her walking until the drowsiness wore off and she was moving under her own strength. By then it had occurred to her that she had no reason to be going home and was ready to turn back to her beat, but a little pressure applied to the bladder gave her ample reason to finish the journey, as home was now in view.

All the while I was talking to her:

"You need to pack your things, you need to get out of the bungalow, get away, get gone, be free."

I searched her mind for the memory from before, the one of her and her father in the back yard. I didn't find it, but another image came, somewhat similar. A back yard, blue sky, a little girl playing with a kitten in tall grass, the wind blowing her long brown hair coolly from behind. The faceless girl smiling at the simple antics of the cat as it jumped and pounced on the moving weeds.

"You need to go back there," I told her. "Back to that freedom, back to that peace. Paradise."

But there was no connection. As the cat frolicked, the sound of a can opener could be heard. The cat perked its ears and ran toward a house and disappeared into a rubber pet door leading inside. It ran through the kitchen to a dish being filled by a woman emptying a can's contents as another voice spoke.

"Healthy Cat, the only cat food with all natural ingredients, sure to keep your pet one happy cat."

It was an old television commercial, stuck in the midst of other memories, and my nudging had been in vain. After we got back to the bungalow all Teresa did was pee, make a sandwich, and sit at the table to eat.

A car's lights lit the parking lot, scraping bottom as it bounced to a park. I looked out to see Jim get out of an old grey car, one that should have been put out to pasture in the 50's. Grey was not the original color; someone had primed the body and decided it looked good enough. It dieseled until dying as he entered the bungalow.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, walking into the bedroom, back to the living room, not looking at Teresa, looking everywhere else. Finally he made eye contact. "Have you seen any bugs in here?"

"What?"

He stared at her, then growled. "What are you doing?"

She watched him distantly. "Eating."

He tapped his left heel against the floor. "Why aren't you out?"

"I was," she said, leaning back. "But I met somebody. We started talking–"

"Who?"

"Just some old woman."

Jim took a quick step and stopped, his fingers clenching and straightening. "Talking to old women ain't why you're out there. How much money you got?"

"Thirty-five."

"Thirty-five, thirty-five." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Thirty-five is nothing. Am I the only one working around here?"

"Where'd you get the car?"

Jim glanced out the window. "Stole it." He paused. "It's a friend's. Gimmie the money."

She hesitated. I could see her mind working. Maybe some of the thoughts I'd given her had made an impression.

Jim took the gun from his pocket and waved it through the air. It made him look foolish rather than threatening. "I won't ask again."

She straightened in her chair as she felt herself for the money. "Where did you get that?"

"Same friend. He comes in handy sometimes. Whenever I need a favor."

Teresa turned away. "You're scaring me."

He seemed suddenly embarrassed and awkward. He loosened his grip and the pistol dropped to point at the floor. His voice sounded empty now. "Just give me the money."

She did. He stuffed it into his pants pocket and went out. I watched him drive out, flipping on his lights as he headed toward the street. The two large taillights glowed like the back of an amusement park rocket, burning in a night's flight. My chest was tight as I ran out after him.

Even death has its limitations. I couldn't move as fast as Jim could drive and I lost him more than a few times in the darkening streets. But luck, instinct or divine direction kept me choosing the right turns in time to see the car's back lights a few blocks ahead. It pulled into a city park's parking lot and I walked the last hundreds of feet toward it, catching my breath.

Jim got out and walked off. He had parked as far as possible from the two other cars there, both nearer the well-lit basketball court. Six young boys and a dozen middle-aged men were playing games on the two courts, and squeaks and grunts filled the fenced-in area. A woman was pushing a little girl on a swing just outside the court in the sandy playground while another young girl sat sifting that same sand through her fingers. There were two baseball fields, one close, the other on the far side, both meeting at conjoined outfield grass. A few acres made up the rest of the park with large umbrella elms spaced equally apart. Bordering it all was a four foot hedge with a six foot fence giving privacy to the homes behind. Near the closer diamond was a small brick bathroom with red tile roof, which was Jim's destination.

I found him in the second stall; I recognized the shoes. He was having a hard time of it so I waited outside. After a few minutes he staggered out, spitting and coughing, and walked stiffly to a tree to lean against it in relief. He took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, stuck it between his lips, fished around his pants and came out with a lighter. He lit it with shaky hands and inhaled, keeping his eyes on the lot.

A dark sedan pulled in and parked beside Jim's car. The lights went out and a door opened. Jim took the cigarette from his lips and flicked it onto the grass. He slipped his right hand into his pocket and pulled out the gun. He made sure it was loaded, safety off, put it back and walked toward the car.

I gave him a few strides so I could take in the whole scene. The man from the sedan was trying to be casual as he scanned the park. When he saw Jim he tried being even more casual, though his pace quickened. Jim motioned with his head, nodding toward a table furthest from people. They approached it from different directions and stood with backs to all as if to conduct private business. The man's mannerisms and movements seemed familiar, especially from behind, and as I came up to them and I heard them speak I stopped in mid-stride.

If I had eaten that week I would have thrown up.

It was Brent Hewitt.

"Glad you could make it."

"Let's finish this."

The man put his hand into his pocket. Jim did the same. Hewitt took out an envelope. Jim relaxed. My head was numb as if someone were hitting it with a bat.
Brent Hewitt, married seventeen years to Brenda, my last client. She had hired me to gather evidence of said husband's infidelity, which I supplied while supplying her ample evidence of her own, right up to the night I was murdered in front of their house. If the person hitting my head ever stopped, everything would fall into place. At the moment they were swinging away.

Jim was counting money.

"It's a thousand," Hewitt said bitterly.

"Just making sure. I wouldn't want anyone to be cheated."

Hewitt glared. "How long do you think I'll keep paying you?"

Jim smiled. "How long do you want to stay out of jail?"

"Nobody would believe you."

"Maybe not." He put the money back into the envelope. "But you think somebody would, or else you wouldn't be here. And I wouldn't have this." He waved the envelope in Hewitt's face and stuffed it into his pants.

"You're the one who killed him."

Jim laughed. "Prove it. I was home that night, all night, right where I was supposed to be. I have witnesses. Where were you that night?"

Hewitt was steaming. "This won't go on forever."

"With all the money you have," Jim said, "it might."

"Believe me, it won't. If I have to I'll--"

Jim pulled the gun out of his pocket and held it level with the to of the table. "Don't threaten me, don't ever threaten me. I've got nothing to live for. It would be easy to pull the trigger."

Hewitt swallowed hard, looking straight. "And lose a thousand a month?"

Jim lowered the gun and smiled. "You see, it's a stalemate. We need each other."

Jim stood, put the gun in his pants, and made a half turn.

Three sharp pops filled the air and everyone in the park froze, then dropped to the ground together as if they'd had practice. Jim and Hewitt did the same, Brent a little slower and getting a mouthful of grass as he bounced hard on the ground. There was a half-second of immobility as a car sped away, then people scrambled to their feet and ran for their lives.

Hewitt was doing the same as Jim stood and searched for a wound. Finding none, he began limping away. He stopped and looked at his leg in shock. There was a tiny red rip in his pants and he shrieked as he touched it. Blood came back with his finger and he ran howling to his car. The park had emptied like a lake with a busted dam, and soon it was empty and silent.

Except for an increasingly loud and rhythmic thumping I eventually traced back to my heart.

I sat down at the picnic table, trembling. It had all come together, like Rollins had said. A tying of the loose ends, a method to the madness, all neat and tidylike the end of a liquid puzzle when you've found the final drop. All the pieces globbed into a neat picture, manifesting in the most roundabout way possible until they were placed, soggy and soaking, right into my lap.

I had wanted to find out who killed me, but being with Teresa slowed me down. Yet it was all part of another plan as the two paths crossed. Now I had my answers.

Hewitt had hired Jim to kill me, either because I'd been sleeping with his wife or simply because I'd been gathering evidence against him. Or both. Once that was done, Hewitt assumed it was over, especially since no evidence would ever point to him. But Jim figured he could keep tapping the source, and he was right, though it seemed Hewitt wasn't fond of the idea.

Nevertheless, Jim putting the squeeze on Hewitt was the last drop of that liquid puzzle of my murder. Now I just had to figure out what to do next. I sat and waited for more clarity and a sense of direction.

He took his time coming.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SORTS

I called and prayed and yelled and swore and got no answer.

The paradox of eternity.

If there was no time in eternity, why was Rollins busy when I called? Was he simply choosing not to answer? And, if busy, busy doing what? He himself had said there were no others in my circumstance, so what did a Rollins do to occupy timelessness? Fight a demon? Run an errand? Keep tabs on a hot blonde widow?

As I muddled that theological conundrum, the police came to investigate the shooting, along with the media and scores of neighbors. They weren't having much luck with evidence or witnesses, though I tried to be as helpful as I could. After a few hours of ignoring me they packed up and left. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I would make the evening news, albeit in the background.

Once alone, without distraction, I could chastise myself unimpeded.

How could I have been so careless? How could I not have noticed, while following a man's minute by minute existence, that he in turn was doing the same to me? Somehow the bastard had discovered that his wife had hired me to gather evidence against him, most likely for an impending divorce, and he didn't appreciate the interference. Then he found out I was sleeping with his wife, giving him two reasons to be annoyed by my presence. Not willing to let one discretion pass, let alone two, and unwilling to divide his estate, he had decided to end both problems at once.

He had hired Jim, a low-life drugged-out junkie to do the job. If all went well, it would simply be another robbery/ homicide gone unsolved. If Jim were caught, the motive—an addict looking to support his habit—would be supplied. If Jim talked and implicated Hewitt—the worst case scenario—where was the proof? All Jim had was an incoherent story. Hewitt was safe. But now there had been a new development. Jim realized the well he had tapped was unlimited. The job was done, the heat was off, and the money was plentiful. Jim knew Hewitt wouldn't risk going to the cops about extortion, even if there was no evidence implicating him in a crime. And Jim had an advantage: he had proven he was capable of killing.

Therefore, Hewitt paid, and would pay again, but for how long? He had an advantage, as well. He had already hired a killer to rid himself of a problem. He could do so again.

All the turmoil my death was causing the two of them was faintly satisfying, but far from the justice I sought. I was dead. They were simply inconvenienced.

And for what? What had been the cause of it all? Who had been the source of my death?

Brenda Hewitt.

I only wished I could bend over far enough to kick myself in the teeth.

It was the first time I'd thought of her--really thought of her--since our last night together. That alone showed the depth of our bond. She was a woman who had beenavailable. That about summed up our relationship. Available. Able. Willing. Inventive. Flexible. Color of her eyes? Couldn't say, but almost positive there'd been two. Height? Her lips came up to my chest while standing, other places while not. Body? Toned, tight, firm.

Worth a lifetime?

The question irritated, for the answer came without thought. Ten minutes, tops.

What woman had I ever been with who had been worth more? Like a cigarette presumably taking an hour off your life for each one smoked, maybe I could measure the women in my life using the same standard. This one worth an hour, this one worth two, this one five minutes. How many, I thought, looking at it from the other side of time, had been worth taking two seconds from my life?

Their faces, names and body's spun through my mind as if on a slot machine, and when the images stopped there were no cherries in alignment and only one woman whose name, face and being had been worth any time at all.

Tina.

She had been worth a lifetime, one I had given freely. If possible, I would give her another.

But Brenda? There was a time her body made me shiver and sigh. Now she was my receptacle of death. It was surprising that her husband cared about her infidelity, especially in the midst of his own. But it's one thing to have your own indiscretions. It's quite another to have it thrown back in your face, especially if the man helping himself to your wife is engaged in an effort to remove you from your money, and possibly helping himself to that, as well.

But take that man out of the equation and the threat is gone. Do so in a very violent way and perhaps said wife is frightened, not only into fidelity, but also to the point of dropping thoughts of divorce. Revenge is actualized.

A thought crossed my mind, one I had never considered for its horrible brilliance. What if she had been the one to tell her husband about me? Not only about our affair, but that I was detailing his every movement. Women would do that; for spite, in lonely desperation, or hopelessness, or even financial ultimatum. If she had done so in the hopes of saving her marriage, had she also sealed my fate?

It occurred to me that I really didn't know her that well and that I'd have to make an effort. It also occurred to me--if it proved to be true--that I'd have to add her to the list of people who needed justice dropped on their head.

I heard a basketball bouncing and I looked over to see a shadowy figure dribble a few more times before jumping from the baseline. It went in without a sound, a nice twenty-foot jumper. Rollins.

"Where have you been?" I asked, walking onto the court.

He grabbed the ball and dribbled out to three-point country. A turn, a jump, a flick of the wrist...nothing but net.

"Busy," he said, positioning himself as I got the rebound and dribbled ten feet down the baseline to turn and shoot a nice pass to him under the rim. "I've got a life of my own, you know."

"Well, I kind of lost mine," I said, meeting him at the top of the key. "It makes me a little impatient sometimes."

"Sometimes."

"Where do you go, when you go?"

"You wouldn't understand and it's not important," he said. "What is important is what happened here tonight."

"You heard?"

"I was here."

"You were here? I didn't see you."

"I was here because you called."

"I didn't call until it was all over."

"I heard you call before you did." He smiled at my expression. "Time is a relative thing when it doesn't exist."

"Right," I said. "Either which way, you know. I found the guy who killed me."

"You found him," he said, "all by yourself."

"Okay, I was led to find him. However it worked...but now I know. So why did you tell me Jim didn't kill me?"

He held the ball under his arm. "I didn't say he didn't. I didn't say he did. So, tell me what you think you know?"

"Jim was hired by Hewitt to kill me for sleeping with his wife. Or for gathering evidence to be used against him. Either way, he hired Jim to get me out of the picture. But now Jim wants more money and is threatening to go to the cops if he doesn't get it."

Rollins didn't look impressed. "Then what was all this—" he scanned the park. "—about?"

"The shooting? Simple. Jim's an idiot, he's in way over his brain. He owes people money--drug money, probably--and they're tired of waiting. Or," I said, as a thought hit, "Hewitt's already tired of the squeeze and has hired someone to get rid of Jim, just like Jim got rid of me."

"So you think Jim was the target?"

"No doubt about it." I laughed. "Now that would be justice. Right as he's reaching for the money, bam!...a bullet between the eyes."

He silently spun the basketball on his finger.

"Look, Meadowlark," I said, "quit making me guess. You already know. At least tell me if I'm on the right track. Did Brent Hewitt hire Jim to kill me because I was sleeping with his wife?"

"Yes."

"Ha!" I pumped my fist. "I knew it." I looked at him and my excitement faded. "So why did it take so long to get to this point?"

"What do you mean?"

"You knew all along who killed me. Why all the running around? Why all the wasted time following Teresa? I know she was the catalyst to get me to this point, but why all the games? You could have just told me."

He had a look of pained patience. "I told you from the beginning we knew how you died and who did it. How could we not know? And I told you then it would be better, for you, if we handled it without your involvement. Now I'm telling you again: drop it."

"What!"

"Just what I said."

The ball had continued to spin on his index finger like a gyroscope. I grabbed it away. "It just started, how can I drop it? It all just fell into place. It's only now beginning to make sense."

"You only know in part."

"That's enough. Now let's take care of this guy."

"Which one?"

"Both. They're both responsible. Let's see some justice."

"It'll be done," Rollins said. "In time." He reached for the ball.

"Time my ass," I exploded, holding it away. "It's all there, right in front of us. Let's finish it."

"We will."

"You can't leave me out."

"You won't be left out. You have an integral part."

"Great," I said, and he grabbed the ball back. "What do I do?"

"Stay with Teresa."

My mouth fell open and nothing intelligent came out. "Teresa? Still? I thought her part was over."

"Trace, you see everything except what's important."

"My murder was pretty important."

"This isn't about you. You stay with Teresa. That's your job." He began dribbling the ball.

"Until when?"

"Until I tell you different."

"What about Hewitt and Jim and—"

"It will all be taken care of."

"Don't give me that 'Vengeance is mine' crap. I want my own."

He stopped dribbling. "Okay. I'll tell something else I shouldn't."

"It's about time."

"If you have patience, you'll see the whole picture come together."

I waited. "And?"

"And what?"

"What do I do?"

"Wait."

"I've been waiting."

"You haven't begun to wait."

"Yeah, but—" I stopped. "I'm lost."

"Things will happen soon, and are happening. It almost happened tonight. If I hadn't readjusted the aim he wouldn't be here now."

"Who wouldn't be here?"

"Who did you think the bullets were for?"

"Jim, right? Hewitt?" I asked as his face held no confirmation. "Okay, I give up, who was doing the shooting? And why?"

"We all make enemies in life," Rollins said. "I did. You did. Sometimes we make the same enemies."

"What does that mean?"

"Jim has lots of enemies," he said. "No one likes being blackmailed."

I clapped my hands, nodding my head vigorously, back on terra firma. "Exactly. Hewitt's trying to get rid of Jim. I knew that."

"You'd be surprised at what you know."

"So now what?"

"Stay with the girl."

"What about them?" I asked, jerking my thumb to where nobody stood.

"Nothing yet. Not until I say. And you'll know when that is," he said as I opened my mouth to speak, "because I'll tell you." He started to turn.

"Wait a minute." I forced a big smile. "Rollins, you already know what will happen. Can't you give me a hint?"

"I don't know what will happen. We all have free will which enables us to–" He stopped at the expression on my face, which said plainly I wasn't in the mood for abstract spiritual lectures. He moved his lips back and forth, considering. "I'll make you a deal." He let the ball drop from his hands and it came to me on one bounce. "We'll play to twenty-one. Winner can ask the loser anything he wants and the loser has to answer."

I smiled, knowing a sucker when I saw one. "Agreed." I walked to the half-way line, tossed him the ball, he tossed it back, and I was off and running...

...and found myself losing my balance and rolling as his hand came in and snaked the ball away and he dribbled to the basket for an easy lay-up as I got up off the ground.

He walked to mid-court. "Played a little college ball," he said. "Might have gone pro if things had turned out different.." He bounced the ball to me, I bounced it back, and he faked right and spun left before I could move, and I watched him drive for the basket, taking all my unanswered questions with him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

YESTERDAYS

She still wasn't talking to me, even after a lifetime.

After leaving Rollins at the park, I'd spent the night watching Teresa. Jim was nowhere to be seen. And I was getting antsy. I needed to see Tina and tell her all my triumphs. Thus reasoning, I left the girl and went home.

