

Nica of Los Angeles

# (Frames, Book 1)

# by

Sue Perry

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Sue Perry

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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For official legalese, here is the  Creative Commons license.

This is a work of fiction. If you find resemblance to actual persons, places, or events you have a terrific imagination!

### Cover art by Lars Huston.
Table of Contents

Dedication

1. Must Have Spooked Me

2. As Stable As Old Dynamite

3. Wary Of Clouds

4. The Lie Oozed Around Us

5. Crazyass Beauty

6. For The Beginning Traveler

7. His Immobile Axis

8. The Defiance Of A Lightning Rod

9. One Mighty Big Compass

10. Do You Prefer This To Be A Dream?

11. Cats Have Only Their Own Side

12. A Memory To Cherish

13. The Last Kid In Line To Talk To Santa

14. I Don't Do Mistrust

15. At First Glimpse He Terrified Me

16. Some Questions About Her Disappearance

17. Shady Or Legit?

18. Denying Black Doesn't Make It White

19. And Raspberries

20. No One Waits To Enter That Connector

21. Here Is A Tumor

22. I Had A Rat Inside My Head

23. For All The Dead, Vanished So Easily

24. They Won't Know To Look For Her Here

25. I Thought Of The Dangers Facing Miles

26. The Future I'd Dreaded For Years

27. Queen Latifah On Nitrous Oxide

28. Toto Was Not In Kansas Anymore

29. I Have A Toy Duck

30. The Last Thing I Remember

31. I Never Met A Volcano Before

32. Visions Of A New World

33. Good Luck Restoring Your Honor

34. When Pieces Began To Fall

35. He Shouldn't Look Smug

36. A Plot Cunningly Executed

37. I'm A Neutral Not A Child

38. I Am A Warrior Not A Liar

39. A What-If Explosion

40. You Will Know

Acknowledgments

About the Author

For Rhiannon

### 1. Must Have Spooked Me

The older I get, the more feral I become. I'd been inside all this fine day and if I didn't inhale some outdoor air soon, I couldn't be held responsible. The air didn't have to be fresh, just open. I tipped back in my chair, back so far my thighs squeezed the undersides of the desk to keep me upright. From this position, I caught a hint of breeze through the gaping skylight and spied a wisp of cloud idling in an unexpectedly blue sky.

"Are you like even listening to what I'm telling you?" the prospective client whined and flicked her hair, which lay like a doormat down her back. I pondered the chicken and egg of her. Which comes first, being a tweaker or being a moron? Whatever the answer it was a tight race.

I glanced up one last time before I answered, surprised by my yearning for that view. I'd spent many hours staring at this patch of sky. I didn't know it would be my last chance for a leisurely gaze. I didn't know that three pairs of clients were about to take over my life. I only knew that I wanted this creep out of my office. From somewhere I mustered a tone of professional _politesse_. "Every time, you bet. You want me to find the men who took your black duffel bag. You don't happen to remember what was in the bag, but the bag itself is what matters. It was inherited from your grandmother and that's why you want it back. You don't want to involve the police because you are kind-hearted. What if the men took the bag by mistake, why get them in trouble - should I get you a towel?"

She had swiped her forehead with her hand and then, to get the sweat off her fingers, ran them along the seat of my client chair, leaving tracks like a slug race. And that was the classiest thing about her. "This hot flash shit is a bitch," she chuckled. "Menopause. You know."

"I can't wait." I needed to get her out of my office before she crashed. _Ladies and gentlemen, the meth has left her building._ I walked to the outer door and, as intended, she followed me. "I'll be honest with you, Miss Fitzpatrick, this kind of work can be very expensive, you might prefer to - hi, there."

Sitting on the floor across the hall was another one. Not exactly a matched set, though they had in common complexions like cheap stucco. This one was picking at the scabs on his bald spot. I'll spare you the rest of the description, no point ruining all our dinners. He stood when he saw us, looked to my would-be client for guidance about whether to return my greeting.

"How much per day?" she demanded.

"Three thousand plus expenses."

Sorry and surprised to say she didn't flinch. "How much up front?"

"Five days," I continued to ad-lib. Surely now we would say adieu.

"Three days here, the rest by tomorrow." She dragged a wad of bills from her purse. The outer bills were crusted with something that looked like dried puke. I didn't want to know and I certainly didn't want to touch that cash. But I hadn't priced myself out of the job, as intended. Instead, I had made it difficult to turn these creeps away. This was real and serious money, enough to help Jenn with her medical bills. I shouldn't say no just because the clients were shall we say repellent. And yet.

I held the bills with my fingernails as I handed them back. "I couldn't start until I have the full advance, and anyway I couldn't start for several weeks because I have to finish another case first."

Mathead gave me a witch's smile. "We'll be back with the full amount tomorrow. You'll find a way to fit us in."

I had about 24 hours to devise a better turndown.

I just so happened to be going out too, I claimed, as I escorted them into the elevator. I wanted to see them exit my building. What creeped me out the most was the way Scabman made tiny sucking sounds like he had a hard candy in his mouth except he didn't.

"That must be quite a duffel bag," I said. "Now, I need to advise you, as I do all my clients, that a private investigator is just a hired hand, no special rights, nothing like attorney-client privilege." The tiny sucking sounds stopped and the air in the elevator got very still. "Should it turn out that the duffel bag contains illegal goods - such as if the guys who stole it put them there - I would have to notify the authorities."

"You won't have anything to tell anybody," the woman assured me, and for an instant her overworked pupils were windows to a very dark place.

If you take shit you'll eat shit. I knew enough about tweakers to know that I couldn't let them think she'd intimidated me. Although she had.

"Gee. That sounds like, I don't know, almost like a threat." My phony puzzlement ended in a smile like a bear trap. "Threats are not - recommended."

Her eyes flashed once then she bailed on our staredown.

The tiny sucking sounds resumed. I turned my back on the duo to watch our descent. The elevator indicated floors with a dial like a sundial. The sharp nose of the dial speared the 5, the 4, the 3. I felt Scabman's eyes exploring my back. I wondered what it feels like to get a knife in the kidney.

Love that ground floor. I held the door for them like it was mine to control.

Maybe this detective thing wasn't such a fun idea after all. I watched them head down the street like parasites between hosts. The homeless guy at the alley looked down as they approached and did not ask them for change. I watched them until they were so far away as to be indistinguishable from the pedestrians who had good reason to be on this street. The instant I lost sight of the duo, I looked over my shoulder in case they were closing in. Behind me, sunlight flashed off the lenses of countless bobbing sunglasses and the smog shimmered in the July heat. I retreated inside my building, pretending I had decided against a walk because it was too hot.

What I needed was to prop myself against a wall and hyperventilate. This was the first time I had met Mathead and Scabman, but it wasn't the first time I had encountered them. Now that they were gone, I felt safe to dwell on the previous time. The disgusting duo had previously ruined a perfectly good dream. Yes, that is exactly what I mean. I dreamed about Mathead and Scabman before I met them.

I love dreams and it would be a kick to be psychic. But not if it means spending extra time with those two. And not if it means having pointless dreams. Dreaming of clients I won't take - that's like dreaming of washing broken dishes.

It had been a peculiar snippet of nightmare in an otherwise luxurious dream. I ran through a field of soft amber grass under a sky colored like bruises. A man and woman rose up to block my way. They resembled Mathead and Scabman, but the dream denizens were larger and edged in red like burning coals. I awoke at their snarls, to find myself sweating much as I was doing now, propped against this cool marble wall.

I don't like coincidences and there was no reasonable explanation for their appearance in my dream. Certainly, Mathead and Scabman deserved to be in nightmares, but I had only met them today. I must I have backfilled my dream memories, adding their images. They must have spooked me more than I could admit.

Good thing I stopped smoking. This would have been a perfect time to light up fast, but my hands were shaking so hard I would have put out the flame. And that would have been frustrating.

Get a grip, Nica. The marble wall at my back was smooth and cool; the lobby was dim and quiet. A perfect antidote to the July streets. The lobby lights made a warm buzz like bees in lavender. In this moment, life was good. Stay in this moment.

I needed to be physical. As a revised constitutional, I took the stairs, all ten flights, to the hidden garden on the roof. I can't yet make all ten flights in one gasp. I climb a couple flights, then walk through the building to the stairwell on the other side, then climb a couple more.

On one of the lateral treks, I heard three no two voices arguing in Spanish. Their discussion paused when they saw me turn the corner. The custodian who subs for Jay clenched the handle of the mop and looked everywhere but at the faces of a man and woman who had their backs to me but heads swiveled to watch my approach. I must have been dismissed as pure gringo because they resumed their discussion.

Not so pure, as it turns out, and I understood enough Spanish to get that the man and woman were looking for a girl and they thought Jay's substitute knew where she was. The couple was accusing or pleading or both. Jay's sub wasn't holding up his end of the conversation. _No. Si. No_ and a venomous _lo siento_. So it wasn't just me he refused to converse with. As I passed them they stopped talking again. "Howdy, what up?" I offered, to reassure them that I couldn't possibly understand a word they were saying.

Jay's sub whispered that I was a private investigator. I considered turning back to introduce myself but instead pushed through the door to the south side stairs. Not the best time to reveal my comprehension.

Back in the stairwell, I slipped off my sandals and left them on the landing. Ah, that was what I needed. I loved the stairwells in my building. The white marble steps were sculpted moonlight and perennially cold. Stepping here today was better than a foot massage.

Everything changed on floor ten, though. The tenth story penthouse and the roof access had concrete steps in a separate stairwell with separate doors. When I went up those cement stairs, I felt like I had moved to another building. Today, the temperature leapt thirty degrees and I was panting by the time I opened the door to the roof. I squinted against the wind that always gusted there and headed for the secret green rectangle, the garden hidden to all but air traffic, known only to its creator, Jay, and his co-conspirators.

As soon as I got around the stairwell I could see the wall of fragrant vines, the only sign of life unless you count pigeon droppings. Sweet pea, wisteria, jasmine, clematis, and others I couldn't name. A frayed lawn chair nestled under the vines in the shade.

In the past, when Jay left his lawn chair out, that meant he anticipated a short absence. But I hadn't seen him for at least four days. He must have underestimated this absence. More family trouble, I had to assume. On a good day, his family got along like boulders in a flooded creek. I had better take over the garden's watering.

Summer in Los Angeles. From here you could see the mountains, except not until October when the air cleared. In the old days when smog was smog, the sky would have been a toasty brown. Today it was dingy. The euphemism was _hazy_ and the haze did mute the sun, so with just a few steps to reach the garden's shade, I might make it without heat stroke.

I could still feel the grit of Mathead's money on my fingertips, so I rubbed them in the loamy soil. Uh oh. Several plants had broken or missing limbs. Had the hawk divebombed? Was the garden attracting rats? No - the destruction was too broad for those explanations. Even odder, there was an empty patch and the plants that circled it were failing, with leaves in limp collapse.

Maybe the missing plants had left behind identifiable roots - I started to dig with my hands, hunting roots. At my disturbance, earwigs swarmed. Just beneath the surface, this soil was soggy, laced with mold, and exuded a metallic odor. It smelled like dirt might smell if a bucket of blood had soaked into it.

A helicopter churned the haze overhead and I ducked to slip behind a spider web that was a marvel of sophisticated symmetry. As I waited for the 'copter to pass, a bee hiked my arm toward my yellow tanktop. I was flattered to be mistaken, even briefly, for a pollen source. I felt a tiny pressure as the bee pushed off my skin and flew toward the sage.

Jay would know what to do about the blood-?-soaked dirt. I sure the hell didn't. Calling the cops could lead to unfortunate revelations. The building owner would likely learn about the existence of the roof garden, which she might not consider an asset. The cops would ask my home address, which was not supposed to match my office address - this building was not zoned residential. I'd only met the owner twice and she seemed like a good egg, but perhaps lacking in the imagination necessary to expand her building's potential beyond mundane barriers like zoning and safety regulations.

What would blood-soaked dirt really smell like? Maybe this wasn't blood but a fertilizer application that backfired in the sudden heat wave. How silly to involve police or building management in a gardening error.

Trying to decide if I bought that line of reasoning, I eased myself into Jay's vacant lawn chair. The heat smog chopper bees. Maybe I fell asleep. My eyes were still open, yet I no longer viewed what was in front of me. I saw shadows in a world that was cobalt as though the sun had long ago set. But the birds that were chirping only sing during the day - and I felt the sun's heat. So it was daytime, but I was nearly blind. The plants were thick shadows in the dark air. A faint breeze tapped leaves together like whispers through silk. Across the garden, a ladybug clicked its shell against a twig. A weight pressed evenly across my thighs and from this weight came an overpowering smell of dirt, as though my lap held invisible bags of soil amendment. Off-pitch whistles and thin scrapes came from a shadow that dipped left then right, left then right. It sounded like Jay, whistling as he raked soil. The whistling stopped and my sensations became a barrage of intense impressions.

"What? No! Aaaaaaah. No! Unh! Please! No! Aaaurrrgg." It was Jay's voice and in a few seconds it changed from horrified surprise to terrified struggle. Grunts became gurgles. Plant branches snapped, leaves ripped. "Danny! I love you!" Danny was his son.

Warm liquid exploded from the direction of Jay's shadow, stinging when it hit me. I inhaled liquid and choked, jumped from the chair, knocking it over. The choking eased. The metallic taste faded. I was back on a hot roof squinting in July sun.

First I added Mathead to a dream and now this, this, vision of Jay's demise. Did I mistakenly order my latte psychedelic this morning?

I needed to convince myself that Jay was okay. Heading downstairs, I exited the stairs at each floor and crossed the hall to the other stairs, in order to find the substitute custodian and determine what he might know about Jay's absence. I walked every hall in my descent to the lobby, then checked the custodian's closet in the subbasement. Nobody nowhere. No how. I stopped in the building office. The building manager had not heard from Jay since last time I asked. Unlike me, the manager assumed Jay had found a better job and not bothered to give notice.

I once worked at a cellular service provider, so I know how to get information I shouldn't have. As I returned to my office, I made some calls and determined that Jay's cell phone was last used four days prior, on the day he last worked. I set this knowledge aside until I knew what to do with it.