But upon arrival, I found Tina in no mood for company. She was doing the laundry, grimly separating clothes, tossing them into piles or appliances, putting some on hangers and placing them around the room, others in a basket for the clothesline. Grim, grim, grim. She never was in the best humor during housework. Or before. Or after. Even now, after half the household's normal amount of clothing had gone the way of all flesh.

"You could always get a job," I said, as she snapped another shirt straight, placing carefully on the basket. "Stop being so sheltered and join the real world; the incessant boredom of office work, the monotonous jabbering of co-workers on the assembly line. You could type for ten bucks an hour, flip burgers for less. Think of the excitement."

No reply.

Whenever Tina would complain about housework, I would helpfully list the alternatives. She hadn't worked since getting pregnant with Tyler and never seriously considered returning to the workplace, except when the checks were late.

"Having no skills might make things more difficult," I went on, reminders from the grave. "Can't act, can't dance. You can wash clothes and microwave a dinner with the best of them. Maybe open your business: Tina's Laundry and Food Warming."

I looked into that face. So young, so beautiful, so grim and distant. "Why," I asked, "do I still love you?"

She had a list magnetically affixed to the refrigerator. Things to Do. Laundry. Vacuuming. Tyler's Room. Gardening. The latter was the only thing she truly enjoyed, being out in the sun and digging in the dirt. She put that last after all the rest. Delayed gratification. She crossed Laundry off the list.

Maybe if I helped her, I thought, things would go faster. But the basket was too heavy. She picked it up and I followed her outside.

"Remember the day we met?" I asked, as she pinned Tyler's pajamas on the line. "I was roaming the bookstore, looking through the business section because I needed a book for some class I ended up not taking. And you were there, too, business being your major, though the book you were reading wasn't about business at all. Butterfly Gardens, if I remember. I walked by, then again, and by the third time I knew I had just found the most beautiful woman in the world. I pretended to look through other books, but you were all I could see. It was the first time my breath was literally taken away, though not the last. Ever other time I saw you–unless we were arguing–I had that same feeling. You had on that short blue dress that matched your eyes, with those perfect white legs which seemed to go on forever. But it was your hair that framed it all in angelic perfection. Blond curls which spiraled just beyond your shoulders and bounced when you looked up to see what kind of fool was stalking you from every bookshelf. It was just an instant of a gaze when our eyes met, but it was an instant that changed my life. Electricity flowed through my body, making everything seem clear and focused, and I felt like Superman. Stupid, I know, but everything was heightened. I knew I needed to feel every day to be alive, and you were the one person I wanted to spend a lifetime spilling my heart to. But fear held me back.

"Then a greater fear swept over me: that if we never met the rest of my life would be nothing.

"When I finally walked over and you looked up, I thought I'd die because of the perfection. And when you spoke to me my heart was like wax, but for the first time life seemed right. We must have talked for hours; about gardening and spade work and dreams you had apart from your job at the bank and dreams I had apart from not being with you. And after some hours we made a date and I left looking like the biggest grinning idiot the world had ever seen."

She finished hanging the last of the laundry, wiped her forehead, picked up the empty basket and carried it inside.

"Those next days and weeks were unreal times, incredible times," I continued, as she dropped the basket on the washer and walked over to the closet to pull out the vacuum. "I was in a constant daze." I sat on the vacuum as Tina plugged it in, and I held on tightly as she began cleaning the living room. "I couldn't get enough of you. I'd call you at least once a day. We'd go out and alternate between our favorite restaurants and hangouts and theaters and dives until we knew each other's tastes inside and out. Then we did it again. And afterwards, going back to your apartment, listening to music, watching movies, listening to old radio dramas, we'd sit on the couch and I would hold you and wonder how life could be so good.

"You never let me stay the night," I said, as she moved the couch aside to reveal cobwebs. "But you sent me away with the most passionate kisses. A few times I walked straight from the front door of your apartment to jump into the freezing pool in the courtyard, fully dressed, so I could make it through the night, or at least the ride home. I'd drive back to my apartment with the heater full blast, then dry off when I got home and jump in bed and fall into a deep, contented sleep.

She bumped the vacuum into the wall and I fell off.

"But something happened," I said, sitting.

She turned, tying the cord as she rolled it back to the closet. She put it inside and I followed her as she made her way to Tyler's bedroom. Toys lay scattered on the floor, on the bed, on the dresser. Tina sighed and knelt down.

"Something happened," I repeated, sitting cross-legged on my son's bed. "And it didn't start when you got pregnant and had to quit your job at the bank, though that didn't help. It was before, and during, and after, and now. It was a progression, like a light beginning to dim so slowly that you don't know it's fading until the dark looks bright by comparison. My job started to lose its glamour, because you were alone more and I was out later, trying to make up for the money you weren't bringing in. Then I started to lose whatever glamour I held in your eyes. I was no longer a private detective out to right the wrongs and save the world, but now just a guy who spent most of his time in his car watching people who weren't his family.

"The money was still good," I argued. "But you were a new mom with a new baby and a tired husband who wished he could be home more but...money. But money. We both went brain dead; you by having no interaction with anyone but Tyler, me by having no interaction with anyone but my car. Sex became as rare as Red Sox pennants. You became angry and resentful and bitter. You said I was the same."

Tina was trying to separate similar pieces of toys into piles. She stopped suddenly and reached over and dragged a wastebasket from under Tyler's cluttered desk. She began scooping up handfuls of tiny toy men and cars and bugs and dropping them into the basket until it overflowed. She pushed them down and dropped more in until the floor was clear. She carried the basket quickly to the bigger kitchen trash can, emptied it, carried it back to Tyler's room, set it on the floor and escaped the room with a slam of the door.

"You became distant, emotionally and physically."

She was in the front yard now, digging out weeds in the flowerbed near the fence. Her gardening toolbox was next to her along with a six-pack of ranunculus.

"Like a zombie, going through the motions, looking out with those dead eyes," I said. "But the worst of it all, the very worst thing: I couldn't get you to smile."

She dug harder, stabbing the ground, grimly chopping into the hard earth.

"You lost all joy for life. And all hope. Tell me, was it before my affairs, or after? I honestly don't know. I'd come home to those eyes that used to sparkle, that face that radiated so much life, and I'd try to hold you and you'd squirm away as if touched by a leper. So I'd walk out, leaving the fear behind. But I was too afraid to tell you what I was afraid of. So I ran, to another, and another. Someone I could make smile. Someone who would hold me. Someone I hadn't killed."

"That's what I was afraid of," I said, as I looked at her face. "That I was the one who had caused you such death. I didn't want to be that person. I couldn't be. Even now I'm afraid to ask. But tell me. Am I the one who killed you?"

She looked at me and I waited for her to speak, to console, to forgive. She squinted into my eyes and I could see the reflected fear I felt. But she wasn't looking at me, she was looking through me, to the other side.

I turned to see as well.

A car was moving slowly down the street, exhaust rumbling as if detached. It was dull grey, primer-esque, and I could read the chrome letters on the body. Fairlane Galaxie. It slowed even more as it neared the house. Inside the man grimaced a smile, as if the attempt caused him pain.

It was Jim.

He stared at Tina as the car moved by.

Tina stared back, frozen, until the car had moved beyond the invisible boundary of the property. She dropped the weeder on the ground and ran to the house.

I took a step to follow, then stopped and waited. I needed to be sure. The car had made a slow u-turn and was coming back. There was no mistaking him, not at that speed. Same scraggly beard, same greasy hair.

Then he did something horrible.

He looked at me and waved.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

OUTS

I stood beside Tina as we looked out the front window. It has been a long half hour since Jim had driven off and it seemed apparent he wouldn't be coming back.

Tina was biting her thumb as she kept watch. There was no doubt of the fear on her face when she had seen Jim, no doubt about how it covered her entire body. There was also no doubt what it meant. You don't fear strangers, no matter how hideous they look. You only fear that which can bring you harm, or that which has already brought you harm, so the conclusion was obvious: they had made contact before.

Maybe they'd never met face to face, but Tina had made the connection between Jim and my death. Perhaps she had seen him in the neighborhood, parked by the curb, waiting for opportunity. How many times had he sat in his car across the street, watching our house, studying silhouettes in the windows? What else had he seen in that time of waiting?

Tina must have noticed him and wondered what he was up to, but she was too smart to wonder long. A strange man sits watching your home. A few days later your husband is murdered. No one could miss the obvious connection. I had told Tina many times--in the beginning, when there was interest--of being threatened and even chased by those I was hired to follow. She knew that when emotions ran high, so did the risks; but so did the money, so the risks were offset against a husband's safety.

But why was Jim still around? It was over. Why would he be driving up and down a street in the daytime except to draw attention to himself? And why would he want that attention to be drawn by someone who could name him as a possible suspect in a murder?

Further, why was Tina reacting in fear? In the years we'd been married the only thing she'd ever been afraid of was losing an argument. She could deal with any myriad of situations, and some low-life causing irritation could be removed with a phone call. Yet she chose to cower. It didn't make sense. There was something missing.

I thought back to my inquest. I had the pleasure of attending--I was the guest of honor--but it turned out to be nothing more than a long wait to a short verdict.

Murdered. No suspects. Unsolved. Filed away.

You'd think it would have been easy for the police. Here I was shot dead in front of my client's home. Some routine questions should have brought out the truth.

But no, and the fault was mostly mine.

The Hewitts were questioned, as was everyone on the block, but no one had ever seen me before, including Brenda Hewitt. No one knew why I would be there, including my wife. No one had heard anything except the shots. And it was all a lie.

I had placed a report in Brenda Hewitt's hands, which gave reason for my presence. But she kept quiet. She had hired me to dig up dirt about her husband, not to involve her in a murder investigation. She had no reason for disclosing what she knew.

Tina made a brief appearance at the inquest to swear ignorance of what I'd been working on or why I might have been on that street that night, though a copy of the same report I'd given Brenda (with some minor changes) was in my files. But Tina testified that she had gone through all my papers and found nothing to indicate any current case which would have lead me to that location. She also added that I was out late many nights for reasons not always attributable to work.

Perhaps she knew more than she let on.

No matter. The verdict: I had been the victim of a possible robbery gone awry, or perhaps another in a long line of drive by shootings.

Drive by.

I looked into Tina's face. Anxiety, panic, her eyes fixed but unfocused, deep in fearful thought.

I put my hands to her head and pushed.

It was a swirl, a dark tornado of thoughts and emotions and memories. All was chaos, except the eye of the storm where one word stood alone, overshadowing everything in its aloneness.

Tyler.

"Tyler?" I said aloud. "What about Tyler?"

I probed deeper but it was like hands holding a storm. No clues but my son's name. Confronted with my killer, that was her focus.

Maybe all she knew was that Jim was a threat, but why to Tyler? Pure motherly instinct? Tyler was in no danger. But any connection Jim had with Tina or Tyler should have ended the day he killed me.

I tried again, probing thoughts, fighting the twister. Another word came, and I reached down and grabbed it.

Money.

Tyler, money. Money, Tyler.

I frowned at the frustration. There was more buried than I knew, more I couldn't get to. Jim was a threat to my family in some way; maybe his job wasn't over.

I didn't have to see fully to understand. If he was still around, then my job wasn't over, either. I put my arms around Tina.

"I don't know what happened," I told her, "but I'll take care of it. You wait and see--"

But she turned and walked away as if she'd heard it all before.

I waited, pacing the bungalow floor. Teresa had come and gone twice and I'd paid her no mind. She was safe out on the streets with the rest. I knew he'd show eventually, and he did, carless, stomping into the bungalow. As soon as he set foot inside I attacked.

"You need to get out," I said, clamping onto his back and pushing deep into his head. "They're on their way, they want you dead, they want your blood, they want to hear you screaming. You'll never escape once they're here, get out while you can, while you still have life in your veins, while your mind is still your own, while there's still a heartbeat in your chest."

He waved his hand as if swatting a gnat.

I sat on the end of the couch and watched him make the rounds to the bathroom and bedroom and kitchen. There was blockage now, and whether that was an indication I was doing something I shouldn't was a question Rollins had never answered.

"Sometimes," Rollins told me, "everything you do will work. Other times it will be like swimming in molasses. But you can't lean on experience as an indication of whether you're on the right track or not. Sometimes," he had told me, "you have to go on faith."

Faith, I thought, can take many forms.

The manager's name was Skinner and it took ten minutes to pull him away from the World War II documentary he was watching. The Nazi's were being pushed from Paris and he wouldn't leave until they were East of the Argonne.

"What is that man up to?" I asked, pointing him in Jim's direction. "He comes and goes, comes and goes. Never speaks a word to you, always late on rent. He owes you money right now and never says a word about it. He thinks you're a fool who won't stand up to him. He doesn't know you served in the military. Sure, you were just a cook, and the Purple Heart you received was from stepping into a bucket of hot water. But that doesn't matter. He has no respect for you, and he's taking advantage like everyone else does, just like the Nazi's, just like your wife used to before she died. Nagging, whining, complaining about each and everything you tried to do. That's why you could never succeed in her eyes...people like her, and him, putting you down. Always thinking less of you, knowing full well you'll take it and take it and take it."

He pushed his glasses back on his nose, his face and bald head starting to sweat. He clenched his teeth. "Well, I'm not going to take it," he said. "Not anymore."

His banging brought Jim angrily to the door. "What do you want?"

"Money," Skinner said, retreating. I pushed him the step forward. Remember the Argonne. "Don't think I don't know what you're up to."

"What? I ain't up to nothin'."

"You say. I want money."

Jim looked at him oddly, like another bug he wanted to swat.

"Money," Skinner said again. "I'll call the cops."

"The cops?" Jim was unsure now.

"The cops." Skinner stuck out his skinny chest. "I'll tell them everything."

"Wait, wait a minute. What do you know?"

"I know all about what you've done. You won't get away with it."

"What have I done?" Jim asked, feeling his way.

"I'll call the cops. I'll tell them everything."

Jim looked at him, then laughed without mirth. "They won't believe you. You have no proof."

"I have all the proof I need. It's all written down."

Jim took a step back. "Written where?"

"You'd like me to tell. Think I'm a fool?"

"You've got nothing."

"Only everything. Every move you made since you moved in here. Don't think I don't know about your drugs and your whore girl friend."

"Where is it?"

"You'd like to know."

"In the office?" Skinner took a half-glance back and Jim howled and pushed him out of the way.

Skinner caught up and grabbed Jim's shirt. "You can't go in there."

Jim flung his arm back without looking to loosen the man's grab but slapped his face in the process. Skinner let go and put his hand to his face.

"That's assault!" he cried, bending over. "I'll call the cops."

Jim grabbed his arm. "Say that again and I'll give you something to yell about. Now show me where it is."

He half-dragged the man to the office. I ran out to the street, looking up and down for a patrol car. There was never a cop around when you needed one, always out chasing murderers. I ran a block up and found one parked in a favorite speed trap. I got in the back and spoke to the lone driver.

"There's something strange happening at the Hi-Way Inn. Look down there." I turned his head. "You should check it out. Maybe it's nothing, but sometimes your hunches pay off. This might be one of those times. It might not. Why take the chance? A promotion would bring a nice raise. You know how your wife likes nice raises. You know what she does when..."

He started the car.

I couldn't have planned it better. He parked right in front of the office and when he got out of the car was greeted by Skinner yelling in a high screech and Jim replying in lower tones.

"I won't show you, I won't."

"Now, before I bust your head."

"You can't make me, I'll call the cops."

"Not if you're dead."

"Trouble here?" The officer had his hand on his revolver and was standing calmly in the doorway.

"Officer," Skinner said, putting his hand back to his face. "This man struck me, then forced me in here. He's trying to make me show him my private records."

Jim's eyes were darting, his muscles tense. The policeman never blinked. "Don't move. What's your story?"

Jim licked his lips. "Nothing. He grabbed me, I shook him off. That's all. No trouble." He tried a smile.

The officer took a quick glance at Skinner's face, then at Jim's smile. _Remember your wife,_ I sang into his ear. He took out his handcuffs while keeping his eyes on Jim. "Turn around."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

QUICK SHUFFLE

"It's time," I told Teresa, who was finishing her trick behind a rusted Chevy truck that had no hood or tires and was now good for only one thing: camouflage. "Jim's in jail. You need to get your stuff and get out."

She was busy with her invoice, totaling parts and labor. Seeing the girth of the man beneath her I estimated the latter to be the better part of the bill.

"You need to get out," I repeated. "Get off, first. Now, go home. There's no one and nothing in your way. You're free."

Teresa looked up, confused, squinting, then focusing on the man underneath her. "Free?"

The man opened his eyes. "Free? Was I that good?"

Her eyes slowly gained clarity.

"You're not done, are you?" He looked hurt.

She stood up, adjusting her skirt. "Yes."

I took her hand and led her down the alley.

I waited until she was comfortably sitting on the couch without distraction. This time there would be no mistakes or loose ends. And it needed to be permanent. And quick. I had people waiting.

I pushed into Teresa's mind, finding myself in a dark cave as I searched for memories. The walls were a montage of memories from throughout her life, all playing at once. Some were oblivious, talking and laughing to no one. Those of more recent memory reached out with desperate hands, afraid of being left in such a hopeless and horrible state. Others, too few others, avoided my gaze as if embarrassed or ashamed. Most stared with emotional blankness, as if they had consigned themselves to being background scenery. But these were more recent past. I moved by a series of Jim's--different expressions and emotions of different days--then a series of sexual encounters between the two of them, which I avoided altogether. There was a wavy section of misshapen heads and distorted bodies that moved randomly in a world of geometrically strained rooms and furniture, a tour of drug memories. Then a turn into dark and damp coldness, emptiness, aloneness, the sounds of dripping water that never hit the ground. Teresa's sexuality.

There was warmth filling a small passage that led to light, and I moved toward it. It was a small hole, the light too blinding to see beyond, but I already knew what lay behind. I ran in a crouch and dove through.

I was on green grass as the sun shone and a girl played in the midst of serenity. I approached her gingerly, walking around in a large circle so as not to frighten her coming up from behind. She turned to me without fear.

"Hello. Have you come to play?"

I knelt down and smiled. "Yes."

She had a stuffed bear and stuffed kitten on her lap. She handed me the kitten and a teacup on a saucer. "This is Puddles. You have to watch her because she spills her tea. Let me pour some for you." She poured the empty pot. "Now some for me, and some for Jeremy. Drink it all up."

I raised it to my lips.

"No, no, that's for Puddles."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Teresa." I put the cup to the kitten's sewn lips.