It wasn't only Jay I should be concerned about. At a minimum, these Technicolor visions were telling me my subconscious needed my attention. In which case I needed to stop thinking. So as I walked, I focused on my building.

I love my building, although it is neither a friendly nor a welcoming place. If buildings were people, this one would be Margo Channing. I should warn you I don't make as many distinctions as some would like between fictional characters and beings who breathe. In this great big world over all this time, surely everyone who has been imagined could also actually exist, including that fabulous diva Margo.

In its day, this building was a knockout, a head turner; or maybe a head craner, if you wanted to admire all ten stories of its elegant lines. The hall carpets were costly and tasteful enough to qualify as antique rather than threadbare. On this floor, each office entrance door was a luxurious mahogany with a milk glass insert for the firm name. Scrolled brass framed the inserts and the milk glass transoms above the doors. One more twist in the scrollwork would have been too much. These designs were just right.

The building, like the neighborhood, was past its prime but enjoying revival. Miraculously, over all the years of disrepair and disinterest by owners and tenants, no remodeling abomination had occurred. From floor to floor, house paint smothered the occasional brass fixture, but that was the worst of it. Apparently I wasn't the only one who felt deferential to these halls. Not that there were many tenants nowadays. When a tenant vacated, the office stayed vacant, except for occasional lackluster signs of refurbishing. I guessed the current owner was biding time to make a killing in the next real estate boom.

The owner wouldn't make any money off me. My uncle had a 99-year lease and when he died, I learned that he put my name on the lease, too. All those times we went exploring in here - every floor has different craftsmanship, different materials \- meant as much to him as to me. So here I was with a dirt-cheap perpetual lease: eternal unless I got it terminated because I ignored the clause that forbids tenants to live in the office. If that happened, then my suite would join the majority. Vacant.

I couldn't let that happen.

### 2. As Stable As Old Dynamite

I hadn't locked my outer office door but I had definitely shut it. Now it was ajar. I stopped jogging. Had Mathead and Scabman returned? Voices from inside reassured me. They didn't sound like the tweakers' voices, and whoever was in there wasn't trying to hide their presence. Good news and good news.

I stood for a moment just outside the door. The paint announcing my firm's name was fresh enough that it still released fumes to coat the back of my throat with a bad taste. I had been lying to myself for months, but only recently felt ready to lie to the world. S.T.A.T.Ic. and Watkins, Private Investigations. As it always did, seeing _Watkins,_ my uncle's name, gave me a sudden douse of sadness followed by a quick spray of chutzpah. He had always been my staunchest supporter and I missed him every damn day. Private investigator. He'd love it. We'll see how long I stick with it. I've had more jobs than all my friends, combined. But this one feels different. It feels right. And I need one that feels right.

Correct, my last name is an acronym. My full name is Veronica Sheridan Taggart Ambrose Taggart Ickovic. Just about everybody calls me Nica. My acronymic identity is constructed of family, first love, big mistake, ever hopeful (wishful thinking) revisit of first love, tragic true love. The last couple years of my life have been as stable as old dynamite, so I was happy to discover this acronym, this promise of no more disruption. I adopted the acronym as part of my effort to find my next step - and a direction worth heading. Someday I might go back full circle and become S.T.A.T.Ic.S., but for now I don't want to move past Ickovic. I haven't washed Ick's last load of laundry, either.

My office is like Philip Marlowe's. My outer door is rarely locked and opens to a small outer waiting room for potential clients. In the waiting room perched a middle-aged couple who looked even more uncomfortable than they should have been from sitting on the no-frills wooden chairs. The couple seemed familiar, but I couldn't place them until the woman raised her chin, a gesture of pride against scrutiny. I had seen that gesture some minutes and halls ago. This was the couple that had argued with the substitute custodian.

"Good afternoon," I said noncommittally.

The man wore a loose embroidered overshirt, summer garb for a Mexican gentleman. He had a shy smile which he used in lieu of _umming_ or _you_ _knowing_ as he spoke. He didn't seem confident speaking in English, although his grammar was good and his accent was weathered. "Are you [ _smile_ ] senorita Static, we are in need of a [ _smile_ ] private detective."

"Yup, that's me. Let's talk in here, it's more comfortable." I unlocked the door to the inner office, which was sparse but not Spartan. The desk matched the file cabinets and the chairs were upholstered. The couple looked around at the seating options, and of the four chairs, chose the pair closest to the door. A fifth seating option was my futon, currently folded into a lounge chair. I didn't want potential clients sitting on my bed, so during the day I kept it littered with papers as though that is where I sat to do my work.

"We are Aurelio and Norma Garcia. We are [ _smile_ ] ... we must find ...[ _smile_ ] -"

Norma jutted her chin and interrupted. "Our goddaughter is missing. Please find her."

"How old is she?"

"She has fifteen years."

"How long has she been missing?"

"Six days."

"Did her parents send you here?"

"There is only her mother. And her mother says wait until Edith comes home, she will come back when she is ready. But the time is too long."

"I think you are right to be concerned. Do you know why she may have left?"

They paused to think about this. "We think [ _smile_ ] she had a fight with her mother."

"I will need to speak with the mother."

"Does that mean you will help us?"

Rubber, meet road. I had had this debate internally, without resolution. I wanted to be a detective and thought I could be a good one. I had the right innate skills and personality. I simply lacked the license and okay experience and maybe training. I figured I could learn on the job. So I decided to call myself a detective and see what happened. But I hadn't anticipated such high stakes as searching for a missing child. I knew from watching _Without a Trace_ that every hour was precious in such a search.

"Your first step should be to file a missing person's report with the police," I hedged.

"They will not accept one from us, only from the mother. And we cannot convince her to make the report."

"Alright, I will try to help you."

Their relief filled the room like helium from a leaking balloon pump. "How much, please, will we pay?"

"Two hundred a day plus expenses. But you will only pay me when and if I get results," I added, a futile effort to appease what was left of my conscience. "I saw you arguing with the custodian. What was that about?"

They looked at each other and Norma replied, "That is Karina's father. Karina is a friend of Edith. We tried to convince him to ask Karina what she knows."

"I'll start by talking with him."

"He does not speak good English. May we translate for him?"

"Good plan." That might help me get to know the Garcias a little better. I knew enough Spanish to detect bogus translations. Every client of every detective hides something. It would help to know what the Garcias opted to hide.

They believed Karina's father was on his lunch break. As we hammered arrangements for them to bring him to my office, the light above my door blinked, alerting me that the outer door had opened.

I had kept the inner office door ajar, so I saw him before he saw me. Thick brows, several shades darker than hair currently the color of MacDonald's fries. The bad haircut looked freshly sheared. He always had the same shaggy uneven cut that hugged his head like he'd slept on it wet. His anti-style. Today's ne'er-ironed cotton shirt was taut over the hint of Buddha belly and across the well-pumped shoulders; it billowed like crepe paper across his back.

When he saw me, he reacted with one of his giant smiles that crinkled his cheeks then lit his eyes like a flashbulb light. I released my breath. Typically he was sober when he made that smile.