She cocked her head to one side. "How did you know my name?"

"We're good friends."

"No, we're not."

"I'd like us to be."

"Okay," she said. "What's your name?"

"Trace."

"That's not a name."

"Sure it is. It's my name. Where are your parents?"

"Inside." She threw her hand over her shoulder indicating a place behind her, but there was only endless green grass.

"Inside where?"

She rolled her eyes. "The ground, silly."

I shivered and put down the cup. "Did they die?"

She shrugged. "I guess so. I don't know. They're not around anymore. Maybe they're in heaven."

I nodded. "How about we take a walk?"

"No, I want to play here."

"Just a short one," I said, standing. "There's someone I want you to meet."

"Who?"

"A friend. A lady. I think you'll like her."

"I don't want to leave Puddles and Jeremy alone."

"We'll come right back." I put out my hand.

"No." She said it firmly, holding onto her bear. "And you're scaring Jeremy."

I grabbed her hand. "We need to go." I thought of Tyler. "I want you to meet my little boy."

She hesitated, leaning away. "You said it was a lady."

"Yes, his mother. And him," I said. "He's about your age."

She stopped pulling for a second, long enough for me to grab her arm and pull her over the table. Toys and china dishes fell to the floor as I stood, knocking over the rest as I held her tightly and ran with crunching steps. The stuffed kitten and bear flew by my ear and landed on the grass in front of me. They turned, eyes menacing, arms outstretched and claws drawn. I kicked the bear and he flew off with a yelp, but the kitten grabbed my leg and I felt a tearing. I rammed my fist onto its head and it slid off. I took a few steps, then turned and kicked it back toward the playhouse.

"Puddles!" Teresa cried. Then, fighting: "Let me go. You're hurting!"

I ran on over the soft grass toward the dark hole, entered hesitantly, then ran at full speed. Horrible images began to emerge and I thought of nothing but Tyler as they passed.

"You're not real, you're not real," I chanted. "You're just a memory, just an image. Not real."

The girl kicked wildly, pain tore at my side and I stumbled, but kept on. I turned a corner too fast, hitting a wall. I lost my balance, regained it for a brief second, then felt my feet slip out sideways as if on ice. Teresa skidded away, spinning, coming to a stop in a sitting position. Her mouth was open, mesmerized by an image on the wall. It loomed in front of her large as a movie, larger than life. Her, at ten or eleven, just a few years away, being held down by an older man while she screamed.

I scrambled to my feet. "Don't look, please, God, don't look!" She pushed herself away crab-like from the image she recognized as herself.

I ran over and got my hands under her arms, dragging her up, but seeing it was me began flailing again. I threw her back over my shoulder and ran away from her horrible future.

We came out of the darkness to stand before two holes which let in light like stained glass. Looking out, I could see the inside of the bungalow, and a familiar face, my own, looking in.

"Teresa," I said, knowing somehow that she could see me behind her eyes. "Here. Look here." I put her younger self down, holding her as she squirmed and kicked. "Look at her. Remember. This was you when you were young and innocent and the world couldn't touch you. Remember, back through all those years, to what's truly important. This girl, you, her...she's the most important still. Remember."

I felt something like agreement in my soul and bent over, exhausted, dizzy, and as I did the young girl squirmed free. As I reached to grab her she was instantly sucked back the way we'd come, her face frozen in silent terror as she disappeared into darkness.

The eyes blinked. A voice asked: "Who are you?"

"Remember..." I repeated, teetering, and then I was gone as well.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CARD HOUSE

When I woke I found myself sprawled on the concrete steps. I rolled off to the grainy asphalt, slowly got to my feet, and shuffled off like a drunk. I took deep breaths of the cool air, trying to purge the smell and sights and any remnants of Teresa's mind. It would take time to be completely free of those images, and the walk and distance it would bring from it all would help in my journey back to reality. It was getting dark again, as it always seemed to be doing, another day passing without my family. In a place where time was relative, it sure seemed to slip away fast enough.

I had one more stop to make before I went home for good, one last detour that would hopefully provide peace of mind and assurance that now all was how it should be. It wasn't long before I arrived and stood, full circle, in the exact spot where I had died, right across from the home of Brent and Brenda Hewitt.

It was more than anticlimactic as I surveyed the surroundings. There was no blood in the street, no fading chalk outline, no plaque. No memory. Nothing that would tell anyone a life had ended on this spot not so very long ago. A verse came to mind from somewhere. _As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourishes. For the wind passes over, and it is gone, and the place thereof shall know it no more._ Which didn't help.

I walked away from the place that knew me no more toward the entrance of the Hewitt's home, where at least two people held such memory and where some reminder of my life would hopefully be uncovered.

They sat at the dinner table, did the Hewitts, and I sat down with them. How nice of them to invite me. I'd never actually had dinner there, only dessert. Perhaps this meal would satisfy.

Brenda looked as beautiful as she ever had in the light, though she was more attractive not chewing. Perhaps the noise accentuated the negatives. Perhaps her face did. Maybe it was her existence. No, that wasn't fair. It wasn't her existence that bothered me; it was my lack of same and knowing she was the cause.

I searched her face for the answer to the question I'd asked a hundred times before.

Had she been worth a lifetime?

How about a year? A month? A week? A night? Let's get it down to hours, we'd always seemed to manage before. Had she been worth an hour of my life? Two? Somewhere, I guessed, between two and eternity. So I stared and she chewed and looked at her husband who chewed and looked at his plate. Nothing to say. Too much to say. Too painful to say.

I could see her thoughts plainly in her eyes. She was reviewing her life and it was passing by in a sad procession, the history of her and the person sitting across the table. The seven stages of marriage.

The beginnings, the two of them together; youth, with ignorance of poverty shielded by the blind bliss of love. Happy times and hungry years, without care of possessions or the bonds of financial stress. But those were coming, just around the corner, and once rounded they hit head on. Each rung of the ladder brought more pressure to keep up a lifestyle which padded their comfort while robbing their joy. Then, inevitably, the boredom of a wife at home and a husband working hard, neither getting their just due, neither appreciated. Looking for appreciation elsewhere, finding it: in the arms of a secretary or two, in the arms of the man you hired to find your husband in the arms of a secretary or two. And when your worst fears were confirmed, along with them came a landslide of anger and resentment and despair as you realized the time and energy and love and commitment you'd poured into that relationship had been poured down the drain. Hell, it had been pissed down the toilet, leaving a stained memory of years and experiences culminating with this silent dinner. And the man sitting across the table keeping as quiet as the dead was doing so because there was nothing left, for he had confirmed his own fears about you and found them true, as well.

And in his face the blankness of endings. Not knowing what to do or say, he sat and said nothing while trying to keep any memory from emerging as thought or speech lest he slip and let lie truth. At this table you had to pretend all was well. Which, of course, it was.

Except for that terrible night and that awful event which had invaded both your lives. A man had been shot and killed outside your home. My God, think of it! So close, a few dozen feet from the peacefulness of the dinner table and the sanctity of the marriage bed. Coincidentally, that same man had been having an affair with your same wife. Not that anyone knew that, not the police, certainly. Not even you, by the way, in case you forgot.

But that was not spoken of, either.

Nothing was.

Only I saw beyond the surface pretense to the depths of hurt and pain and fear and anger. Years of distance bubbling beneath, waiting to erupt.

And I saw something else. Something which, if confronted, would be denied to the very death but which existed without such interrogatives. I saw it first in her, then in him, still there, still flickering, in the deep recesses.

Hope.

If only there existed in the history of communication a word or phrase or apology which could bridge the gap and redeem the soul and begin the process of leading two lost people back to the beginnings.

But none did in the confines of the human mind, so every word, glance or intonation became a wedge which took them further from that goal. Their only hope lay with the invisible guest sitting between them, for he could impart with a touch more than a lifetime of words. But he'd been used by one and killed by the other and the only thing on his mind was revenge which he would enact by his silence. So they opened their mouths and tried to accomplish that which only God can do: change hearts.

"Are you working late?"

A nod.

"How late?"

A shrug. "Until I'm done."

A bite of the lip. "When will that be?"

"When it is."

"What are you working on?"

"Paperwork."

"What kind?"

"Nothing. Reports, summaries, briefs. Nothing."
"Alone?"

"What?"

"Will you be alone?"

"I don't know if there will be anyone else in the building, if that's what you mean. I won't be working with anyone."

"Can I call later?"

"Call? For what?"

"To talk. To see...to see how you are."

"How I am?" He pushed his chair away from the table. "Well, I'm fine. And I don't think we have a lot to talk about. Besides, I'm sure you'll be in bed by then."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. Just that. I'm sure you'll be in bed."

"It's hard to sleep when you're not here."

"Then I guess you won't be sleeping."

"I worry."

"I'm sure you'll be occupied."

"Why do you always--?" She stopped, eyes glistening.

He watched her. "What?"

"Nothing."

He nodded.

"That man...the one who was shot in front of the house..." She stopped. Emotion?

"That was weeks ago, why bring that up?"

"It was horrible."

"I suppose."

"To be shot like that."

"Yes."

"Robbed."

"Is that what it was?"

"What else could it have been?"

"Right. What else?"

She shuddered.

"I thought you had been sleeping when that happened."

She nodded. "But the lights, the noise...woke me."

He nodded. "A terrible thing."

"I was wondering...maybe it's not safe here. In this neighborhood. In this city. Maybe we should think about moving."

He shook his head. "It wouldn't change anything. Every city is the same."

"Maybe a smaller town, away from all these people."

Another shake of the head. "Nothing would change. Besides, what would I do for work? I'm too old to start over. I'm not throwing away all the years at the company because I'm afraid of the outdoors. I've got my retirement, sick days, vacation. And you have your friends." He drew out the last word. "I doubt either one of us wants to change badly enough."

He stood, scraping the chair on the floor, and walked off.

She stared after him with reddening eyes.

My lips curled. I felt cheated. Sure, their lives were ruined, but I couldn't take credit. They did it to themselves. I'd been killed on a whim. He didn't want her, he never had. Not when I had her and not now, when no one did. He just didn't want anyone else to have her.

So he had me killed.

I'd thrown my life away for a woman nobody wanted.

Brenda Hewitt went upstairs as the front door closed below, and by the time she had reached the top hallway a car had started in the driveway and driven off. She walked into the bathroom and began washing her face, scrubbing off all the smeared make-up with a vengeance. Once clean, she reapplied it meticulously, layer upon layer, brush stroke upon brush stroke, like an artist fidgeting with a portrait that never satisfies. Frowning, she left the mirror and walked over to her dresser, pulled out a white teddy and held it up, then crumpled it back into the drawer and pulled out a red one. She dropped it on the bed, stood, and undressed. Still firm, still tight, and as she pulled on the teddy I had to admire her body. Worth a lifetime? No. Tina was worth a lifetime. Brenda, one night. Yeah, I'd give her that. And I had, often. She got a robe from the closet and was putting it on when the doorbell rang.

She went to the window, looked down and smiled. Then she walked out of the room, down the staircase, and opened the front door. A dark figure stood in the doorway, then came into the light. He wore a long dark jacket over dark pants and black shirt. He had longish hair and stubble on his chin. His face set his age about twenty-five. A kid.

"I was hoping it was you," Brenda said.

"I saw your husband leave. I thought this might be the best time, before it got too late."

"Yes, we wouldn't want it to get too late."

"How long will he be gone?"

"You should know that as well as I. And you probably know where he's going."

"I have an idea."

"Then you know he'll be gone all night."

"I have something you might find interesting."

"I know you do."

"Besides that. It could even tie him into some criminal activity."

"Really?" she said, taking a step closer.

"You don't seem very interested."

"Oh, I am. Very. I just have other things on my mind. But go on."

"It's all in my report," he said, handing her a manila envelope. "There's also a digital file that verifies the information. It's on the memory stick."

"I love memory sticks. I remember your memory stick."

"I hope it's what you were hoping to find."

She held it loosely, glanced once, and tossed it onto a small table near the door. "I suppose you'll be wanting payment now?"

He started to speak but before he could she took a step back and untied her robe, letting it fall to the floor.

He made a guttural noise as he looked her over, then grabbed her and felt her body roughly as they kissed hard on the mouth.

I spit through them.

She took a few steps backward, trying to lead him up to the bedroom.

They didn't make it past the stairs.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ENTER MY DREAM

Events were moving as planned. Jim was in jail. Teresa soon gone. Brent and Brenda Hewitt headed for destruction. I hadn't heard from Rollins.

Now, finally, home.

And there it was, sitting like all the rest on the block, a quiet, safe, nondescript house which neither brought nor gave undue attention. Tina's car in the driveway, the lawn in front cut neatly. No sign of blood anywhere.

"I'm here," I yelled, stepping inside. "I'm home."

I heard sounds from above and took the stairs two at a time to find Tina folding clothes on her bed--our bed--and Tyler in the bathroom playing in the tub. Toys of all types floated on the surface while Tyler scooped them up with a plastic green bucket, only to dump them into the water again.

"I'm coming to eat you," he said, the bucket mouth surfacing from one end to swim slowly toward those just vomited out a second before. It moved forward like a giant whale, water pouring from within as it reached the surface, then diving to scoop up its prey.

"Aaaaah!" he yelled.

I smiled from the doorway as I watched his recreation of Jonah en masse.

"Mom!" he yelled. "I'm cold."

"I'll be there in a minute," said Tina's voice faintly from the bedroom.

Tyler continued the assault. "Mom! I'm cold."

"In a minute!"

"We need to get out," Tyler said with a different voice, addressing his toys. "Quick, into the water slide." He swallowed up more toys into the bucket and balanced it on the side of the tub. "Here we go!" And he poured the contents slowly out as plastic fish and cats and cows scattered with soldiers onto the bathroom tile.

"Tyler!"

Tina's voice startled us both, and she walked angrily over to her son as the water touched her toes. "What are you doing? I told you to keep the water in the tub. Now get out here and wipe it up. And pick up these toys."

Tyler huddled in the water. "But it's cold."

"I don't care," she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet. She drew him forward and slapped his bottom twice. He flinched and began crying. "Now pick those up." She pulled him so he had to step onto the floor. "Here's a towel. Wipe all this dry. And put everything back into the bucket."

He bent over, crying. "I'm cold," he cried.

She threw the towel on the floor. "Do it. Now!"

My son knelt down crying, shivering, and began wiping the floor and gathering the toys as he did, then slowly began dropping them one by one in the bucket as my wife stormed out of the room.

I watched him as he whimpered, wishing I could help put it all back in order and heal the hurt he felt. But a minute later he was making his plastic animals walk in line back into the bucket, which was now a barn, the cold forgotten along with the slap on the rear. There were many types of healing, I knew, and this one didn't require a heavenly touch, just a child living every moment that's given.

I left him playing and followed Tina back to the bedroom, wondering if she had that same attribute. She was good at having things ordered but lousy at surprises, especially messy ones. I found her sitting on the bed, crying, and the anger I felt toward her disappeared. She couldn't change who she was, no matter how hard I'd tried. I sat down and put my arm around her, but it fell through and hung limply at my side.

I almost wished her anger and tears were for me; at least it would be some type of emotional acknowledgment. I wanted to hold her face against mine and touch of the wetness of her on my cheeks, but reaching out to touch them I found her tears were as dry as the air. As close as she was to me now, the memories I had of her were much more real.

She took a tissue from the night stand and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She looked and sounded just like a little girl with the sniffles. My little baby.

She crumpled the tissue and threw it in the trash. Then she opened the drawer of the night stand. No Gideon. There was a book on _How to Make Your Marriage Work_ she'd been trying to get me to read for years. Some papers, receipts, pen, pencil stubs, my gun.

I moved closer as she took it out, popped the clip, popped it back and pointed it right at my head, dead-eyed, safety off. Then she put it back.

My little baby.

And closed the drawer.

"Mom," came a soft wail. "I'm done."

"All right," she yelled back, sniffling, then stood and walked out.

I tried telling her after dinner. It was a painfully silent meal of spaghetti and meatballs. Tyler was trying as best he could, he really was, but the spaghetti simply wouldn't stay on his fork. Or when they did they whipped sauce around his mouth and hands and shirt. And Tina knew better, she really did, but she couldn't help but be upset.

"Tyler, use your napkin, not your shirt! Don't get so much on your fork. Do you want me to cut it for you? Chew with your mouth closed. Don't wipe your hands on your pants."

And when he knocked over his glass of chocolate milk it was too much and she exploded.

"Damn it, Tyler! How many times have I told you to keep your drink away from the side of the table when you're not drinking it? Now look at this mess," she went on, holding a napkin to the stream which was trickling over the table's edge. "Run and get me the dishcloth from the sink. Hurry!"

The rest of the night was quick and quiet. She sped the meal along, rushed Tyler through brushing teeth and tucking in, made a half-hearted attempt at the kitchen before escaping to the bedroom after a few minutes. Tyler was sound asleep in seconds, exhausted from the emotion of the night and back in the safe world of dreams.

Tina and I sat on the bed as she went over the bills. I touched her mind, trying to bring reassurance that the threat was gone and she and Tyler were safe.

But her mind was a mass of confusion. The cold logic of numbers and balances was no protection from the hot touch of fear and anxiety. I tried to order them, group them, divide and conquer, pushing back emotions while directing other thoughts away. But the pressure was too much and they flowed together like streams touching a lake.

I moved closer and whispered words of comfort, but they went unheard. Nothing had changed in our bed. Tina remained impenetrable.

Later, much later, sleeping, I lay cautiously beside her and listened to her breaths become louder and heavier. That had brought me such contentment in days past, coming in late from a job or other and quietly easing my body next to hers. Then simply listening, knowing she was safe and had possibly even found contentment. Toward the end there had rarely been such peace between us during the daylight, but during that silent nighttime we could at least share the dark and hope the calm would last until morning.

I wondered, as fools do, if she was dreaming of me. I reached over and put my hand on her head, pushing softly, and for the last time became the man of her dreams.

She was sitting in a restaurant I'd never been to, across from a man I couldn't see. It was like being in a movie theater and seeing from the camera's perspective. A long shot from the side, then panning toward the back of the man and over his shoulder, focusing on Tina's face. She was smiling, eyes wide and glued to the face in front of her. She giggled and dropped her gaze, like a shy little girl or someone in love. Happier than I'd seen her in a long time.

The shot dissolved and reappeared over Tina's shoulder, the opposite perspective, the man in plain view, wearing a black suit and red tie over blinding white shirt, but the face was formless and unfocused. Maybe it was simple editing on my part, but I could tell the man was handsome in some respect. Even with no face he was charming, witty and interested, listening to Tina intently between his many questions.

Just a dream.

The shot moved to the side again and out, as they held hands across the table. She couldn't take her eyes from him as he spoke his smooth words of life and likes and loves and how she took precedence over all.

"You make me feel so...so important," she said. "As if I'm all that matters to you. It's been a long time since I've felt that way."

An interruption by the waiter, bringing the artistic entrees and expensive wine. A close-up on the man filling her glass, then his own, the camera circling as they began to eat. Another interruption for the presentation of the dessert tray, bringing amazement and joy as they celebrated the simple things, the important things, and basked in each other's company.

Then it was over and they were on the sidewalk, his arm around her shoulder as she snuggled close in the coolness. They reached his car and he held the door as she entered--a red Viper, her dream car--and they drove off with me hanging onto the back bumper.

Suddenly standing at his front door, opening the lock, turning to embrace, then kiss, his hands holding her body tight against his and worse, Tina holding him just as tight.

A commotion from the road made them pull apart. Tina pointed surprised, confused, concerned. The man pulled something from his pocket, a gun, and pointed it at...

...me, as I walked to my car parked across the street from Brenda Hewitt's house. I moved with a saunter, full of sex and oblivious to the people behind, moving with a carefree bounce in my step as if there were a million seconds ahead and not none.

I yelled to me as loud as I could. _Hey! You! Me! Trace, look out!_ But no sound came with the words I mouthed.

I turned and grabbed for the gun, flailing at air, turning to Tina for help. Her face was calm as she watched the street.

I walked closer to the car, bending down, standing as the gun fired, then again, and once more. Tina screamed as if laughing as my body jerked in the air, then fell face forward onto the pavement.

I stumbled a few steps toward my body, lying on the street, then back with greater shock as they were locked in a passionate embrace. They broke, and Tina turned and pointed behind me. I looked to see myself crossing the street again. A gun appeared by my right ear and fired three times, causing the man in the road to jump in the air, then fall to the ground.

I turned to find them kissing by the door...

As the scene replayed...

And she pointed and he drew and I fell.

They kissed, she pointed, he drew, I fell.

Kissed...pointed...shot....fell.

Kissed...shot...fell...died.

It was brutally magnetic as I watched my death repeated, and each time I strained to see the shooter's face. But he stayed in the darkness, his deep laugh the only clue to his identity.

It replayed again, then something changed. A light went on in a second floor window just up the street. A figure was illuminated from within. It was a young boy. Squinting in the dim light I could tell he was terrified at what he was witnessing below. I took a few steps closer he came in focus.

It was Tyler.

I suddenly ran, breaking from the dream and waving my hands wildly. "Tyler, it's me, I'm okay."

"Dad, dad!" he cried.

"Don't worry." I jumped, hands over my head. "I'm okay. See? I'm right here. It's not real. Don't worry."

The fear on his face disappeared as I ran to him.

Then I slipped. My feet lost traction and I began sliding backwards. My arms flailed as I skidded, almost falling, stooping to stop my momentum but succeeding only in scraping my palms. Losing balance briefly, I looked back to see myself on the sidewalk and begin to cross. I slid faster as he—as I-- bent down to look under the car, and as he straightened our bodies met, becoming the same.

Something sharp and hot hit my shoulder. I saw the spark of a bullet off the trunk, then more heat in my back as I yelled wordlessly, Tyler, don't worry, I'm okay, I'm okay.

...and fell toward the ground...

I was lying facedown in bed next to Tina.

I turned over quickly and sat up, pushing hard against the headboard. I was shaking and brought my knees up to my chest and held them until it stopped. I looked over to find Tina breathing heavily, with nothing to show for the dream we'd both experienced except a slight wrinkle of the brow, a furrow on her forehead.

I rolled off the bed and went to check on Tyler. I found him sound asleep as well, no worry on his brow. After wandering the halls, I gathered the nerve to reenter Tina's bedroom, where I took the same position and listened to her sleep. It was enough. I no longer wished to be part of her dreams. I just wanted things back the way they used to be.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BREEZE

"What are your plans?"

We sat at the kitchen table, one big family; Tina, Tyler and me. And one unwanted guest: Rollins. He had come in as we were sitting down for breakfast, bringing a gift of coffee and croissants, which was appreciated. His staying was not.

I lifted a cup to my family. "They are. They're my long-term plan, my mid-term plan, my short-term plan. My eternal plan."

He nodded and took a bite. "What about Teresa?"

"No room at the table."

"There are other tables."

"You already know what about her," I said. "Jim's in jail, no thanks to you. She should be on her way out of the city by now."

"Why don't you make sure?"

I put down the cup. "Because I don't care. My job's finished. I plan to stay right here...forever."

"That's a long time."

"Anytime I'm not with them is just as long. I don't care what happens. I want to be here for them."

"What do you think will happen if you're not here?"

"Doesn't matter what will happen or won't," I said. "I'll be here for both."

He looked me in the eye. "Trace, if something is going to happen it won't matter if you're here or not."

I distanced my chair from the table and stood. "Is that some kind of threat?"

"It is what it is," he said. He exhaled his frustration and stood with me. "Trace, remember where you are. Remember who you are. You're only one man, and not even that. You might need some help now and then."

"I think I'm doing just fine by myself."

"Okay," he said without emotion. "But before you stay here, forever, do me a favor."

"Don't ask."

He did anyway. "Check on Teresa. One last time. Then you can do whatever you want."

"Really?"

"Promise."

"She's probably long gone."

"Probably. Check on her."

"Yeah, sure."

"Promise."

I nodded without swearing to the heavens or looking at him, so I didn't seem him leave. I just heard his last words: "Enjoy your breakfast."

So I did.

We laughed and talked and enjoyed each other's company. I couldn't remember when Tina enjoyed mine more. After, off to school with Tyler, then a short stop for groceries with Tina, then back home and a few minutes of housework before I was out the door for a final check on Teresa.

I already knew before I walked in the bungalow that she would still be there. Rollins wouldn't have made the trip for nothing. Even so, I felt a twinge of disappointment. The feeling of planning a party and having nobody show, but the reverse: Planning an exodus and having nobody leave. Despite that, I wasn't about to make a day of it. Check on her was all I'd promised. I was checking.

She was packing. She was smoking. She was stoned, lost in the hazy outskirts of Reefer Town, Population: One. Or less.

She stopped in the midst of her activity, which amounted to looking bleary-eyed at the mess on the bed. She sat down, head to wall, eyes closed and mind gone. A ratty brown suitcase lay on the floor, a few items of clothing rolled inside. Dirty panties and shorts and shirts and skirts thrown in for her pilgrimage to parts unknown. Other clothes were heaped in a pile nearby, ready to pack or discard.

I wondered as she blew smoke into my face if it would make any difference if she knew how important her life was to the invisible people around her.

"Going somewhere?"

We jumped at the same time. Jim stood in the doorway.

Teresa coughed out her doobie, which bounced off the mattress and fell to the floor, scattering ashes.

Jim walked over to the suitcase and kicked it against the wall. "I'm gone for a few days and you start packing? Didn't you know where I was?"

"How did you...?"

"I have friends. Sometimes they do me favors; lend me their car, plan a murder, bail me out of jail. You need friends like that, especially when your girl doesn't give a rat's ass or if you're dead."

"I didn't know—"

He roared and pulled her off the bed. She landed hard on her back, her wind gone. "Don't lie to me. Don't stay another word. Just get out. We need money."

Teresa gasped for air until it came. After a moment she began to move, then stood, then walked out crying.

"Don't come back without a hundred," Jim said after her. He walked to the suitcase, picked it up, shook out the contents and kicked them under the bed, then dropped the suitcase on the floor where it landed open-mouthed before following Teresa out of the bungalow.
She went one way, he went the other. I followed the other, but I wasn't happy about it. Not only did my plans for the two of them fall apart, but Jim was walking around free and a threat to my family. But that wasn't going to last. If I had to move heaven and earth, I would see Jim dead before the week was out. I just had to figure out how.

He walked to a phone in front of a Laundromat, fished in his pocket, brought out change, hunted on his palm, dropped coins into the slot, dropped the rest in his pants. He dialed a number, waited, then dialed three more. I knew it by heart, now. He was calling Brent Hewitt.

"Remember me? Don't hang up, we have unfinished business. I don't care where you are, this is the time. Same place, same time. No, tomorrow. You heard me. No, I think it's the perfect place to pick up what you owe. You just be there."

He hung up, chuckling, then fished in his pocket, brought up change, hunted, dropped coins in the slot, dropped change in his pocket. He began dialing again.

I didn't really catch it at first, but as he dialed I recognized the pattern. Area code I ignored, but then the first after that, and the second, the third, the fourth. Coincidence, I thought. But then the fifth, the sixth, and the coincidence became too great, the odds could not withstand it. Then came the seventh and I started shaking like I'd won the lottery.

It was my home number.

With an effort I moved toward the man, making sure not to come in contact, and leaned forward, ear to receiver, hoping there had been a mistake.

"Hello."

It was Tina's voice. No mistake. A horrible mistake.

"Thought you'd heard the last of me, I'll bet. You know what I want, and I plan on getting it tomorrow."

"It's not enough time," she said, voice breaking.

"That's your problem, isn't it? I'm sure a thousand won't be that difficult to come up with for someone like you. Just take it out of your husband's life insurance. Tomorrow. See you at home."

He hung up and walked off.

I threw my head in the phone. "Tina, Tina, hello!" But the line was dead.

I ran after Jim in blind rage and began swinging my fists again and again, grabbing for his throat, his eyes, his heart. But a few seconds later found me standing and cursing after him as he walked unhurt down the sidewalk.

Wild thoughts flew through my mind.

I have to get moving, I have to get home, I have to protect Tyler, I have to kill Jim, I have to see Teresa, I have to talk to Tina, I have to call Rollins.

But it was too much, too overwhelming, and my impotence loomed over me like a huge accusing finger pointing down at me. Everything I'd done had amounted to nothing, all of my plans had only made things worse. Tina and Tyler were in danger and I had no idea what to do next.

CHAPTER TWENTY

ENTER KENYA

For reasons that made no sense, I had to see Teresa. She was the only person I could stand being around. Or maybe I just needed to be with someone worse off than me.

Since her circuitous route contained little variance, it wouldn't be difficult tracking her down. And the walk would give me time to sort things out.

Why was Jim trying to get money from Tina?

I had put that question off as long as possible. The idea that he could have anything but the most remote contact with my family brought a mixture of rage and disgust, both of which needed to be restrained if I was to be any help to my family.

I could understand Jim extorting money from Hewitt, for Hewitt had a reason to pay. He had hired Jim to kill me. But what could Jim possibly say to Tina that would induce her to give him a dime?

Pay me or everyone will know your husband was cheating on you.

Who would care? An interesting five minutes on the local news, but there was no upside in that revelation. And it was a guaranteed ticket to jail. Tina might not appreciate the world knowing her husband was a bum, but personally she had accepted it years before and her family already suspected. Tyler wouldn't understand any of it for years.

Tyler.

That might explain Tina's fear. Knowing he killed me, she might be afraid of what he would do next. Had he threatened to harm Tyler if she didn't pay?

Jim was, in essence, running his own protection racket. Maybe he wasn't as dumb as I thought. He saw Hewitt as an endless outlet for money, Teresa a steady outlet for money, and maybe Tina as a third. All he had to do was sit and collect and smoke his life away.

There were more truths, I realized, lying underneath the surface. Some I had already discovered, but I needed to see them without emotion or bias.

Jim had killed me. That was true.

Brent Hewitt had paid him to do so. Also true.

Jim was now squeezing Hewitt for more money. True.

Hewitt had to pay to avoid police involvement. Another truth.

Jim was extorting money from Tina. True.

She had recognized him when he had driven by our house, so she had seen him before. That was truth.

She was afraid when she saw him; he represented danger. That was truth.

But why?

There were possibilities.

Jim had contacted her and told her he was the one responsible for my death. He then threatened to do the same to her unless she came up with the cash. That was possible, though unlikely. He told her I owed him money and had killed me when I refused to pay, and was now going to settle the bill with his widow. That was possible. Also unlikely.

Tina was no pushover and fear was a temporary de-motivator. She knew from my experiences that most criminals crumble at the least resistance. She would have seen through Jim, no matter what the threat, and called the police. She wasn't the type to let anyone rule her life for ten minutes, let alone keep her in a state of fear for weeks. There was something missing.

'Money, Tyler. Tyler, money.'

Those two words kept coming back. They had been moving through Tina's mind since my death, so somewhere in there was the answer. Since Jim knew where I'd lived he would have known about Tina and, hence, Tyler. A threat to Tina would amount to nothing. A threat to Tyler might bring fearful stagnation.

That had to be the only reason for Tina to behave the way she did. But I had to know for sure.

Teresa was, predictably, walking on the shady side, head down, making the rounds. There were intermittent honks, a few double takes of interest, but she was trudging, not trolling, waiting for another day to end. At this rate a hundred bucks would be long in the making.

I matched her stride and touched her mind briefly. The last time she had seen Jim was when I had, and she was in no hurry to see him again. She was tired. Her head hurt. She was hungry. And there was something else.

She was embarrassed because she didn't think she looked pretty.

I would have laughed if it weren't so sad. Here was a beat-up, strung-out whore, living trick by trick, and her big concern was her appearance. I was stunned. But it led me to do something I hadn't done before. It made me take a good, long look at her.

There was a bruise on the left side of her face I hadn't noticed before. One of the many, I figured, throughout her career. There were scratches on her face and arms, and I guess I hadn't noticed them before either. She had applied a foundation of makeup, trying to cover them, and some mascara in an attempt to appear sexy or human. Her eyelashes looked good, I decided, and her eyebrows a nice natural tone, not like the plucked-thin or clownish drawn-on eyebrows some thought attractive. She had a natural beauty, and when she looked up suddenly at the sound of children laughing on the playground nearby, she smiled. It wasn't bad, that smile, even nice in a way. Pleasant. Not the one she forced on her lips. This one made her look young, maybe even close to her actual age. It lightened her face and gave it a kind of glow.

Her face was roundish in shape, her cheekbones high, and her chin soft. Her eyes were dark and brown, of course, but still clear, still colorful, and those colors were rich. I wondered as I watched them move back and forth, surveying the world around, what they saw when they looked in the mirror.

The eyebrows rose as a woman walked toward us. It was the old woman from before, Kenya, and Teresa's smile was genuine as they met.

"Honey, you don't look good," Kenya said to her. "You been beat up." It was not a question.

Teresa shrugged. "Some. Not much."

"Some is too much."

"I'm okay. You know how it is."

"Yeah, I know. Want to walk?"

Teresa shook her head.

"Me neither. Gettin' too old. Let's sit."

We were standing next to a chain link fence which separated us from the elementary school play yard. They sat while I leaned, then I folded my legs and sat with them. A bell rang and children appeared on the grass behind us, yelling, laughing, lifetimes to be lived.

"Yeah, gettin' too old," Kenya repeated. "Not like you. You've got a whole lifetime to be lived."

I opened my eyes and gave the woman a sharp look. I scanned her face, but there was nothing I hadn't seen before.

"I don't think I want it," Teresa said.

"That's when you know you're young. Get my age, you'd take it. Any amount of days in the past, you'd take 'em all."

Teresa shrugged.

"Them," Kenya said, indicating the children, "that's the only time to live, the best time. Young, innocent. Once that's gone there's no going back. The trick is never letting it go."

Never too old to talk tricks, I noticed.

"I can't remember that far back."

"It's a different time, then," the woman said. "It's the time of life God protects you most, I think. Not that you don't go through hard times. My daddy used to slap me plenty when he'd drink. But kids can go through things that would kill someone grown. That's how God protects 'em."

"I wish," Teresa said, "he'd protect me now. If I could live life all over again, I wouldn't. I feel so old."

"But you ain't. How old are you?"

"I don't remember."

"No one forgets that, 'cept on purpose."

"Twenty-six."

"Twenty-six is nothing. But you won't see twenty-seven you keep like this."

"You did."

The woman laughed. "Got lucky, maybe. We didn't have the same things you do now. Only thing we had was strong drink. Now..."

They were mercifully quiet for a minute. Cars drove by. Children yelled. People aged. The breeze blew softly over my face.

"Now there's other things that can change you from the inside and make you old. Being on the streets, that changes you. You age quick from that. All the tricks, they age you, if you're lucky enough to not get killed. All the people, the eyes looking, judging. People age you by just being. Believe me, we don't need any help in getting older. Things change enough as it is. This place thirty years ago was a small town. Now look. People everywhere."

"Did you grow up here?"

"Nobody grows up here," Kenya said, her laugh becoming a cough. "But I've been here long enough to feel like it. Been everywhere, everywhere there is to go. Seen a lot. Too much, I think. A lot of it good. A lot of it the same things as here just in different places. I guess I don't make much sense. Maybe I've lived too long. A year on the streets is like ten normal. Listen," she said, grabbing Teresa's arm. She leaned over until she was inches from her face. "Don't end up like me. Promise. You don't want to end up like me. I was young once, like you, fresh, clean. It don't take long before the sun bakes the life out of you. Men used to want me for myself, then just for my body, then just for sex. Now they don't want me at all, 'cept in the dark. I don't blame them. But I knowI knowI'm no different now than when I was young. I look out at the world through the eyes of a young girl trapped in this old body and wonder how in the world I got here so fast. And sometimes I can't wait to get out. But I'll do tomorrow what I did yesterday and a hundred yesterdays before, and I'll be glad for it. It's all I've got."

Teresa nodded through it all and spoke when the woman was finished. "I feel like I died long ago."

"Parts of you did," she said. "What we do kills us by pieces. But part of you screams against it. It's telling you to get out before it's too late."

"Out, out," Teresa said. "You're the second person who's told me that. There is no out."

"There is," Kenya whispered. "I've seen it. I've seen people get away. If you had a chance, would you?"

There was a long silence as Kenya looked intently at Teresa who was looking off into nothing but nodding at it just the same.

"Yes."

"Where would you go?"

"Away."

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

"There must be a place."

"Home."

"I remember. You told me before. Where's home?"

"I..." she started. "I don't even know if they're alive."

"Who? Your parents?"

"Yes," she said, still nodding.

"Would you go home if you could?"

Teresa's head stopped moving. "I don't know. I've thought more about that in the last few weeks than I ever have. I want to. But I don't."