He entered the room like he always did, like this was the door, the entrance that would change everything. "Hey, kiddo, I been looking for you since - oh, pardon me," he discovered the Garcias, who had tensed like he might activate eject buttons.

"This is just my brother," I reassured them, and wondered whom they had feared would walk in.

"I'm Ben." He extended his hand to each Garcia, too briefly to find out whether they would reach out to shake. "Hate to interrupt, but may I talk to you for a short minute, please?"

As soon as we reached the hall, he launched his pitch. "Little sister," he began.

I could tell I would nix whatever he was about to propose. "I won't."

Pause. Rewind. Replay. Consider. Was I saying no already? "'S'cuse?"

"I won't do what my big sister done."

"Oh. Ha. Good one. Nica, let me crash with you. Just for this week. I can see you are busy. Just give me the key and the address and I'll have dinner waiting for you."

So few words, so much subtext. He hadn't figured out that I was living in my office. It continued to rankle him that I had secretly moved to my (now secretly previous) abode without telling him where that was. He was in a jam and needed a hideout. Or perhaps he just needed to know that I trusted him again. Trusted him enough to reveal my address to him. Except I don't.

"I can't, Ben."

"I'm good now, Neeks. I'll prove it to you. You'll see."

"Okay."

"You need to get back," and he was gone before we got awkward.

Heading back through the anteroom gave me time to lock the vault on my emotions before I faced the Garcias, who were standing and ready to depart. They dispatched themselves to fetch Karina's father and all too soon left me staring at the vault door.

It was so easy to fall into Ben's version of reality, where life was always a gas. The first time I realized he needed help was when I tripped over him where he had passed out with a needle stuck in his arm. Ya think? I like to believe that I would never again be so foolable. But the only way I had a hope of not getting sucked into his whirlpools was to stay away from the water.

### 3. Wary Of Clouds

Something tickled my arm and when I rubbed my skin, I felt a hard knob of a critter. _Smash cut to fifth grade science camp and the tick that burrowed into my arm and needed three teachers to remove - I barely screamed then or_ now and the crimson panic jolt smeared to pink blush. The critter was a ladybug, traversing my wrist. It must have hitched a ride from the roof garden. I cupped my hand to keep it from flying away and headed out to return it to its proper surroundings on the roof.

I collided with two strangers at the door to my waiting room. Preoccupied with memories of tick hell, I hadn't noticed the flashing light that meant someone had opened my hall door. Maybe Marlowe did it right, maybe I should use a buzzer instead of a light.

People, be careful for what thou may wisheth. Only yesterday I had rued the fact that my office was always empty.

"I beg your pardon come in give me a moment please." I preceded them into my office and went to my window. If I freed the ladybug in the building hallway, it would never find its way outside. With a hand still cupped over the ladybug on my arm, I tried to open my window, but my sole available hand was not enough. The ancient window pulley had a broken weights mechanism and the window could only be opened with brute strength. One of the strangers was immediately beside me to provide the brute. The stranger's hands raised the window as though it weren't heavy and awkward. I leaned over the sill, uncupped my hand, and gave a quick blow at the ladybug's butt to propel it back toward the roof.

Curling back under the window into the room, I became aware that the air had changed. My office smelled like a forest just after a flash flood, when everything is power-washed and tree trunks are smeared with riverbed mud. Fresh and wild.

It took much strength to gently lower that window, but the stranger's arms - all sinew and muscle - showed no strain and his lips maintained the hint of smile with which he had watched the ladybug depart. I took a step back to get a fuller look and to get farther away.

He was a wolf. I don't mean a predatory flirt, I mean he was long and lean and fast and dangerous: coarse black hair, ice-gray eyes, smile full of teeth, supreme confidence backed with survival instinct.

"Please sit down," I suggested or pleaded as I retreated behind my desk. As he complied, muscles flexed inside his garments, a loose cotton tunic and drawstring pants that were as gray as February.

She sat down, too. My other visitor was a princess: not as in daddy's spoiled girl, as in future queen of the fairies. She was as ethereal as he was earthy, exotic but I couldn't place the ethnic background. Cornsilk hair, slanted eyes like unpolished silver - now green now blue now pewter. She had thick Slavic cheekbones but was otherwise delicate unto frailty, her skin like the penny you've always kept in your pocket for luck. Her tunic looked handwoven and was white as a desert sunrise.

"We are in need of your detective arts," she said.

"That tends to be why people come to this office." The joke was stillborn. "I'm usually good with accents but I can't place yours." They sat as though I hadn't spoken. Okay. Scratch the indirect. "Where are you from?"

"I first arrived in the place you call Kansas," she told me.

"Huh." I've been to Kansas and there is nobody like her there. I decided I would not call her a liar and looked to him expectantly.

"Knowledge of my ancestry provides no value. We have need of your assistance," he said, in a voice that never needed help from anybody.

"Okay."

"The fate of the free worlds is at stake," she added with a calm that belied the words, in a voice like the first spring breeze on snow.

"Oh-kay. Um. Where did you hear about me, by the way? I haven't had the business long uh in this location."

Note to self, cancel ad in _Nutjob Quarterly_.

"We learned about you from your building."

"Excellent, I am so glad to hear that. At last! You wouldn't believe how long it takes to get a name added to the building directory!" They looked at me without comprehension. "By the elevator. It shows the names and room numbers. The list in the lobby."

I can be a babbler when I'm nervous. Devoid of expression, they continued to watch me babble. They exchanged a look and she made a slight nod.

She seemed to be giving him permission.

"We have need of your assistance," he repeated. "Tonight you must accompany us to a meeting."

"Tell me more. Where is the meeting? Who will be there?"

"That is not information I can relay at this time."

"Because you don't know or you don't want me to know?"

"Because -" he began, then stopped when her hand stiffened. The wrist stayed on the chair bur the fingers poked into the space between their chairs, as though the conversation was a canal and she was the sluice gate. He looked at her hand and the wrist tilted so that the fingers pointed at the skylight.

The room darkened. I rocked back in my chair and through the skylight watched a voluptuous tower of a cloud slide across the sky, briefly blocking the sun. "Looks like we might get thunderstorms this afternoon," I acknowledged that we were all watching the sky. They nodded and spoke not a word. He stood and went to the window to keep tracking the sky. When the cloud cleared the skylight, he positioned himself so that he could watch it continue into the distance.

She watched me watch him watch the cloud. After it disappeared, he checked the other direction, pivoted, and strode to his seat with a blunt nod to her. He picked up the conversation as though there had been no gap.

"Tonight we will employ your guidance to reach an - associate. We will explain all when it is time to do so."

She continued to hold my gaze. When she blinked and looked over to him, I realized he had asked me a question. "Missed that one. Repeat please?"

"We have not told you - cannot tell you - what you seek to know. Will you trust us nonetheless?"

I looked from one to the other, she as languid as he was taut. And for reasons unknown, I found it easy to reply, "Yes. Yes I will." I was the only one surprised by my answer.

"Your remuneration will be one thousand for 24 hours. We understand you may require eight hours or more sleep. Is that amount acceptable?"

"Very much so." I had no clue what I was getting myself into here, with this pair who were wary of clouds. Yet as we made plans to meet here at 7 tonight, I felt calm and rational.

My bafflement surfaced after they left, like a turtle in a murky pond. I realized I hadn't confirmed she meant 1,000 dollars per day. No matter. I felt such a pull to see them again, I would have agreed to 1,000 cents. It was generous regardless. After all, I would be permitted to sleep every single day.

Wait. The building could be locked by 7, so my office could be inaccessible when they tried to return. We needed an alternate rendezvous plan. I vaulted over my desk and slammed out both doors to catch up and advise them. I caught up with them around the corner, right before they disappeared. I don't mean the elevator door closed between us to block them from view. I mean. I rounded the corner, found them standing about as far as I could throw an aspirin. They each held a small apparatus like an asthmatic's inhaler. They clenched these in their teeth, they inhaled, and they faded away.

As they disappeared, he saw me and lifted a hand in farewell. She began to do the same, then her fist clenched and she stared behind me with a look of bravado or fear. I turned around and found the object of her stare. It was the building cat, whose nametag listed an out-of-service phone number and a name I refused to use, _Queen Desdemona._

"Hey, Dizzy," my voice sounded relieved. The cat headed toward me and I expected Dizzy to rub my legs in a figure eight - that would be her normal routine. But I did not feel that sleek shrug of fur against skin. Instead, the cat walked to the spot where the woman had stood, then sat like an Egyptian tomb carving, more still than when she heard a mouse in the walls.

I stomped over to the cat to pet her. I would have normalcy, dammit. Dizzy flopped and contorted in order to clean her butt. Now, that was business as usual - and gave me hope that I had not just witnessed what I had just witnessed.

Usually, when I pet Dizzy's belly she attacks my hand. I reached to pet her belly. Today, I would welcome the sting of claws, simply because it was expected. I didn't get the _usual_ that I craved, though. As my hand reached for Dizzy, the elevator pinged. Nothing spooks Dizzy, really, but she can be dramatic. At the subdued ping she bounded away, leaving me stooped over reaching for nothing.

### 4. The Lie Oozed Around Us

There was only one way that I could function normally and that would be if I evicted the memory of the hall vanishing. That proved more difficult than my earlier efforts to evict concern about my seemingly psychic dream and my fantasy of Jay's demise. Still, although my imagination was an adrenaline junkie, there would surely be a logical explanation for everything. When my two newest clients returned, I would get the vanishing explained. I like to pull the plug on unhealthy thoughts and these were off life support by the time I straightened from not petting the cat. In fact, throughout the afternoon, I managed to keep my thoughts away from the vanishing, but the underlying memory of that incredible event infused my commonplace hours, like being in love while shopping at the supermarket.

I was relieved to see Aurelio and Norma Garcia exit the elevator. Of my three pairs of prospective clients today, they were the only ones I might have expected to get. He carried a large thin book like it was an hors-d'oeuvres tray. With them was Jay's substitute custodian, now wearing crisp slacks and plaid button-down shirt.

We made introductions. "Mr. Hernandez, thank you for coming here. I can see that your shift has ended and we are interrupting your free time."

Hernandez sat like an iceberg awaiting a ship. It seemed like he understood when I spoke, yet he waited for the Garcia translation. His head snapped at points during it, with a nod like a rusty stapler. _Yes, that's what I thought she said_.

"You work here as a substitute for Jay?" He did. "Do you know why he is not at work?" He did not. "How long will you be working here in his stead?"

Hernandez' reply to this had numerous syllables, and Señor Garcia translated it as though he were being forced to discuss toilet habits. "He says, 'I have not been informed, but that is not any problem. Substitute custodians have no [ _smile_ ] families, so do not need to know how long will they have a job.'"

This was going well. "Do you think Karina's friend Edith is missing?"

"I think nothing about this." Mr. Garcia translated without the original's sneer.

"Do you think her mother should search for her?"

This provoked a venomous barrage that Norma Garcia answered in kind. I understood zip nada zero percent of what they said. "Excuse me!" I jimmied the words in. Norma and Hernandez shut up and turned their glares on me.

After Mr. Garcia omitted the angry words, there weren't many left. "He says [ _smile_ ] no."

"Does Karina know where Edith is?"

Hernandez answered for himself. "I will ask my daughter." He plucked a business card from the holder on my desk. He stood and nodded goodbye to me only.

"Today ask her, tomorrow morning tell me what she said," I requested.

Garcia's translation was still at _mañana_ when Hernandez replied in English, "I will do as you suggest."

"Excellent." I was optimistic that we had just arranged to speak without the Garcias present. I was not surprised to find that Hernandez understood English just fine. The Garcias had a control-freak vibe so I got why they wanted to 'translate'. But why did Hernandez agree to let them act as his interpreters?

I watched him walk away, his back stiff and erect thanks to pride or a back brace. The door slammed behind him with a muffled sharp sound like fireworks across town.

While the Garcias whispered in Spanish, I considered Hernandez, who was nothing like Jay, yet reminded me of him. That closet arrogance must be an occupational hazard for a smart man in a position where at best he would be overlooked. Human woodwork.

Jay. Memory is a remarkable contrivance, the way it shifts time and space. In the moment it took the Garcias to finish their whispers and approach me, I recalled in detail the night I'd met Jay.

It was back in February, during the best storm of the winter. The wind drove an echoing howl through the parking garage. I was waiting for the elevator. Waiting.

At last the doors opened and I hastened to drag my stuff inside the elevator car. I couldn't move during the day because the items indicated I was sleeping in my office. I heaved the futon frame across the elevator threshold then realized I was not alone.

A sandy-haired man with a thick ponytail and a build like a bobcat stepped from the back corner of the elevator. "Hi," I greeted him, "this futon will help on nights when I work so late that I'm too tired to go home." The lie oozed around us like fresh asphalt on a hot day.

The man raised an eyebrow to direct my attention to the large bags stacked in a corner. Soil amendment, garden soil, potting soil. I wasn't the only one with contraband.

He helped me set up my futon, then I helped him drag bags up the penthouse stairs. When he opened the roof door, I gasped. Darkness at our feet, magic all around. Taller buildings surrounded us, with windows illumined to make walls of lights that glittered in the wind.

Around the corner, redwood planks formed a raised planting bed. The wind continued to gust, but here we were sheltered by the stairwell enclosure. I sat on the piled bags of dirt, grinning like a dog at the beach. He grinned back. Jay came up to my shoulder in height and in years but from that moment I looked up to him as the mentor he quickly became. We shared the hard work of his rooftop garden and, shoulder to shoulder, tending plants, I felt as close to him as I've ever felt to anyone, including certain of my spouses.

The Garcias waited patiently for my attention. "You may be too polite," I told them.

Their thin book was a photo album of pink embossed velveteen, holding scant few pages of photo sleeves. When I opened it, I released faint fumes of fresh vinyl. Most of the pages were blank and there were not many photos. "Why are these photos of Edith in a book by themselves?"

"You wish to see photos that are not of Edith?"

"So you assembled this album just for me."

"No, we did not know who would be the detective."