"Why not?"

She shook her head.

"Scared?"

She nodded.

"Of what?"

"Look at me. What would they say? What could I say?"

Kenya laughed. "You've never had kids, have you? Baby, they'd look right past that. If not at first, then later and for all times. They'd see right back to how you were way back when."

"What if they couldn't?"

"Well, what if they couldn't? Nobody ever died from being seen as how they are. Funny, I hear people say all the time, 'If only I could see my mother one last time' or my brother or sister. Both my parents been gone twenty years, both of them. They weren't the best, but they did their best. I'd give all the rest of my years to see them one last time. Nothing else, just to see them, look them over alive for a few minutes. But I can't.

"Suppose you saw your folks and it didn't work out? Suppose they didn't want you back? Girl, I'd give it all just for that, just to look in my father's face one last time, even if it was just to call him all the bad names I called him before."

They laughed together.

"You need to go home," Kenya said.

"What about Jim?"

"Is he the one who beats you?"

"Not always."

"The one who gives you drugs and keeps you hooked on the street." It wasn't a question.

Teresa said nothing.

"Is that him?"

"It wasn't always like that," she said. "There was a time when there was more."

"What changed?"

"He got hurt. Construction work. He fell. They said he might never walk again. He did, and it was a miracle, but he was always in pain. Then there were painkillers..." she trailed off. "After a while we needed money."

"So you hustled."

"Yeah."

"And you hate it."

"Yeah."

"And him."

"No."

Kenya smiled. "I'm glad you don't. You still need to leave."

"I can't."

"You have to."

"After all this time," Teresa said, "I can't just leave."

"You have to."

"I can't."

"Then he'll drag you down with him."

Teresa looked at her, then got to her feet. "I have to go back. He needs help. I have to try, at least one time."

Kenya stood with her, slower, and so did I. Teresa grabbed her arm. "Then go. If you truly believe you can help, you have to try. He's there now, waiting for you. But do it soon."

"What? How do you know? And why soon?"

Kenya said: "Because you never know when your chance is coming."

"Chance for what?"

"To go home."

"I don't understand."

She touched Teresa's cheek. "We all get a chance. Sometimes even a second or third. Sometimes the next one is the last, but we don't know until it's gone. Take the next chance."

The woman turned and walked slowly past the school as young feet ran by swiftly by on the other side of the fence. She raised her hand in final farewell like a raggedy scarecrow before disappearing around the corner.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

REUNION

It was a silent walk to the bungalow and as we approached I could see Jim's face in the window, scanning the lot. A small part of me screamed out for violence; to rip into Jim's eyes and tear out his soul and scramble his brain until it was massless gelatin. But mostly I felt calm and assured that whatever would happen was for the best, and to believe.

Jim was pacing the floor, gun in hand, when Teresa came in and sat immediately down on the couch.

I sat next to her. She was using great wisdom in keeping her mouth shut. Three times she looked up and opened her mouth as if to speak, only to close it again. It was a battle, one I was sure she would lose along with her teeth. Women, given the choice between a beating and silence, would take the beating every time.

"What am I supposed to do now?" Jim said, breaking the silence rhetorically. "You don't come to see me in jail, when I do come home it's to find you packing, and after I send you out for money you come home with nothing. What am I supposed to do now?"

She kept quiet.

Jim stopped moving and raised the gun slowly, aiming it at her head with one eye closed, dead eye. "I asked you a question."

She looked in his eyes, not acknowledging the gun as she spoke. "I'm afraid."

"You should be. This close, I couldn't miss."

"No," she said quietly. "I'm not afraid for me. I'm afraid for you."

He looked at her, puzzled. "Afraid for me? When I have this, there's nothing I'm afraid of. Tell me, who do I have to be afraid of?"

She shook her head. "No one. Not a person."

"The cops?"

"No." She swallowed. "I'm afraid for what you've become. What I've become. Look at us." Her voice rose in volume, the last few words almost yelled, and Jim's body jerked. "What are we doing? How did it all get like this?"

He almost looked hurt. "What's wrong with this place?"

"Not the place. Not the streets. Not the cops. Us. What happened?"

Jim dropped his arms, the gun pointing harmlessly at the floor. His face was blank and void of comprehension, perhaps deliberately so.

Teresa turned her body toward him, gripping the end of the couch. "Do you remember when we met? Remember your friend Zack was dating my friend Darcy when we lived in that dumpy duplex? He'd asked you for a ride getting over there and you rode him over on your Harley."

Jim's head moved slowly down, then up. Yes.

"I'll never forget the sound your bike made when you pulled up to the door, right up to the steps," she said with a slight smile of remembrance. "I thought it was an earthquake. The walls and windows rattled so much I started banging on the bathroom door to tell Darcy to get out, and she comes out from her shower wearing nothing but a towel, soaking wet and madder than hell. She went out to tell you and you all laughed at me, then you came in. You almost didn't fit through the door."

The corners of Jim's mouth moved in an almost imperceptible smile as he nodded again, remembering with her.

"I got you a beer and we sat at the kitchen table while Darcy and Zack went into the back room. You told me all about your bike and how you'd put it together and how you wanted to own a shop one day. I told you where I'd grown up and all the things I wanted to do and places I wanted to see. Then Darcy and Zack came out of the back room barely dressed and I wished so much that they would leave so we could talk, but you had to go."

Jim nodded. "I called the next day."

"I remember," she said. "You called the next day and we talked for another hour before you came over to take me for a ride on your bike. I was so excited. I'd never been on a Harley before. When you got there I ran out and jumped on and held on tight."

"I remember." He smiled now.

"And we took off down the street. I'd never had a feeling like that, of so much power under me. It was such a high."

"You laughed the whole time," he said, nodding. "I remember that."

"It was the most fun I'd ever had in my life, sitting there and holding you and watching the world speed by."

"She was a good girl."

Teresa's eyes glistened and she sniffled as tears slid down her face. Jim took a half-step toward her, raising his arms, then noticed the gun in his hand and stopped.

"We went so many places together," she said, wiping her arm across her face. "It didn't matter where as long as we were together. And after you moved in, you brought the bike into the living room so I could sit on it while watching TV."

"We did other things on it," Jim said.

Teresa almost blushed. "I didn't forget that, either."

"Those were good times," Jim said, adding the end abruptly. "Nothing lasts forever."

He wouldn't meet her eyes as she asked: "Why not?"

"You can't go back," he said, shaking his head. "I've heard that before. Too many years. Too many days."

"But we're the same people."

He met her gaze, looked her over, met it again. "Who is?"

"We are. I know we are."

"You're not."

She flinched at the words.

"And I'm not," he said, maybe in contrition. "Those were two other people. I don't even think they were us."

"They were," she cried, "they were."

"Then how--?" He looked around, lost in his world. "How did this happen? I don't want to know them anymore."

"If we could only get back. Start over."

Jim's fingers curled around the gun.

Teresa got up and walked to him. "We can try."

"No."

"Why not?"

Jim snorted. "Money. It's all about money. It's always about money."

"We didn't have it before."

"We always needed it before."

"Not a lot. Even after you got hurt." She looked up worriedly, as if wishing to get the words back.

"You think it's my fault."

"I didn't say that."

"Because of the accident. My back. That's when it all started, when I hurt my back and couldn't work."

She touched his arm. "I don't care how..."

"I know what you think." He shook her off. "That I'm useless because I can't work and can't..."

"I never said that."

"I knew what you were thinking. I could see."

She grabbed his arm tightly this time. "It never mattered. It never made any difference. I loved you. I still do. Can't we find it again? Can't we go back to the way it was?" She was crying now. "It seems so far away, but I know it's not. I dream about it when I dream and I know it was more than that. It was real. It was us."

She buried her face into his chest and cried into it. After a hesitant moment he put the hand without the gun on the back of her head gently. But it was a few more minutes before he relaxed his grip on the gun.

He pushed away suddenly and walked quickly to the door.

"What's wrong?"

"I've got to go."

"Why? Where?"

He shook his head with his back to her. "I have some things to do."

"I want to come."

"You can't."

"Please."

He shook his head.

"Then, I'm leaving. I have to."

Jim looked up at the ceiling and breathed out, then he turned. His voice was quiet and his face sad at the seeming inevitability of it all. "No." He started for the door. "You can't do that, either."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

DEAL

I went with him. A few blocks and a turn into an alley showed Jim's destination, the same apartment complex I'd had the pleasure of visiting once before. The one where dopers danced and crack heads contemplated their souls. Coming out of the alley into the courtyard we walked by a dull grey 1959 Fairlane Galaxie. It was a hot year for '59 Fairlanes.

Jim rapped on the same apartment as before and the same man answered as before.

"Pete," Jim said. "I need a favor."

"Why else would you be here?" the man replied as Jim entered.

I rubbed my temples, took a breath, and followed.

There was only one other person in the apartment; a guy in the corner, looking like a pile of dirty clothes with hair. He had a glass pipe in his hands, eyes closed, and if I had to judge simply by smell was already dead. Jim pulled a stool to the kitchenette counter as the host puffed a cigarette from the other. He tossed one to Jim after he'd indicated he could use one. He lit up.

"Where's your hundred?"

"Huh?"

"You owe me a hundred."

"Oh, yeah." Jim pulled out some bills from his pocket and threw them on the counter without counting. Pete's eyes widened as he thumbed through them.

"This is only sixty."

"I need your car."

"Like hell."

"Serious."

"You owe me and you want," the guy said, shaking his head. " _You_ want," he said again for emphasis.

"You know I'm good. Give me the car till tomorrow and I'll get what I owe, plus," he added, then paused, "an extra two-hundred."

Pete scrutinized him. "Why?"

Jim smiled. "Tomorrow's pay day." Then, serious: "I need something else."

"What?"

"A present. A going-away present."

"For who?"

"Does it matter?"

"No," the man said suspiciously.

Jim looked around for no reason before speaking. "Teresa."

"Where's she going?"

"Nowhere."

"I don't get it."

"She's leaving, but she's not. Get it?"

Jim's face held no expression. Pete hesitated, understanding "I like Teresa."

"Me too."

"Then why?"

Jim blew out smoke. "I don't like her enough." He squashed his cigarette on the counter. "She wants to leave. She can't. It came to me in a dream. She'll disappear in a puff of smoke. Look, nobody will be around when it happens. It won't get back to you. But I need something pure."

"Pure costs."

"Four hundred."

The man's eyes widened. "Five."

Jim laughed. "What the hell do I care? And the car."

Pete stared into the ashes. "I don't know. It's not runnin' good."

"Six." Jim paused. "Seven."

Pete nodded without expression, fished in a pocket and came out with a set of keys.

"What do you need, exactly?"

"Whatever will do the job."

"Crack, pure, lace it in. That'll smoke anybody."

"Whatever it takes."

Pete continued nodding. "Hey," he said suddenly. "If you have so much money why don't you just buy a car?"

Jim exhaled in disgust. "I don't even have a license."

The guy thought about that for a moment as if on the cusp of a revelation before giving up the effort and returning his attention to the ashes on the counter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

BREAKFAST

At last we were a family again. Tina and I and Tyler sitting at the breakfast table as Tyler asked innocently probing questions about the world around him. I nodded at Tina's wise answers and we smiled to each other, over glasses of orange juice and bites of Eggs Benedict, at secrets only the two of us shared. It was part of the bond which would never be broken, could never be understood by outsiders and only partly understood by those who had made similar life-long bonds. But ours was special, set apart, made in heaven.

Except for the unwanted stranger sitting with us, again, it was perfect. And if I ignored him long enough maybe the message would sink in.

He sat and stared and said nothing.

I turned my back. Tyler was telling Tina about a bug he'd seen on TV.

"It's like a worm," he was saying, "with a million legs. A stampede."

We laughed together, Tina and I, until tears came. "You mean a centipede."

Tyler, engrossed in a mouthful of Captain Crunch, shrugged as he chewed.

But the shadow remained, his eyes burning into my cheek like focused beams. I shot a glance; his eyes were big and dark, but passive. "What?"

I could have been the wind in the trees for all the attention it brought. He sat unmoved.

I glared. "Why are you still here?" I reached over quickly and pushed his shoulder.

His head moved slightly, the gaze focused. "Hmm?"

"Why are you here?"

His eyes were bemused. "Because you're here."

"What do you want?"

"I said I wouldn't ask again. I won't."

"So you're just going to shadow me the rest of my life?"

"You don't have a life."

"You know what I mean," I said. "You're going to follow me until...when? Until I do what you want? Until the sky melts?"

"Whichever comes first."

"Why? Why should I leave my family and waste more precious time on things that will never change? To watch while society's refuge methodically destroy their lives while my family rebuilds theirs without me. You said one more time, check on her one more time, and I went back one more time. I'm done; with Jim, with Teresa, and with you."

He nodded. "I understand. You don't have to leave. Let me ask you one question."

I waited. "What?"

"Didn't you like Teresa even a little?"

"Like her?"

"Yes. Like her. Don't you feel anything for her, besides revulsion? Can't you see that she's just a person, searching, like everybody else?"

"She's not like anybody I ever knew."

"You're talking about the surface," he said. "But you've seen deeper."

I knew he was right. Hours before I had sought her out for the very things he spoke of. But I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. "I've been inside her soul. It didn't get any better deeper."

"You've spent time with her, you know her. You know her intimate thoughts."

I winced. "Let's not rehash those. I had almost purged them from my mind."

He moved his body to face me. "But you know there's more. She needs help. She deserves help."

I threw my hands up, expelling air. "So do they? They need me, they need my time and my attention. Why does Teresa need it more?"

"It's the sick who need a doctor."

"Thank you, Confucius. All wisdom and no cookie. Look, Rollins," I said. "I know what you're saying. But I just don't give a flying–"

"Careful."

"Even here," I said, "in eternity–maybe especially here--it seems like time is too precious a thing to waste. I don't want to miss one second of Tyler growing up. Or Tina. I've given up so much already."

"We all give up something."

"Not as much as I have."

"Many much more," he said. "But compared to what we receive..."

"Maybe I don't see it that way," I cut in, then, tired of trying to hear two conversations, walked out of the kitchen and into the living room as he followed. "Look, Rollins, I'm not ungrateful. But there's a lot you left out, and a lot I could have known earlier without all these games."

"There are no games."

"Whatever you call this maze I'm in," I said. "There's a lot you still aren't telling me. I don't know how much I can trust you."

"You're not supposed to trust me."

My mouth fell open. "What do you mean, I'm not supposed to trust you?"

"Just what I said," he said. "You're not supposed to trust me. I don't control what happens. And you can't trust that what I tell you will work out the way you want it to. You just have to trust that it will work out, eventually."

"Nobody has that much faith. Nobody should be asked to."

"It's not just faith. There's also obedience."

"Blind obedience."

"At times. At times that comes first, faith comes later. But you know you're going on more than that."

"Yeah, well...now I'm here. Now I'm home."

"Teresa needs you."

I snorted. "Now there's a broken record. What does she need me for? To make sure she's treated with respect at her next gangbang? To bring the bucket to her corner the next time Jim smacks her around? I already told you about Jim's little going-away present, so you don't need me around to take care of her."

"Trace, there's more to it than just her," he said. "Even I don't know all of it, but it's important that you stay with her. It's important not just for her, it's important to you. Understand?"

"No. How could I understand? You're not telling me anything. 'Stay with her, stay with her.' That's all you ever say. I've stayed with her and I'm done. I'm not...dammit, I'm not going to watch her die."

I stared out the window to the yard and beyond. The guy across the street was washing his car, as he had every day I lived there. Two boys walked together, bouncing a basketball back and forth, on the way to the park. A little girl pedaled her tricycle as her mother walked behind and gave encouragement.

"Yeah, okay," I said. "I'll go to her. But only if you promise that you'll stay here and make sure my family is safe."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I've got other things to do."

He walked out the front door this time, and after taking a long look back to my family I did the same.

At last we were a family again. Teresa, sitting cross-legged on the bed, trying to find Nirvana as she stared down meditatively at the pink rose pattern of the bed spread. Perhaps she would find it there, near the thorns, between the stains.

I sat next to her, feet on the floor, ready to go but vowing to stay. It was part of the bond we had that, apparently, could never be broken or understood by outsiders, or even me. But ours was special, set apart, made somewhere not near heaven.

She was simply passing the time as she awaited her true love in that broken-down bungalow. She was waiting for her hero, her knight, the man of her dreams to come riding in and sweep her away to paradise.

So was my wife.

But neither fantasy would be realized. All they'd get and got were an inept extortionist and a two-bit private eye, retired. Maybe they deserved better, maybe so did we. But fate and a roll of the dice had cast us together...for better, for worse, forever.

So I sat with his better half while mine sat alone and we waited together like soldiers entrenched who've seen too much of the battle and walked too many miles and just want to go home but who know the war's not yet over and the enemy's still in the near dark and though you have much to say and time to sleep you do neither as you listen, listen, for the slog of footsteps in the mud.

Or the slam of the door.

And so it slammed and in he slogged, looking no better for the battle. He acknowledged Teresa with a glance and took a bag out of his coat pocket. "I'm sure I can trust you not to touch this." He smiled wryly as he knelt in the closet and stuffed it into his drywall safe.

Trust, I thought. The word of the day.

"I was worried."

"That I wouldn't come back," he said, "or that I would?"

She started to swing her legs off the bed and go to him, but she hesitated, unsure. I was sure; I wasn't moving.

"Let's get out of here," she said instead. "Today. Throw our stuff in a bag and--"

He took a step toward her and she stopped. He leaned close. "Where? Where are you going to go? With what money? And why?" He straightened. "This place is as good as any. Better than most."

Teresa stood up in front of him, grabbing his arm. "We'll die here."

He shook her off. "Then we'll die here."

She grabbed him again. "I'm afraid. We'll die here if we don't leave. I can feel it. We have to get out. I don't want to stay here another second."

His expression softened momentarily. He turned away. "I have things to do."

"Where are you going?"

"I have business."

"I'm going with you."

"We did this before. No."

"I am."

"Like hell." He put out his chest and bared his teeth. I half-expected a bellow.

"I am," she repeated. "I'm going with you."

"No." He turned.

She followed.

He stopped and turned, face red. "I said no." He cocked his right arm across his body.

Teresa didn't flinch.

He hesitated, then lowered his arm. "Oh, hell. Come on. But stay out of my way or, so help me, I'll break your nose."

They walked out of the bungalow as I sat on the bed, watching. There was no question, but still I considered.