I abandoned my fishing expedition. It wasn't helping me to identify what troubled me. I wished Walter Neff were here, he would have already figured out the Garcia angle. According to him, everybody has an angle. But Walter wasn't the helpful type. To find out what he knew about the Garcias, I would need a curvy dress and maybe some pearls. Nica! Focus!

"Alright, let me start with this," I hefted the album and walked with them to the outer office door.

Once in the hall, Mr. Garcia turned back to say, "Tell your brother thank him for waiting."

Brother? Sure enough, Ben was standing at the stairwell door, leaning like a forgotten mop, messing with his phone.

As soon as the elevator removed the Garcias, Ben shoved off the door and sauntered closer. "Hey, sis."

"What's with the lurking?" I greeted him. Watch his feet: gait tells all.

He knew what I looked for, or rather, feared to see. "I'm not high."

"Thanks for sharing." I headed back toward my office with a hand wave that told him he was okay to follow. I was pissed. Using, not using, I didn't care, I didn't need to ask or know. Anyway, that was the theory. Every time I went for a while without Ben in my life, I had to relearn how to let him back in it.

"Got yourself some customers. Good for you."

"The proper term is _clients_ although so far mine are more like _patients_." He had stayed put, so I circled back to join him. We had spent so much of our together time like this, one holding firm, requiring the other to advance or retreat.

"What I asked earlier, about staying with you \- stay chill! I get it and I won't ask again. The thing is: where I'm staying now, I don't like to leave my favorite stuff there, so could I store it with you?"

I searched for hidden catches. Somewhere a faucet dripped like the second hand on a cheap clock. Think about it, in another generation no one will get that reference any more, digital has -

"Neeks, you still here?" He knew better than anybody about the daydreaming. There was a time when I self-distracted myself out of any gainful conversation.

"Long story," I shrugged.

"Always is."

We each held up a wall. He stepped forward and clunked his forehead against mine, hard enough to sting but leave no mark.

"Ow," I said.

"Ow," he repeated, which completed our post-fight ritual.

"Yeah. I have space in the closet here, bring the stuff by any time before seven."

Just past _yeah_ he was dragging stuff from the stairwell where he had it stashed. He had known or assumed I would agree. I could get huffy or I could laugh it off. I snorted, grabbed the saxophone case, and led the way to my closet.

The stuff fit, barely. Now I no longer had a walk-in closet and it took me a few jumps over boxes to reach the pull chain that toggled the closet light. By then, Ben was paging through the pink photo album. "This for a case?"

"She's missing." I pointed to a tall slim girl with mahogany hair that was corralled in a tight band atop her head but loose over her shoulders. "Edith." She would be striking when she finished growing into her face. I touched Edith's emulsified cheek. I was worried about her.

"Who are the others?"

"Those are her girlfriends on the basketball team." A trio of girls joined Edith in many photos. Three thoroughbreds with a colt. The three had an assurance that she lacked. "Karina, Griselda, Edith, Graciela." I pointed to each as I said her name.

"Edith was absent the day they passed out the fancy names." Ben studied two team photos. The same two males hovered in the background of each. The coach, Antonio Garcia, a short, squat man with a greased buzz cut and a whistle around his neck; and a teenager who carried a clipboard and sported a similar buzz cut which didn't suit him.

"Unrequited here, huh?" Ben pointed to the teen boy, who high-fived Garcia the coach but looked beyond the coach to Edith.

In both photos, the boy stared at Edith. "Could be, thanks, I hadn't noticed that yet."

"Nice to be of use," he said, and I felt the old familiar surge that charged the air between us. No matter how bad it gets, you never fully move past your first.

OK, before you call the incest squad. Ben Taggart isn't actually my brother. He is my first and third ex-husband. But saying that doesn't define the ties between us. Notwithstanding the occasional surge - especially after Ick died and I spiraled - we are much more like siblings than spouses or ex-spouses. So for purposes of clarification, we misrepresent our relationship.

We lingered in shared air space for a moment, then he imitated the way I took a step away, making clear that he knew I had felt the surge, too. He doesn't care about the prospect of sex. This is a hobby. He collects proof that I will never really run him off my property, no matter how threateningly I brandish that shotgun.

"I'll need my closet back soon," I warned, knowing his crap would be in my closet as long as it was my closet.

Reassuring to watch him hurry away. There was nothing alarming about his walk. Would he really be able to live the rest of his life sober? Could he stand it?

Nothing alarming and nothing special about his walk today. How long had that been true? The first time I saw him, he moved like the street thanked him for walking on it. I lacked his confidence but made up for it in balls. From the first moment, I knew we would be marauders together.

Now that was a long time ago.

I dragged his boxes out and nosed through them, curious about what he classified as stuff that mattered. One box held a Patagonia rain parka, a pink and orange gym bag with some fancy-ass designer's label on it, and Bang and Olafson headphones. He never had money, but he always had high-end loot. Stuffed between items and down the sides were loose photos including several of me, but nobody else I recognized. And there were notebooks that appeared to be journals. Self-preservation jumped me and crushed my arms to my sides, preventing me from opening the journals.

In another box were some vintage books, CDs, yellowed philatelist sleeves, vinyl 45 records, antique woodworking tools, and gold-plated silverware wrapped in felt. This month's strike-it-rich collections.

The saxophone gleamed, pampered as ever. The bottom of its case was lined with pawn tickets.

I got the highball glass I'd found in my bathroom cabinet and kept as a promise of hardboiled adventure. I browsed the mini-fridge under my desk and decided on carrot juice, neat. I settled in to scrutinize the photos of Edith and to make legible my notes from my conversation with the Garcias.

Eduardo, the teen boy in the photos, made me sad and uneasy. He watched Edith all the damn time, but I guarantee he never spoke to her. A kid like that could be completely harmless, or very much not so.

The Garcia son, Antonio. He had a face that was youthful like things usually went his way. Only the skin on his throat told me he had journeyed to the far side of thirty. I looked at him with distaste, which became self-distaste as I realized I didn't like him because I didn't like his parents. No good reason. We just didn't click. Was it too late to ditch the Garcias? I've always been so picky about who I spend my time with. It hadn't occurred to me I might not like my clients. Could I afford to restrict myself to clients I enjoyed?

Really, that depended on the standard of living to which I aspired. Sorry to say I have several modest inheritances - in addition to the lease on this office - which allow me to exist, albeit frugally, without getting up off my ass to lift a thin dime. _Sorry_ because I had to lose my closest and dearest to earn those inheritances; and because, cumulatively, they give me reason to do nothing with my life. But I digress.

Would I ditch the Garcia case? No, because Edith might need help.

Edith and her friends. They all had the same look. I knew it, I remembered it. That searing need to be grown, to do what you choose. Back then, adulthood looked like freedom and excitement and we I they couldn't wait to have their turn.

If I were Alex Delaware, I'd be on the phone to book an extra session with my therapist, to ensure that my connection with the victim didn't distort my judgment on the case.

There, I had said it. _Victim_. My bowels churned like I'd dined on dirt. I had an unreasoned fear that something bad had happened to Edith.