Let them go, a voice said, my own. Let them destroy themselves without you. It's over. You've done all you can. You need rest. You're a private eye, tired and retired. Let them go.

I sat content with that for a moment before hopping off the bed. Rest, I knew, was for the living, and retirement seemed like a lifetime ago.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

PARK AND RIDE

The park was still green and soothing, a restful haven from the restless city, and everyone who came was seeking that same peace. Right now it was empty, save for one soul. No one played on the basketball court, no one on the diamond, no one on the playground. I didn't need to check the stalls.

Jim pulled the car to the curb. He patted his pocket, nodded to himself, and said: "Wait here."

"What are you going to do?" Teresa asked.

"Business," he said, and got out of the car and headed across the grass. I went with him, blending into his shadow.

There was a man sitting at a metal picnic table a few hundred feet away under a tall pine, and it wasn't hard to guess who it might be. As we passed the sandy play area and comical Ladybug Merry-go-round and matching Ant Slide, his features came into focus. Brent Hewitt. As we came closer he looked around nervously, becoming more agitated the closer we got.

"For God's sake, sit down. Let's get this over before someone sees us."

Jim laughed, then spread his arms wide. "Ain't nobody here but us, and if there was, they wouldn't know who we are. And if they did, they wouldn't care." But he sat anyway. "Money," he said.

"We need to talk about that," Hewitt said, picking at the fake wood planks on the table. Sweat was beading on his forehead and he had taken off his coat, his tie loose and shirt partly undone. There were lines on his forehead that kept appearing and disappearing with each grimace.

"No talk," Jim said evenly. "Just money. A thousand. Just put it right in my hand and keep it coming every month."

Hewitt looked up. "I can't. There isn't any more. Things have been tight at work and--"

Jim slammed down his fist and the table vibrated with a low clang. "Don't give me that. I've seen where you live. I know where you work. You've got money. Plenty. But if you'd rather spend some time in jail that's fine with me. But I'll tell you this: I've been there. You wouldn't last a week."

"I'm telling you the honest truth--" Hewitt began, sounding like a salesman, but that's as far as the truth went. Jim cuffed him on the side of his head and he went sprawling to the side and back, falling off the bench to land over concrete and grass. He grabbed his ear and rolled onto his stomach as Jim walked around the table and kicked him in the side.

Hewitt groaned, getting to all fours and gasping for air as if he'd never taken a kick to the side before. He winced as he found his way back to the bench and knelt over the seat.

"More?"

Hewitt had his eyes closed and gulped to say: "No. Here." He reached into his pants pocket, took out and envelope, and tossed it to Jim, who snatched it up quickly and took out the bills, counting.

"This is only six-fifty," he said after counting twice. "You're a little short."

"I'll get it," Hewitt gasped. "I promise--"

Jim reached down and pushed the man's face to the table, twisting as he said: "Tomorrow. Same time. And you better have the rest. All..." he stopped, figuring in his head, "...all of it."

Hewitt moaned and managed a nod as saliva oozed from his mouth onto the table.

Jim let go of his head. Hewitt lifted it a few inches off the table, then slammed it down. "Remember," he said in a whisper, "I know where you live and I know where you work. And I've got a big mouth."

He let the man go and walked off.

I remained as I had been the whole time–sitting bent over, hands clasped--and watched drips of blood seep from Hewitt's nose to form spreading drops on the concrete. Here, I thought, was justice. Maybe not the kind I would have chosen, but close. The man responsible for my death had turned, or been turned, back on the one who had started the whole process in the first place. I looked into Hewitt's face as he dabbed his wounds with a handkerchief and I wondered if he felt remorse for what he'd done. I wondered if he was thinking twice about his actions and wishing desperately to go back and make it all right. I wondered if he even remembered who I was.

His face held no answers, just pain and blood. I noticed without satisfaction that he seemed to have aged in the short time I knew him, yet he was only a few years older than me, and I hadn't aged at all.

Perverse curiosity got the better of me and I reached over, knowing I shouldn't, and touched him, searching for some type of acknowledgement of me rattling around his mind.

I was greeted by a toe-headed boy, maybe five, beaming up at a man who was smiling down at him, his expression full of the love and joy and unconditional acceptance only a father has. The man lifted the boy into the air and kissed his cheek, then put him back on his feet only to lift him overhead and let go, briefly, to be caught and kissed, then tossed again to be brought down to more kisses and sloppy puffs of air to the neck as the boy laughed and giggled.

I sat back, examining the man with anger and irritation and even some pity. That mop of blonde hair was now thinning and combed to cover a bald spot.

"Too late," I said, wiping my hands on my pants. "Too damn late."

"What happened?" Teresa was asking as I walked up to the car.

"Business, like I said," Jim answered. He looked back at Hewitt who was still sitting at the table, dabbing at his face. "And it looks like business might be good for a while." He laughed and got in.

I slid into the back seat while he started the car.

"Can we go home now?" Teresa asked.

"One more stop."

"Where?"

"You'll see."

"Why?"

"Business," he said. "Same as this."

With little energy or hope, I reached over the seat and pushed into Jim's mind; maybe I could manipulate his thoughts, or manufacture an aneurysm. But it was like touching a glob of putty, with as much response and intelligence. I pulled out, wiping off the goo and cursing the inevitability of consequence. There was no stopping the fact that we would end up in the one place I wanted to keep him from.

What would happen when we got there I didn't know, but there was one consolation, and it was a small one. I was with Teresa. Rollins had repeated that instruction so many times it must have meant more than simple obedience. Maybe she was the key after all. Maybe she would be the one to protect my family, the true guardian angel of us all.

I looked at her face, studying. Blotchy skin, greasy hair, patches of dryness around her mouth, almost skeleton-like. If this was salvation, heaven help the lost.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

TOGETHER

It had been a while but I hadn't forgotten how. Just like riding a bike on your knees. So remembering, I prayed.

I prayed for intervention from above, for a heavenly flash of light to blind the driver and send the car spinning into a ditch where I could sit back and watch those around me die. I prayed for intervention from below, for the bowels of hell to open and the hands of the damned to reach up and claim at least one who was ready to join with old friends in the eternal suffering equal to that which he brought while on earth.

But there was no answer in either howl or hallelujah, just the clacking of the engine's tappets keeping pace with my pulse. So we rumbled on through streets so familiar they were more than a part of my life and what I knew as home.

Here was the main street, a fast-food menagerie of 24-hour consumption; of burgers, tacos, groceries. A left turn at the light and past the four corners of competing gas stations. A stop at the sign, continuing past the mortuary and its empty and ominously beckoning parking lot. Past the library, overflowing with kids and life with a few always congregating by the rusting pay phone. Past the perfectly manicured and untrodden lawn of the senior condominiums with the white circular veranda in it's midst, a scattering of white wicker chairs in the middle perpetually pristine and unused. To the next block, where the residential section began, evidenced by a huge Winnebago parked sideways in a specially made drive, hiding the home behind, if it existed at all. The house with the flaking paint and weed-filled yard and shredded blue tarp awning partially protecting a Karman Ghia with equally shredded fabric top. The home of the old hippie with obligatory pony tail and beard and no shirt who seemed to do nothing more in life then sit in a chair in his open garage and watch the world go by while the world looked in and wondered with suspicion how he lost his left arm. Past the home of the retired carpenter whose projects were always on display and for sale in the driveway. Rocking horses were out this day, three standing unfinished and unpainted in a wooden corral.

Down the long road past more homes, undistinguished save for their lack of difference. Down more, to where the road ended at the middle of another. One final turn and there it was, fourth one on the right. My house. Home.

Jim had stopped at the corner. "Stay here," he told Teresa, and got out of the car.

But I was already out and running, his words following as I made my way home. Tina's car was parked in the drive and I ran past it and jumped, making a perfect cannonball through the front window. I skidded onto the coffee table and fell pronely onto the couch. I got up and ran through the house, searching, yelling out of reflex, "Tina! Tina!" The kitchen was empty and spotless, the dining room the same. I ran up the stairs and to our bedroom, stopping at the doorway.

She was standing at the bed, packing.

I ran to her and put my hands on her head. Her expression was pensive. I pushed inside and felt immediately dizzy at the whirlwind...

...get socks, don't forget toothbrush, lock doors and windows, garage, turn off water--how?--get Tyler, Trace you bastard!, grab address book, where are the keys? hurry, hurry...

I pulled out and shook my head free of the tumult and headache, but relieved I could finally connect with her. I tried again, forcing myself deeper.

He's here! I screamed.

She looked up anxiously. No, her mind said.

Yes, he is! There, look out the window.

I turned her head and she glanced in that direction casually. She suddenly dropped the shirt she'd been folding and ran to the window and scanned the street.

There, I said. Down there.

No one, she countered, relaxing.

There, there!

No, no one. She looked again, saw him walking across the yard, and stiffened. She looked to the night stand, then walked over and opened the top drawer. She grabbed the gun, checked the cartridge to make sure it was loaded, then, holding it white-knuckled, headed down the stairs.

She approached the living room carefully, inching along the wall as she entered and making sure to stay well away from the front window. She tiptoed up to the door and looked out the peephole.

Three loud knocks sent her back against the wall with a gasp. The doorknob moved back and forth, still locked.

"I know you're in there," Jim yelled. "You can't hide."

Tina swallowed hard, moving forward. "Get out of here," she said hoarsely, "or I'll call the police."

Jim laughed. "Go ahead. I'll be right here waiting."

There was the sound of cracking wood as the door flew open and hit Tina square in the face, as her head hit the wall behind. The gun fired, sending a bullet into the floor by my feet. As Jim came in, her knees gave way and she dropped to the floor. He took the gun from her and after a moment she put her hands to her face and began to cry. I knelt beside her as blood from her nose dripped to the carpet.

"Not very friendly," Jim said, sticking the gun in his waist. "I guess this means you don't want to pay me." He smiled and knelt beside us and stroked her hair. Tina pulled away and he grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her back. I reached for his heart, his soul, his mind, but there was nothing to hold.

He chuckled. "You said you wanted to call the cops. Why not? Let's call them. Together."

He looked for the phone, finding the portable on the end table. He walked over and grabbed it, walking back. "Here. Call!" He threw it against the wall and it splintered in plastic shards by her head. "Afraid of what they'd do? You should be more afraid of what I'll do."

He straddled her, grabbed her shirt, and ripped it open as buttons flew.

In blind fear I jumped onto his back, searching for anything tangible. I found it in his chest and squeezed my fingers shut. Jim straightened, tearing off a piece of Tina's blouse as he stood. I spun off, landing hard against the wall beside her. Nausea stomped my stomach at the small contact I'd made. I tried to stand and couldn't. "Rollins!"

Jim had Tina's pants down to her knees, slapping her whenever she fought back. She dug her nails into his arms and he yelled in surprise, grabbed her arms and threw her against the wall. She gasped, her breath gone.

My strength was slowly returning and I slid my feet up underneath me, taking deep breaths to gather everything I had left for one last leap, one last attack, to save my wife.

That's when he spoke.

"It's a simple choice. Give me the money or I tell everybody you killed your husband."

There was a sudden booming in my ear. The world moved and my balance left. What had he said?

Their faces were almost touching, spit dribbling as he spoke.

"I guess I was in the right place at the right time, sitting in my car minding my own business. And here comes this guy walking across the street, minding his own business. And off to the side stands a little blond, minding her own business. Except she's holding a gun. Then she aims it at the guy and starts shooting. Not very nice, shooting a guy in the back, especially somebody you're married to. But I'm sure you had your reasons. You weren't the only one. After all, he was the guy I'd been hired to kill. I guess a lot of people wanted him dead. No loss. You saved me some bullets, as well as saving me from being a murderer, though I got paid just the same. I never did thank you." He pulled his pants down. There was a red and purple mark on one thigh, crudely bandaged. He glanced at it, then back at her. "But I didn't appreciate you shooting me." And he slapped her face.

I watched his mouth as he spoke, the words forming and falling off his lips to be replaced by more. I could read them but refused to believe. He spoke more gibberish, weird sounding syllables, none fitting with the next. I looked to Tina for help, seeking denial in her face or eyes. One nod, one touch, one word, and I would believe her to be true, the accusations a lie. I would forgive a lifetime.

But she refused to end my pain.

With more effort than I thought possible, I raised my arm and moved it across that vast emptiness between us, my fingers touching Tina's head, then her mind, to reveal what I didn't want to know.

It was momentarily dark, then exploded with light, fragmenting like fireworks to fall on a shadowy street in a quiet neighborhood. The house to my left was as familiar as the car parked to my right, for the house belonged to the Hewitts and the car in the distance my own.

The fear of knowing the truth made me want to pull out of her, but the fear of an eternity spent wondering was greater, and in the seconds of hesitation the decision was made. I was pulled into the memory, no longer myself but Tina, and the sights being seen were from her eyes and worse...her perspective. She was sitting in the car looking into darkness as the last night of my life began playing in her mind, and I watched my murder with her...

...blowing heat through my fingers, trying to get the feeling back, but even with my heavy jacket and gloves I couldn't get warm. I wanted to turn on the heater but that meant starting the car which was sure to bring attention. I didn't want anyone to know I was there. I didn't want many knowing I was alive. Maybe I wasn't. I felt like I'd died long ago.

I touched the side of my face and winced. It was sore when I didn't touch it and painful when I did. I was afraid my cheekbone was broken but more afraid of the doctor's all-too-obvious questions and the all-too-obvious lies I would have to tell. I looked in the car mirror and was relieved to see my eyes weren't black. Not yet. I looked at the house he had gone into two hours before. It belonged to Brenda Hewitt, a client who suspected her husband was having an affair. What a joke. They both were; her husband with whoever, and her with my husband. Husband. Another joke. Damn you, Trace.

It was all in the folder Trace had left lying at the side of his bed with all his other papers, and books, bills, magazines. I'd had enough of his sloppiness and decided to at least put it all in a box somewhere, probably the garage. I wanted to throw it all away and be done with him, but there were things there I might need. Maybe I would find an un-cashed check or—miracle of miracles—an already-paid bill; something that might mean more money. So I began organizing piles onto the bed, finding invoices and payment stubs. We needed every write-off we could find. Food receipts, mileage notes. An old gas and electric bill I'd been looking for, now overdue. A big pile of papers needing to be filed. There was a manila folder with the name HEWITT on the front, a case he'd been working on. I opened it and skimmed through, making sure no other bills or papers had been stashed inside that needed attention. There were none. Some pictures of a house, some of an office, a half dozen of a black BMW from six different angles. More receipts, log-book, pay stub. On one receipt, at the bottom by Services Rendered there was no amount, no dollar sign, just the outline of a woman's lips in dark red lipstick and a three-word note written in red ink in a woman's handwriting. _Paid in full._

Services Rendered.

And then I knew like I'd know all along. Like all the others nights he'd spent out with no money to back up his stories. All the other nights when his services were rendered while I waited anxiously with Tyler, telling him: 'No, don't worry, daddy will be here soon. We'll give him a few more minutes. He said he'd be here, let's just wait.' Then: 'Tyler, it's late and past bedtime...no, don't cry, I'll have daddy come in and give you a kiss when he gets in. He's out working hard, making money to pay for our house and birthday presents and Christmas. Yes, I'm sure he'll bring you something. I don't know what, I'll have him kiss you...yes, I'll make sure he wakes you up and gives you a kiss and whatever it is he'll bring you. Time for bed now.'

And once he was in bed, then going to bed myself, alone, and having to convince myself like I convinced Tyler that daddy was out working late, that it was his job and I should accept it because that's what he did and that's who he was, while my life wasted away into days and weeks and years.

Then, when he finally did stumble in, he wouldn't kiss Tyler or me; he'd go into the bathroom and wake the world with his hacking cough, blowing his nose or throwing up into the toilet, if he made it that far.

I touched my cheek again. I could see vividly, without wanting to, the crazed look he had on his face that night. His hand going back, then flying around like a whip as I closed my eyes right before he hit me, then falling backwards as a thousand needles poked at my cheek which swelled with pain as I lay on the floor. Now, two days later, it was still tender. Two days weren't enough to take away the pain. Neither were two years or two decades, or one lifetime.

Movement from the house made me sit up. A man shut the door and walked down the steps. It was Trace. I could tell by the way he carried his body, his swagger, the way he scratched himself, looking at stupid things that meant nothing as if they were the most important things in the world while the things that should have been the most important to him waited at home night after night. It was him, all right, going home after a busy night's work.

I opened the glove compartment and took out the gun. Something else Trace had left under the bed beneath his pile. Stupid! What if Tyler had gotten hold of it? He didn't care, he didn't think. He lived like he was the only person in the world and it all began and ended with him.

Tonight he was right.

I opened the door gently and a buzzer sounded. I closed it just as quickly and took the keys from the ignition. They slipped out of my hands and fell to the floor. Trace had reached the sidewalk. I opened the door again, got out and closed it gently. He was already to the street. My boots made too much noise as I walked and I kicked myself for not wearing sneakers. But he didn't hear. He was in his own world, emptied of sex and so emptied of life or thoughts of others. I stopped because he stopped. He tilted his head and looked under the car. No, I was wrong. He did care about a few things: himself, sex, his car. I took two more steps and raised the gun as he straightened. My hands trembled, then my arms, then my whole body. I couldn't shoot, not then. I was too far off, I'd miss, then he would turn and see me and it would all be hell. People would know, they'd find out, I'd lose Tyler. I couldn't do it, I didn't have the strength, it was too cold, I couldn't.

Then I did.

The first shot hit him in the shoulder. He jerked, like someone had come up from behind and gave him a sharp push. I wondered how he liked being pushed around. I fired again. The second bullet missed. I fired one last time and hit him in the back, dead center, and he fell dead.

I stared, surprised at what I'd done, at how simple it had been, how easy. No one had seen, no one would know. I found myself smiling and thinking naively that all my problems were over.

A flash of light jolted me back to reality. I looked to its source. A car parked up the street. The driver's side was illuminated with fire from the strike of a match, and it reflected a man's face in every window. The fire subsided slightly and he lit a cigarette in his mouth, puffed once, then looked right at me and smiled. Fire seemed to be all around him, his face ablaze. He took the cigarette out of his mouth with his other hand and blew out the light with a mouthful of smoke, leaving only the red glow of the end staring back.