The photos with Antonio Garcia reminded me of the crushes I had suffered over teachers. Edith looked at the coach with a somber affection that shrieked major honking crush. I hoped the coach understood how much her wellbeing depended on his kindness. He looked like the kind of jock who specialized in practical jokes in the locker room, which bode ill for his solicitude to the porcelain ego of a shy thirteen-year-old girl.

### 5. Crazyass Beauty

It was nearly 7 p.m. The building ventilator exhaled air from a remote forest and suddenly here they were. I assume they returned the same way they had vanished, because I hadn't heard anyone at the elevator or the stairs - and I had been listening, with doors and ears open. I was excited to see them again. Just being in their presence raised my pulse. His eyes swept the room like a wolf beginning his evening prowl. She tossed her head to release a hood that shielded her face from view, and caught me in her gaze. "We must depart," she greeted me.

"I've been ready for hours." I sounded like the dork who got invited to prom night by the head cheerleader. I tried to regain stature with a businesslike, "Now that you are my clients I need your names."

"Here is Anwyl and there is Anya," he replied.

"So you're doing the Cher and Madonna thing? No last names?"

"No." His tone dismissed further questions.

I led us into the hall, where we milled around until I walked us to the elevator, where we milled around until I pushed the down button and the G for ground floor. I considered asking about the vanishing or whatever the hell had really happened, but my gut told me to wait. In the lobby, yet again we milled around, this time near the building directory. My name was still not listed. "Didn't you say you got my name from the building directory?"

"We had a recommendation from your building," Anya said agreeably and gestured to the entrance. "Is this our way?"

"Sure." I let the conversation drop and wondered what her native language was. They weren't inclined to tell me, so I'd spent the last hour on line, listening to accents, but hers sounded like none of them.

As soon as we got outside, we milled around.

Eventually I determined that they were waiting for me to fetch my vehicle. But I don't have a car right now; it is on loan to Jenn. Instead - lo, behold, and voilà - I produced a cab. Anyway, that's how it felt. In Los Angeles, taxis are not recurring, yet one happened by just as I formulated the thought, _if this were New York we could take a cab._ I stepped out in front of the taxi, arms waving like my chest was in flames.

The driver was smoothly bald except for sprays of silver hair projecting from each ear and nostril. The age spots on his scalp suggested the Milky Way, with the Big Dipper above his right ear. He plucked his teeth with a toothpick then slipped the pick back into his window visor, behind a photo of a very young woman wearing strategic hands and a thong. She shared his broad hooked nose. I hoped she wasn't his granddaughter.

He slid the car back in gear while I showed my clients how to use shoulder belts. It was a tight fit for the three of us in the back seat. "Where to?" the driver droned.

I was seated between the two of them, felt his leg muscles contract and hers relax. She recited, "Seventeen twenty seven east One Hundred Seven, nine oh oh oh two."

The driver shoved the gear lever back to Park. "That's in Watts."

"Our destination is the Watts Towers," Anya agreed.

"I don't drive Watts at night."

"We're already your fare. You're going to make us late!" My voice was a xylophone mallet thudding the high octave bars. I needed to get with it. A good detective would have known the clients' destination before getting in the cab.

The taxi driver turned to glare at us and Anya met his eye.

"It is important that we depart now," she said.

Simultaneously I vowed, "We will pay double."

I don't know which of us persuaded him.

No traffic on the 110 South, no traffic on the 105 East, so soon the driver sped through the empty silent streets surrounding the Watts Towers. He kept his brights on and the window rolled up, blocking enjoyment of a perfect summer evening. His mistrust embarrassed me. Sure, there was poverty here, and anger; but people are people.

The taxi jerked to a stop about half-way along the dead end street that flanks the Towers. To my right were houses with fans in open doors and windows. It was the time of a summer night when outdoor air is cooler than indoor air. To my left, lights flooded the base of the Towers, their enclosing fence, and their scraggly grounds. Tourists by day and floodlights by night. The Towers were not a considerate neighbor.

Except. How spectacular to live next door, to every day walk out your front door and see it. The crazyass beauty of the Towers. Spindly steel frames rise like a cluster of otherworldly radio transmitters, decorated in patterns so fluid that a neighbor could step outside the same damn door every day for a decade and never see the Towers the same way twice.

"I'm not waiting," the driver interrupted my ogling and I realized that my clients had jumped out of the taxi before it stopped moving.

I dragged crumpled bills from a pocket. "Half now, the rest when you come back, and triple time on the way home." He nodded to acknowledge but not necessarily accept the bribe. The dead end street was too narrow for him to turn around, so he backed up 100 feet to the intersection, then without braking did a 270 and raced for the freeway. Sometimes I have such shame for my race.

My companions were down the block, striding away. "Wait for me!" At my call, silhouettes appeared in the open doorways of more than one home. So somebody was listening to me but it wasn't my clients, who disappeared around the far side of the Towers' enclosure. I stumbled after them. _Illegal_ had to be coming soon. How many of the neighbors would be witnesses to whatever we were about to do?

I found my clients on the far side of the fence. On this side of the Towers, the lights were dimmer, considerably so where the duo gripped the fence and peered inside the enclosure. They seemed to have forgotten I was there. "This fence is newer than the Towers," I announced. "You'd think it was put up to protect this priceless folk art. But no. People used to climb the Towers. The concern was that someone would fall and not blame himself. The fence went up to prevent lawsuits." It was a fascinating anecdote yet they ignored me. "If we come back tomorrow we can take the tour and learn more."

A distant siren grew nearer. Coming for us?

Anwyl grabbed the top of a _No Trespassing_ sign and pulled on it to test his weight. The sign held so he swung a leg, used the sign as a step. Faster than you could say _breaking and entering_ , he was perched atop the fence, leaning one arm down to grab Anya's arm at the elbow. As soon as he hoisted her up, she grabbed my arm to lock our forearms, hand to elbow.

"Quickly," she instructed me, and I meant to protest but then we were all inside the fence, still clasping arms. Her skin felt like plumeria smells on a warm night with a full moon.

When she released me, she laid a hand on the nearest Tower. "Hello, my friend. Would that we met under better circumstances."

The sirens were louder. Now that we were inside the fence, the floodlights shielded us. Anyone looking for us would have to fight quite a glare to see inside the fence. Maybe we could avoid incarceration after all.

Around me the Watts Towers loomed. This was one of my favorite places and I had always wished I could explore here on my own. Usually you can't get near the Towers unless you pay to attend one of the scheduled, guided tours. Assuming I didn't get arrested and/or shot, this could be a good night.

How to describe the Watts Towers. Moby Dick, the story of a crazy guy and a big fish. The Watts Towers comprise more than a dozen narrow pinnacles, much taller than they are wide. Each tower casts a silhouette of an inverted cone, each has a rebar skeleton covered with cement, each has its own style of struts and cross ribs. The two tallest towers are some 90 feet high, one mostly arcs and globes, the other straight struts with sharp angles. The shorter towers echo the styles of the tallest, some with arcs, some with angles. All are covered with cement and inlaid with shards of ceramic tile, glass, rock, shell, and broken dishware, set in chaotic patterns.