I turned and ran back to the car without thinking, though a dozen excuses and reasons and alibis were already running through my mind. I reached the car and opened the door and slammed it shut, locking it, feeling for my keys, checking my pockets, remembering I'd dropped them on the floor, groping until they were in my hands, fumbling for the ignition key, hitting on the dome light and looking with shaking hands, finding the right one and jamming it into the ignition, pushing the gas pedal with all my weight as the car screeched away from the curb and around the corner and far from the body on the ground.

I don't remember how I got home or how long it took or the streets I drove on but all of a sudden I was there, sitting in the driveway, holding the wheel and sobbing as my body heaved from years of grief and loss.

My head was pounding and I was covered with sweat. I peeled off my coat and opened the door and pulled myself out. I steadied myself, then opened the back door.

Tyler was still sound asleep.

I undid the seat belt and picked him up, straining my back, kicking the door shut and carrying him to the house and in and up the stairs and into bed.

I made it to the bathroom and took a sleeping pill before putting on my pajamas and getting into bed and pulling up the covers all the way to wait in the dark for the call that would surely come...

My hand dropped to the floor, my head drooped, my mind blurred. The pounding in her head merged with mine, staying steady and hard. For the first time I felt truly dead.

It was then, in as depleted and weak a state as I'd ever been, that a tiny sliver of God's wisdom peeked through. I suddenly understood why we were made to be isolated and alone within our bodies and limited in our thoughts and intimacies from the billions of people that surrounded us. If we were ever exposed to the unfiltered soul of one other person for a single moment, we would surely die.

I now knew more than any man should about his wife.

It was a helplessness beyond reason. Seeing my life end like it had--Tyler a silent witness--was a shattering of all that remained of my existence. All of it taking place as he slept--hopefully slept–unaware that the man skulking from the adulterous shadows was the same man who had a hundred times before wished him sweet dreams. Unaware that the person holding the gun had, just a short time before--mere years--promised a lifetime of love to the one she was about to murder. Unaware that another man, a spectator to the whole scene, had been hired to do that very same deed but could now profit in more ways by doing nothing. And of all the people involved, no matter what had been promised or planned or paid, Jim was the only one who stood unblemished.

But that was over and he was now kneeling astride my wife. She had only her panties on and was beginning to struggle, but her arms were pinned. "Don't worry," Jim said, parting her legs. "This won't take more than an hour. Or two." He ran my gun over her calf and knee and the inside of her thighs, and higher.

The front door opened.

"Jim, there's cops outside. I heard a shot and I was scared so I came--" It was Teresa, who stopped open-mouthed when she saw him.

"Get out of here!"

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" He stretched one leg over and kicked the door shut. He looked back at Tina, considering, and cursed. He stood and pulled up his pants. "I'll be back," he said, then knelt again, holding Tina's face. He stuck a gun in her mouth, moved it back and forth, took it out and kissed her on the lips. "Wait for me." He laughed as he grabbed both guns, one in each hand, opened the front door and ran out in a crouch.

Tina's face slowly contorted until she heaved a burst of tears into her hands.

I leaned forward slowly until I could reach the floor. I crawled to an end table, pulled myself up, took a step, fell to one knee, got up again and stumbled out.

Jim was running to his car, pointing both guns at a squad car which had parked across the street. Two policemen were talking to a small gathering of neighbors. Everyone turned as one, pointed, and ducked for cover as Jim bellowed like a Comanche and started firing. There was the sound of popping and broken glass amidst the screams. Jim made it to his car and dove in the passenger side window. The two officers had taken cover behind the squad car and now had their guns out and were firing into Jim's.

He scrambled to the drivers' seat and started the car as the cops yelled for him to stop without letting up the barrage. People hung to the sides of houses and behind bushes, under cover yet not wanting to miss the action. A postman sorted mail down the street, unaware of the goings on. A UPS truck drove by on a far cross street. A little boy wandered out of a chain-linked yard a few houses down, stooping to examine something on the sidewalk. A little boy, maybe five, six...

Tyler!

He was at his friend's house. He had played there a dozen times. A safe, closed-in yard with an attentive mother. A good place for your child to stay while you were home packing. A good place to hide if you were being watched. A safe haven from the world of kidnappers and extortionists.

But you can't watch them every second of the day. A phone rings and is answered. A child needs a drink and you walk to the refrigerator. A dryer buzzes and you grab a basket and turn your back, and before you realize it the front door is open and they're in the yard and gone.

The car was moving now.

The cops were firing now.

Jim was shooting back, both hands hanging out the driver's side window as he hit the gas. A bullet struck the windshield, cracking the glass. He jerked backwards reflexively and the car pulled to the right. As he reached inside to grab the wheel with his right hand, the gun in his left went off wildly and a bullet meant for the cops was now headed toward my son.

I ran without reason, ignoring the impossible, and that's when I saw Teresa. She was standing near Tyler as she stared wide-eyed at the carnage. Tyler had his back to her, looking at the kids playing in the safe yard he'd just left while the bullet continued on its deadly course.

I moved faster. The imperceptible time since Jim had fired was being stretched and manipulated by another hand as I outran the projectile and saw a horrible choice setting itself up before me.

It was so clear that I didn't need time to think. Like in a chess game where one move begets the inevitable response until resignation, so were all the steps up to this point leading to one final conclusion. Because here was Jim trying to escape and here were the cops preventing those plans and here was a bullet flying mindlessly toward no target in particular and here was Teresa in line to be that target and here was Tyler being shielded by Teresa and here was I running to reach them both and save one but no matter what the decision I made, someone would die.

Before I left my feet all the words Rollins had said since the beginning had made the decision for me.

Stay with Teresa, she needs you, if you don't her life will end like yours, so stay with the girl, stay with the girl, stay with the girl.

As I hurtled toward them there was a calmness in the chaos, design amidst disaster, and I stretched out to touch Teresa, gently pushing her every so slightly out of the way as the bullet passed through me and by her and now toward Tyler. But as she fell she knocked him backwards and the bullet passed a mere inch from his forehead to bury itself deeply in the dark ground beyond.

I skidded on the sidewalk, turning to see them both sitting, Tyler beginning to cry, Teresa joining him.

But it wasn't over. The car was careening in jerks as the cops fired into it. I jumped over Tyler and ran to the middle of the road, hoping to stop Jim in whatever way I could.

I braced myself and held my hands out for protection and prayer as the hood hit my chest and continued, the fan and belts and engine tearing into my stomach. I passed the windshield and reached for Jim at the exact moment a bullet came in through the side window and ripped off his nose. He screamed and I did the same, and as our bodies met and souls entwined I yelled with a roar that must have come from someone else but was me just the same, for in the brief instant we touched I felt everything he felt: the terror and hatred and fear and psychotic joy and bubbling insanity.

But isolated and alone, in the deep darkness, barely perceptible, maybe imagined, was one more emotion which was the complete antithesis of everything else exploding from his crazed mind. It was the voice of a little boy lost, and it encircled him with a growing peace as his life sped to its conclusion, for with the arrival of the end came that which he had been searching for all along in the tortured journey that was his life: relief.

Our souls disconnected and the vehicle went through me in a rush, the vacuum holding me breathless for a moment before I fell. Gasping on all fours, I looked behind. A cop on the sidewalk was taking careful, deadly aim as Jim came closer. His wrists snapped and the shot hit Jim in the neck, sending him back and forward like a rag doll to land with his head lodged between the steering wheel and dashboard as the car began turning in a long arc toward the sidewalk.

Tyler was struggling to his feet, Teresa already up and running, and the car, as if led by a magnet, drove straight toward my boy.

I turned away and closed my eyes and dug my hands deep into the asphalt. Jim's car hit the curb and there was a silence, a pause, as it was airborne for what I wished were an eternity but was only the briefest of seconds, before it came crashing down. It hit something with a thud--crushing my heart--then the metal fence beyond which gave way and bent with deafening shrieks that matched my own but continued long after the vehicle had stopped.

Then, after madness, came silence. I opened my eyes to find my hands bleeding, rocks and dirt and bits of glass embedded within.

Slowly, the sounds of people began buzzing in my mind and the silence gave way to the inevitable turmoil that tragedy brings. I didn't have the strength of will to look back and confirm what my heart already knew.

And then I heard it.

"Dad!"

I raised my head.

"Dad! Hey, dad!"

I looked around. The neighborhood was filling as people came out of hiding. Parents looking for kids, kids looking for parents, all calling.

"Dad!"

But I knew that voice.

"Dad!"

I turned around and squinted through tears.

It was Tyler. He was waving, smiling, in the distance.

I blinked and he was right in front of me, smiling, happy, just like always. I blinked again and saw the car against the fence with a body underneath. I blinked a third time to find him back down the street, waving, smiling.

I blinked again.

A large black man was standing next to him, holding his hand. He leaned over and said something to my boy. Tyler nodded, then yelled to me: "Bring me something! Don't forget!"

He waved again, one last time, as the man beside him met my gaze with a sadness that seared my soul before turning and leading my son away, away...and then gone, fading like mist between cars and cops and crowds.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

DENOUEMENT

I assembled them in the parlor.

I remember it all clearly.

It started with the maid, the stupid, frightened maid, whose evasive eyes revealed more than she let on. She searched for help and found none in the faces of the butler, cook and chauffer, who were only too happy to have her take the fall...

No.

The police, that was it. It had to start there. They were tough, but I was tougher; demanding answers, demanding truth. I searched for clues on the corpse, evidence on the evergreens. I jutted out my chest to show them—I showed them—who was boss...

No, no. Not the police. It began with...

...the ambulance, of course, that's where the answers would lie. While the medics methodically and mechanically went through their routines, I snooped, scanning documents, testing samples, uncovering sheets while looking for motives and meaning in life before the door closed for the last time and took away what was left.

There was the question of grass...

The sorting of clues...

The manipulation of maids...

The narrowing of suspects...

The final summation as I drew the web closer to contain the murderer within his own words while the audience applauded and I took my second encore amidst the cries of the dead...

The grass was dripping...

The neighbors...they were questioned...the ambulance came later...no, earlier...they were first. I remember it all clearly.

There was a shooting. Tina was incoherent. There was the question of neighbors. Someone had seen someone.

You couldn't clean it up fast enough, someone said with a laugh, as it ran down the curb into the gutter...

...and they all came marching out of the flood to get out of the blood, boom, boom, boom...

Tyler...

Shots were fired.

I remember it all clearly.

Shots were fired and the neighbors scattered and Tina screamed and the police came and I assembled them all in the parlor...

The parlor was first...

No, the gun shots first while neighbors watched, police were fired, something happened...

Tina was remarkably calm.

Tyler...

Jim wasn't questioned, being dead and all, but there was always later.

I had it under control.

Something happened...police were fired...no, shots were fired...shots were returned...they were the wrong size...

hahahahahahahahahahha...

...the car swerved...it was still on the fence...the ambulance was called...

...why did they take so long?

The merciful ambulance opened its doors to let the demonic scavengers escape, pouncing on their prize, then poking, peeling, laughing, joking...didn't they understand? Cameras appeared and jockeyed for position, filming, recording, zooming in as they scraped my heart off the fence. Didn't they understand? There had been something there seconds before and now...God, get them out of here, get them away, keep them away!

...and they all came marching...

I couldn't brush them away, I couldn't scream them away. I couldn't fight them off.

...out of the flood, to get out of the blood, boom, boom, boom...

Boom, boom, boom! I'd shoot them if I had a chance, I'd kill them if I could. They were like suffocating gnats, giving no rest, invading nostrils and lungs until you could only pray to die, if one could find such peace in life...

Tina was remarkably calm.

Shock, someone said, commenting on her restraint. I was in shock because of her restraint, and her words, spoken so calmly I almost believed her; about the man who had broken in being the same man who had shot her husband--check the gun--and how he had come back for her. There were promises of ballistics and questions hushed out of respect to be asked later. She was remarkably calm.

'What happened?

He broke in, and...

Do you know him?

No, I've never...

He broke in--

Yes, and had a gun and threatened me.

He tried to rape you?

Yes. He hit me, and was saying something about my husband.

Your husband?

Yes. He was...murdered not long ago...

Yes, we know. He was a private investigator.

And this man...he was saying he wanted what my husband owed him.

Owed? As in money?

I guess so. I don't know. I've never seen him before.

Did your husband owe many people money?

I don't know. I hope...not many. I didn't know much about what he did.

So this man--

He said he came to get what was owed him, and if he didn't get it he'd kill me just like he killed my husband.

He said that?

Yes. He put his gun in my face and said it was the same one he used to kill my husband.

Go on.

Then he laughed and said it would only be right since that was my husband's gun.

He said that?

Yes.

Was it...your husband's gun?

I don't know...I didn't know he even had one.

How would he have gotten a hold of it?

I don't know...I didn't know he even had one.

Go on.

Then he...

He tried to rape you?

Yes. He said...it was to make up for the money he was owed.

Anything else?

No. I guess I blacked out. I have to see my son, make sure he's okay...

Yes, someone will...talk to you...take you to him.

Am I done?

Yes. We're done. Thank you. We'll run ballistics on the weapons to see if one of them matches the gun used to kill your...

I'm sure it does...I hope it does. It will put my mind to rest to know...to know what really happened that night.'

I heard it all from the sticky blacktop, giving silent agreement to the words because I could do nothing else. Then they all began to leave, one by one, driving past, driving through, driving over...

... _out of the flood to get out of the blood...boom, boom, boom..._

And then it was dark and the neighbors went inside with their families. Windows glowed orange like the moon, or maybe it was the moon reflecting the windows. I began to crawl with blackened fingers to that spot, that sacred spot, where my son had died.

There was a large splotch of blood, still moist from the settling dew, and I lay my face gently down upon it, first one side then the other, and let it coat my skin.

It had been him, it had been his life. It had coursed through his little body, through his heart and back again a million times. It had begun with nothing, a drop, a drop of my own blood that had multiplied and multiplied and multiplied until it sustained his life through all the days and nights when I wasn't there.

Now, at the end, the only thing we had shared together, our blood and the blood of all the generations before, was disappearing and would soon be gone with the evaporating dew and the hot sun and the harsh wind and the hungry ants. It was the last thing that touched his heart, the last piece of me that touched him, and now it was the last remainder of my existence. It cried out in awful, low groaning, and its pure emptiness was more than I could stand. I clasped my hands over my ears, fingernails biting into my scalp, screaming for it to cease. The blood from my hands dripped into my ears and made its way inside my brain where it whimpered, looking for response. I lay in a ball, begging for it to go and leave me in peace as my soul curled up within me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

DEAD HEART

The sun baked down as Rollins wiped the remains of my son's blood from my face with a rag he kept spitting into. The weight of my life and two others sat on my shoulders and held me heavily to the curb.

"What were you doing on the ground?"

"Tyler--" I began, stopping as something caught in my throat.

"Didn't you hear him? Didn't you see him?"

I nodded. "Yes. I did." I wiped my eyes.

He finished rubbing a spot. "You look as good as you ever have." He stuffed the cloth into his pocket. "Which wasn't that good. Don't cry over Tyler. He's having the time of his life."

"Was it...painful for him...when he...?"

Rollins put his arm around my shoulder. "It happened too fast. He didn't feel a thing. To him it was like falling down and getting up."

"What about Tina?"

Rollins hesitated. "She's not doing as well."

My head was shaking back and forth like a swivel. "I can't believe this, I just can't believe it."

"Which part?"

"Any of it. All of it. Tyler gone. Tina having killed me. Jim. I screwed everything up."

"Not everything."

"Did Tyler really have to–?"

"It was his time."

"Was it? Or was it because of what I did?"

"Trace, even you can't change things that much."

"Or at all, apparently."

The chimes of an ice cream truck played faintly in the distance, getting louder as it neared. Two young girls wearing swimsuits bare-footed out to the sidewalk a few houses down. They looked up one end of the street in unison, then the other, then at each other before exchanging words and running back into the house.

A mail truck drove by and parked. The driver sat drinking coffee, in no hurry to begin the day, but there just the same. Neither rain nor sleet nor the dead at night.

The crazy lady who lived nowhere and walked everywhere was making the rounds; same flowered dress, same hunched back, same anguished expression as if every step were pain-filled but was too afraid to stop, as if death itself were right behind. She'd been walking the streets for years and could be seen all over the area, a living testament to the virtues of activity. She was eighty if she was a day. I had no doubt I'd see her walking another ten years, unless she got hit by a bus, in which case I'd see her in passing.

"Rollins, tell me something," I said. "Was I really such a bad person?"

"Trace, don't ask questions unless you really want to hear the answer."

"I'm serious. Was I?"

He shrugged. "No worse than some. No better than most."

I thought back through the years and my life with Tina. The day we met. The night I asked her to marry me. Our wedding day. Our wedding night. The day we found out she was pregnant. The day Tyler was born. The day I was killed. Last week. Yesterday.

"To have Tina...to have made her life so awful she would..." I stopped, unable to put it into words.

"You're not the first."

"I ruined her life...Tyler's life...our lives."

"She played her part."

"I can't believe she could hate me so much, after so long. No, I guess I can, after all the things I did. You know what I was thinking the night I died? The exact moment, right before I died, I thought: 'I'm going to start over. From this moment on, I'm going to make it better for her and Tyler and make up for all the things I've done.' That's what I was thinking."

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then he did. "No, you weren't."

"I wasn't?"

"No."

"Well, I am now."

"No, you're not."

"Well, I should be," I said. "What's going to happen to her?"

"To Tina? Trace," he said, "don't ask if you don't want to know."

"I want to know. We spent a lot of years together. In spite of everything, I still love her."

"You won't like it."

"Tell me anyway." I took a breath, preparing for the worst.

"Okay. "Nothing."

"What?" I said, deflating.

"I said you wouldn't like it."

"What do you mean 'Nothing'?"

"Nothing will come from her killing you. Nothing legal, anyway. In the eyes of the world, Jim killed you. That will be the truth."

"But it's not the truth."

"True."

"Well...can't anything be done about it?"

"Hold on," he said. "A moment ago you were worried about what terrible thing might happen to her. Now you're upset because nothing will?"

I thought a moment. "Well, it isn't fair. Is it?"

"Nope."

"Where's the justice?"

"You want justice or revenge?"

"Just justice."

"And you're getting it."

"How do you figure? She kills me and yet nothing—"

"Here's your justice," he said. "She had a husband who cheated on her. She was threatened, nearly raped and almost killed because of it. And the only thing she had left, her son, was killed, all because of your actions. You want justice? You're a little late. Someday, down the road, there will be another justice. But that's not for us to know or be a part of or even think about. For her, now, life is over. Satisfied?"

I stared at the road and thought for the first time about Tina; wondering what she must be thinking and feeling and how much she had lost because of me. Everything. Satisfied?

"How about revenge, then?"

Rollins sighed.

"Look," I said, pointing. "Look at that blood on the road. That's all that's left of Tyler."

"And that won't even be here in a couple of days," he said. "Next rain'll probably wash it away."

"You're not helping."

He put his hand on my shoulder. "Tyler's fine. That stain on the road has no more to do with him than the body lying in your grave has to do with you."

"He was my legacy," I said. "He was all that was left of my life. He was going to carry on my name, and then his children and grandchildren after that. Rollins, now no one will ever know I was even here."

"They'll know."

"How?" He didn't answer. It was just something to say, I supposed. "When can I see him?"

He took his hand away. "A while."

"How long?"

His eyes didn't waver. "A time."

"That, again. What does that mean? Can you tell me?"

"Just what it is. A time."

"I've got to see him. I need to."

"I know you do. But it's not that easy."

"Sure it is," I said, pushing the anxiety away. "God can do anything, right? He can do that. It would be easy for him to do that, no problem for him--"

Rollins was shaking his head, then he spoke gently, like a fist in the mouth. "You were given a choice. You could either go forward or go back. You chose to go back."

"I wanted to be with my family."

"I know."

"I didn't know what would happen."

"I know."

"I didn't know I was deciding never to see him again."

"I know."

"But you knew," I said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know. All I know is what I told you: when given a choice, go forward."

"So this is my punishment?" I asked. "Because I didn't make the right choice?"

"This is simply the result," he said. "You're not being punished. This is a natural consequence. Believe it or not, Trace, the world doesn't revolve around you."

I heard echoes of Tina's voice in his words.

"And neither does any other world. It was Tyler's time. Nothing," he said, "could have changed that. Understand?"

I nodded, accepting the inevitable. Then I shook it off. "No! I don't believe it. I need to see him."

"You will. Just not now."

"Then when?"

"When it's over."

"When will that be?"

He paused. "In a time."

I took a long breath.

"I can't explain it better," Rollins said. "It's different for everyone."

"A time," I repeated. "I don't understand." But I did understand. That was the hell of it, I understood completely. In eternity, a time is the same as a heartbeat is the same as a thousand years.

The melody of the ice cream truck making its way up the street brought the two girls out of their home again, then more children appeared, running with hands full of coins. For them, time was a comforter. Although it had been less than a day since someone had been shot to death and a child killed, that graveyard was now their playground for time had brought safety. To a child, yesterday was a lifetime ago, a fading memory to be revived in distant adulthood. Now the squeals of delight and play brought a needed salve of normalcy to the neighborhood.

"So I'm stuck here."

"For now."

"Forever."

"For a time."

"At least one."

He slapped me on the back. "It will go fast."

"It hasn't so far."

"There's still work to do."

"There's the one constant, even in eternity. What work?"

"Teresa."

I didn't know I had another groan in me, especially one so loud. "Tell me you're kidding. Isn't she dead or something?"

"Not yet."

I patted debris off my pants. "Too bad."

"She still needs you."

"I saved her life. What more could she need?"

"Loose ends."

"Where?"

"Back at the bungalow. She's been hiding all night. She just now went back to get some things."

I looked in the direction of the bungalow, then closed my eyes. "Too far. Too damn far."

I felt his hand on my back. "I'll help you."

I felt myself lifted up into the wind like a kite...and for a moment all was quiet and peaceful and floating with the lightness of a summer's breeze as I moved through the air...

...and ended with a gentle bounce on a soft cloud. Except the cloud felt like cushions, someone was crying close by, and heaven never smelled so bad. I opened my eyes to find Teresa, bent over and shaking, sitting beside me on the battered couch in the bungalow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

LAST TIME TERESA

She was wearing the same clothes she'd had on the first time I'd first seen her; pink sneakers, cut-off blue jeans, pink halter with black polka dots. I hoped for a brief instant that I had been thrown back in time, to the good old days, before my wife was a murderer and my son more than a memory on a chain link fence. Perhaps, I thought, Rollins had forced the issue and plead my case and made "a time" no time at all.

I touched her mind, but it only interred a dead hope, for all the images and memories on the surface were those of the few hours just past...

...bolting from the house after seeing Jim trying to do things to the woman who looked dead; running down the street, turning to see the police, being knocked over by some invisible force, getting up and running more, hearing gun shots but not turning to look again; out of breath minutes later, drained from guilt at abandoning Jim; gaining a second wind which seemed to push her so her feet seemed to skim the ground...

Later: cleaning up in a gas station bathroom, scrounging enough money for a candy bar dinner, taking the longest way home she could, arriving just before I had.

Now, on the couch, anguished, spent, empty.

But the tears were drying. And it was time to leave.

Thoughts of home had slowly surfaced from the depths as well, and the direction for her life had been made. Finally.

I helped her pack.

She had forsaken the suitcase for a plastic grocery bag, which was more than sufficient as she was traveling fast and light. Bathroom junk, kitchen crap, all the other accoutrements of life were now useless and ignored. Papers, magazines, food, utensils the same. Most of her clothes couldn't be worn during daylight. Jim's clothes would be left as well. Teresa dangerously ran her hand over one of his shirts hanging in the closet, lingering, letting it slide off the hanger and draping it over her shoulder. She turned to the dresser and the pile of a dozen or more pictures lying scattered on top. Pictures of her and Jim. She flipped through them. One at the beach. One of Jim with a fu-man-chu. Two of them at a bike show. Jim asleep on the couch. Teresa naked on the bed. Jim sitting at the table, scowling at the camera.

I scowled with him. She had looked at them all with a half-smile, but the last had brought a tremor to her lips. She dropped it on the dresser and sat on the bed, squeezing out tears until her entire body was trembling.

A few minutes later found her still on the bed, her face buried in Jim's shirt, her arms quivering uncontrollably. She stood and took deep breaths, her hands to her chest, hyperventilating.

She looked toward the closet.

I moved to cut her off but she walked through me and knelt down in front of the closet, reaching her hand deep within, bringing back a plastic bag. She walked through me again into the living room.

She sat on the couch and dumped the bag of joints onto the coffee table. I jumped over it and tried to connect with her mind while she lit one and inhaled quickly three times.

"There's no time for that now," I said out loud. "The police could be here at any time. Go, get out, be free."

Nothing.

I moved in front of her, put my hand to her chest and pushed. There was a faint connection.

"Teresa, listen, time is short. Home is calling. Listen, listen...clear your mind. Open your eyes and see."

But as the drug took hold she became more distant and my temples throbbed. The small grasp I had slipped away until I was outside watching.

After she finished the first she lit another and inhaled desperately, trying to keep memories from sneaking in between puffs. Suddenly she pulled it from her lips and let it fall to the carpet. She began breathing deeply, looking around the room in a panic, then crying out and putting her hands to her head. "Make it stop!" She shook her head violently from side to side, then bent over and squeezed it with both hands like a vise.

I bent with her. "Rollins!"

She stood, stumbled, and landed on her side onto the floor. She curled into the fetal position, holding her head, kicking at air.

"Rollins!"

"I'm here." I turned and he was standing next to me as I knelt beside Teresa.

"What's happening?"

"One of the joints," he said, kneeling next to me, "had some added ingredients."

"I know, I know," I said. "Jim's going-away present. I thought she'd be gone by now—dammit! What was in it?"

"Detergent. Some rat poison. Pure crystal."

Teresa was moaning, eyes shut and watering, bubbling spit coming from her mouth.

"What's happening to her?"

"She's dying." His look was even, concerned, inevitable.

"What can I do?"

"Let's get her up." He put his arms under hers, sat her up and propped her against the couch.

"Should we get her anything?"

"No."

"Water?"

"No."

"What can we do?"

"Pray."

So I prayed. Maybe not what I should have prayed, but it was from the heart.

I prayed it would be over soon.

I knew too much to do otherwise, for if the joint had been laced with all the things Rollins had said, especially the pure crystal, it was a matter of simple steps, one after the other, leading to the last. Rapid heart rate, rapid rise in body temperature, a pounding in her head that wouldn't go away. And that was just the beginning.

Delirium came next, her voice babbling in staccato strainings that were beyond interpretation. Then blindness, as connections in her brain began to fry. Then loss of speech. Loss of feeling. Loss of movement. It was a disappearance of life, a regression that was bringing her back to the helpless state of the newborn, and a step beyond. It was all taking place before me and I could do nothing but breathe whatever peace I could into her heart and mind and soul.

Gradually, mercifully, it began to subside. She was rocking back and forth, back and forth, staring at emptiness, her blank eyes holding nothing but tears. Then, small convulsions. Finally...so finally, her eyes closed and her breathing stopped and the sensation of life left my fingers. I took my hands from her and ran them over my face and found it wet.

Stupid whore.

Her eyes opened.

She looked up at me dully through moist haze, focused a squint and managed a faint smile.

"Who...who are you?"

I jerked straight as if shot. "Rollins!" I stared into her eyes. They were alive and clear and curious. And seeing. "She can see me." My eyes darted to him briefly. "She can see me. Do you see? She can see--"

The words caught in my throat, for in looking back I found Teresa's eyes closed and her face expressionless and her lips silent and her life gone. I stared for a moment before reaching over to carefully touch her cheek.

"She saw me."

"I know."

"Does that mean...?" I took my hand from her and found it trembling.

"Trace, listen–"

I jumped to my feet and ran, and kept running until I got to the sidewalk and to the street and to the freeway exit, running up the off-ramp and not slowing until I reached the fast lane where I walked slowly and deliberately into traffic, letting face after face move through me until I couldn't see Teresa's anymore.

EPILOGUE: **BEYOND BULLETS**

"There are times I wish I wasn't dead."

We walked, the two of us, steadily trudging through the moonlit night as if there were a destination waiting to welcome us at the end of the sidewalk. But this walkway had no end and there would be no distant welcome. Not for me.

I repeated the words as I had dozens of times. I didn't know the exact count, but we were well into the second hour. "There are times–" I began.

"I know," Rollins said. "I know."

The interruption set me off on a new chant. "Why?" I asked. "Why, why, why? You tell me and I'll be satisfied. You tell me that there's an answer and I'll believe. In a universe of words, there must be one that will take away this--" I stopped, struggling for a way to express what I felt, but all that came from the cavernous emptiness inside was a moan that bounced its echo back and forth until it died with the faint whisper: "Why?"

We walked more. There were miles behind us and miles ahead and maybe miles inbetween. After a few hours on the freeway I had come back, standing far off from the bungalow but close enough to see the remains. I wasn't going inside again, not ever. When it was over, Rollins had come out and said nothing and we began walking. Now he was letting me ramble to allow distance to do its healing work and allow time to give my mind a re-grasp of reality. A grasp was all I was getting and I was hanging on tight.

After a few more blocks, I said: "Rollins, I can't do this anymore. It's too hard. I've done death. I need life. I need to get out of here. There must be a way."

"There is," he said. "Just not yet."

"When?"

"In a time."

"A time, a time." My voice was rising. I pushed it back down. "I don't want to hear that anymore." I took a breath, then had a flash of inspiration. "Maybe...I can go back _in_ time. Live life all over. Make it right."

His silence held the answer.

"Will it always be like this?"

"Not always."

"It's just so--" I stopped, struggling for words, "--unfair."

"What is?"

"All of it. From beginning to end. Death 'til now. I want out."

"It was your decision," he reminded.

"Then I'm re-deciding, I'm un-deciding, I'm–"

"You can't."

"What can I do?"

"Same thing you're doing."

"I can't," I said, stepping on a crack in the sidewalk. It widened under my feet and I found myself falling in a deep crevice. Darkness seeped around me as hot air rushed by. I clawed the walls of the pit and my fingernails scraped the sides as I yelled and heard the answering screams of hell below.

I blinked, and found myself on the sidewalk again, walking peacefully with Rollins while chanting another mindless mantra. "I can't. I can't. I can't."

"Now, you can't," he said. "Later you'll be able."

"Able to do what? And for why? To have it end the same way? I tried to protect Tyler and he's dead. I gave Tine my whole life and it left her a murderer. And Teresa" I shook my head. "What's the difference what I do?"

The light had turned red and we stopped at the corner for no reason. "Trace, you did what you needed to do. But there comes a time when it's done and you have to let go. You helped Teresa more than you'll ever know."

The light changed and we started across.

"Helped her how? I gave her a chance and she blew it."

Rollins halted abruptly in the middle of the road as the light changed again. Cars drove through us as he spoke, and spoke firmly. "Wrong, very wrong. First, you didn't give her anything. Anything she got, you were there to be a part of. Second, she didn't get just one chance, or two, or two-hundred."

"What do you mean?"

"She got an endless number of chances."

"When?"

"Every single day, like everybody else. What she did with it was her choice." He gave me a push and we crossed through traffic. "Don't worry, you'll have a lot more opportunities. We'll do it again tomorrow. And tomorrow and tomorrow. It's all the same day."

"You're so damn helpful."

"Trace, you don't know, and maybe I shouldn't tell you, but you made a difference. If it weren't for you--"

"Yeah," I said. "If it weren't for me, what?" I hopped up to the curb and took a few steps before turning for the finish. But he was gone, again. And I was alone. Again.

I looked to the heavens for a sign, a direction, but there was nothing in the sky but a full moon waxing orange, its big face laughing down at some private joke not meant for the earth-bound.

I walked on.

A group of people were clustered together on the sidewalk up ahead. Hispanic, mostly. Teens, mostly. Some were kneeling, some lighting candles, some crying, all somber, not a smile on any face or joking around the fringes. The candles had been placed around a two-foot high cross pushed into the grass. Leaning against it was a large piece of cardboard with pictures of a young girl at various stages of her life. Around the pictures kids had written--and were writing--messages to the young girl, obviously deceased. It was a monument to their friend, a remembrance. An older couple stood well behind the cross, obviously the girls' parents, letting their daughter's friends have their time of mourning. The father had graying hair and dark crevices in his face from a life of hard work, the mother the same, and their expressions were elongated with grief. There would be no solace for them, I knew, except in thoughts of meeting on the other side. There was always hope.

I stopped at the crowd, leaning in to see the photos. They were arranged chronologically around a larger one in the middle, the most recent. She had been a beautiful girl all her life, from infancy to pre-school to pre-teen to teen. Dark eyes, flawless skin, an inviting, friendly smile with the touch of flirtation growing with the years. I stopped and stared and blinked and looked closer. Recognition pulled at my heart.

It was the girl I had seen when I found Teresa, the one Rollins had said would die that very day. Rosalinda Ochoa. There was no mention of how she died. The date of birth set her forever in time at fourteen.

I marveled at how that could possibly be a lifetime. I had clothes older than her. Yet here was the proof displayed in a few photos, her life in its entirety.

But at least, I thought with a trace of bitterness, at least she has a monument. However temporary, it was here now. Most got nothing. Or, if fortune so shined, maybe a smashed metal fence, soon to be reshaped, or a chalk outline on the asphalt, soon to be re-paved, or a slight impression on a carpet in a bungalow, soon to be ripped out and burned. For this girl, long after the monument blew away in disrepair, people would remember.

I gave her picture one last long look and summoned my best high school Spanish. "Dormir bien, un poco." Sleep well. Then, to her huddled parents: "Hasta que encontremos otra vez." Maybe one day we'd all see her again.

I continued on, drifting.

There was a noisy cafe ahead which overflowed its tables onto the sidewalk, full of people, conversation, life. As I got closer I scanned faces out of a growing habit, but none were familiar. I squeezed through the throng clogging the door. Inside was just as congested but I found an empty table in the middle of the room and took a seat.

There was a guy on the small stage in the corner doing a comedy routine while trying his best to hide behind the mike stand he held with both hands. Amidst all the peripheral activity in the place, he was getting little attention and no laughs. I knew the feeling. He seemed to be lost in the awkward silence between jokes, unsure whether to go on or get off. It was an experience that would serve him well later in life with all the awkward silences to come.

Mercifully, after stop-starting another story, he mumbled a few words of thanks and slinked off to a delayed smattering of applause, followed by louder applause as a guy with long blonde hair and beard walked on stage carrying a stool in one hand and guitar in the other. He sat down and adjusted the mike height as he smiled and asked how we were all doing tonight.

I told him to go to hell.

He began tuning the instrument while explaining that his first song was inspired when he awoke one morning to "a beautiful sunrise reflected in the face of my lady." With a few nods of his head he began singing with equal sincerity and big teeth.

I stared at him oddly for a moment, as I would have anyway, then cupped my left ear, listening, repeating the action with my right. The music I heard was out of synch with his voice or guitar. He was swaying to a fast rhythm, as were a few others in the cafe, with accompanied hand taps and swaying heads, bopping to the beat as his fingers moved quickly over the strings.

I heard something else.

I heard an anguished moan; the endlessly slow pull of a bow over the thick strings of an upright bass. Then high-pitched screams; chords being beaten on a piano in the upper octaves. The instruments threw their notes back and forth as if attempting to silence the other with the sheer confusion of formless noise.

A drum came in, hard and off-beat, heavy on the toms and flat on the crash, like jazz in the jungle. It brought a new anxiety as the music meandered up and down the scales with ever increasing volume, seeking direction.

I scanned the room, looking for the origin of the sound. Maybe a jukebox or radio in a separate part of the café, or a neighboring venue. But there was nothing to give explanation. I sat back, confused, watching and listening to the desynchronized display, wondering why no one else could hear.

Then I remembered.

Rollins had told me that everyone received a song at the end of their lives. Maybe not right away, but eventually. Eventually, he had said, I would as well.

That's what this was. Eventually.

The trio faded to background as a tenor sax rose to prominence, drawing out each note without thought to meter. It echoed lonely images; of hope deferred and love unknown and the loss of more than life. It was the death of youth, the death of dreams, the pain of expectations unrealized and opportunities lost.

Blues of a lifetime.

They were playing my song.

I listened with eyes closed, hoping my life wouldn't pass before them. But it did anyway. I wondered, as I watched the parade of memories, if the song were truly written for me after my life was over, or if I had lived according to a song written long before I was born. Had it set the tempo of my days? Were the sharps and flats part of the ups and downs, highs and lows that could never have been avoided, or were they a melodious reminder of a song that should have had more substance and depth but simply ran short of measure?

After a time the music stopped and I opened my eyes cautiously. People around me were still drinking, flirting, laughing, lying; living as they always had and always would. All was normal again.

I caught the eye of a passing waitress and ordered a coffee that never came.