An Italian immigrant tile setter named Simon Rodia created the Towers. He purchased, scavenged, and 'borrowed' materials, neglected his family, got fired from jobs. He worked on the Towers, without breaks, for something like 33 years. I can describe the mosaics, I can sketch the architecture, I can show photos. What I cannot share is the experience of walking around the Towers and through a man's soul. Great art is often immortal but rarely more intimate. I can feel what Rodia felt when he laid each section. Rodia is the only person I know that I never met.

Outside the fence, police boots scuffed concrete and flashlight beams spread and flowed, lights crisscrossing as if to thwart a Blitz staged by ants. I stepped closer to my companions, who gazed up the Tower. I was the only one attending to the cavalry outside the walls.

How supple time can be. A voice behind the flashlights yelled, "Got them here, Sarge!" and all the boots stomped our way. In the brief seconds before they converged outside our location, so much changed.

My companions had their inhalers out. Anwyl hefted a third inhaler that looked new and had a more rudimentary dial. He proffered it to me with a slight smile that blasted me through a quick trip to Endorphin City.

Oh, mama. If I were Stephanie Plum, I would have him before dinner. But my desire was raveled with fear and awe. The last time I had seen those inhalers, vanishing had ensued. Vanishing might be harmful to my health, but around these two, I was a lemming hypnotized by a snake. I took the inhaler and focused on his gestured tutorial. Clamp the inhaler between my teeth. Inhale at a steady normal rate. Anwyl released my inhaler and Anya took my hand.

The cops were close enough to touch us through the fence. A flashlight beam hit my eyes and they teared. _Trespassing_ at least. Why, I could lose my license for this! If I had one!

Trespassing. Enhn. I've developed such a make-my-day attitude toward my future that I couldn't break a sweat about a misdemeanor. I did regret letting my clients get arrested. I didn't need ESP to predict their preliminary interviews would make a poor impression on the officers.

The flashlight beam left my eyes and swiveled to shine on its holder, the closest cop, who said, "Come out. Now."

"Can't. Long story," I told him through clamped teeth and sucked air through my inhaler.

Multiple flashlight beams groped for me and voices snarled _Halt!_ , _Don't_ _move!_ , and so forth. They no longer concerned me. The last I heard from the closest cop was, "Where the fuck did she go?" I wondered that too.

### 6. For The Beginning Traveler

The inhaler launched me from Alice's rabbit hole, feet first and spinning. I was swept with two nauseas, one of vertigo and one of a sorrowful déjà vu. I would have barfed, except I've got a phobia about that.

Everything was completely stationary, which meant the spinning was inside my head. I squeezed my eyes shut like if I opened them I would see Nixon, naked. The spinning got faster until Anya tightened her grip on me and I felt a soothing breeze on my temples. I opened my eyes and the spinning ceased.

The flashlights were gone, the cops were gone, the fence was gone. The distant traffic noise was gone, replaced with faint faraway jingles and rattles. Down past the end of the block, too far to see detail, there was a sense of motion in the shadows. Something surprisingly large passed by on the cross street. We were in a place that looked like Watts, but it was not the world that I knew.

Anya squeezed my hand before releasing it. Anwyl used a gentle tug to remove the inhaler from the death grip of my teeth. He slid the lever back to where it had been initially, showed me the configuration, and tutored me, "This setting will take you home. Always be prepared to return to your home Frame." He returned the inhaler to me. "Keep this at the ready."

He smiled, but Endorphin City was not nearby. I was distracted by my thoughts. I had begun to make a mental correction that took me some time to complete. We weren't in another world. We were in another Frame. A place that looked superficially the same as my home, but had a thousand small differences that added up to surroundings that were all the more alien because of the superficial similarities.

Small and not-so-small differences. One glaring distinction was right behind him. One of the Watts Towers was missing, the tall one with the sharp-angled struts. I had several astute questions about my experience so far, but forgot them when I noticed the missing Tower, and instead demanded petulantly, "What is going on? Where are we?"

I felt a chuckle from high above and all around. "You brought us a smart one, she digs that she's in a new scene." The voice rasped like sandpaper on granite. It seemed to come from the other tall Tower, the one with the circular girders.

_What is going on_ was brain damage, apparently. Either that or one of the Watts Towers was talking to us. Maybe the cops had shot me and I was lying in a coma having wild and crazy visions. In which case I would eventually recover or expire. Meantime, I could work with what I'd envisioned. If this was a dream sequence, I would enjoy every second of it. How often do you get to talk with the Watts Towers?

"Anya and Anwyl, welcome," an even deeper voice called, a voice with an after-rumble like bass cranked to nine. This voice came from the missing Tower, the one with the angular girders, as it approached along the street. It didn't walk and it didn't float. It - _translated_ itself. It moved all of a piece, without the bobs, rolls, or wiggles of a human gait. Yet there was nothing stiff about the motion. It swept toward us, absorbing elevation changes with gradual tilts that began in advance of the slope. Its rapid movement gave off a subtle Doppler whistle like the car window when it isn't completely closed on the freeway.

My companions had good manners. As soon as Angular Girders arrived, they introduced me to it and the other tall Tower. The Tower names were at least seventeen syllables and all consonants. I had no hope of saying the names correctly but I tried anyway. Both names started with M. I got that part right. And that only. Based on their reactions, my pronunciation got worse with repeated attempts.

"Man, I love the way this bird keeps trying to say my name," Circular Girders said.

"She has the tenacity for which her Frame is rightly known," Anya informed us. It was news to me that she knew anything about me.

"She was recommended by Henrietta," Anwyl informed the two Towers.

"So this is the one Henrietta sent us," Angular Girders said.

I don't know anyone named Henrietta. I didn't tell them this because whoever Henrietta was, her recommendation increased their regard for me and it felt good to have the Watts Towers respect me. Wait. I do currently live - albeit illegally - in an office building that was called the Henrietta, back when buildings had names like that. Okay. So I was conversing with an animate folk art structure, on the recommendation of my building. I might not write this in my case notes.

I tried the Towers' names one more time and I could feel Angular Girders smile at me, although his structure appeared unchanged.

"Nica, there is a thing called a nickname," advised Angular Girders, with what seemed to be seriousness. "You may give us nicknames and use those rather than our names," he continued.

"A thing called a nickname? What a brilliant innovation! I will give you nicknames and they will be names I can pronounce! You know, my own name qualifies as a nickname, come to think of it."

"Nica is an example of a nickname," Angular Girders agreed, taking no offense at my snark. His sarcasm detectors must be set to a frequency outside my broadcast range. That was probably good news. Maybe at last I could go an hour without pissing somebody off.

Everyone seemed grateful that he had given me permission to make something up - and never attempt to pronounce the real names again. Within seconds I was thinking of him as _Monk_ and Circular Girders as _Miles_. Sometimes I still try their real names on for size, but only when I'm alone.

"What news?" Anwyl asked Monk and Miles. He bared his teeth with the question - he expected bad or worse news. The mood would have turned dark, had I not, at the same moment, asked to be introduced to the other Towers. There were, after all, more than a dozen shorter structures that had not yet joined our conversation. My request pulled laughter from the two tall Towers and an affectionate smile from Anya.

Anwyl looked at me tolerantly but impatiently. "Those are structures, Nica, not beings. They have no need for names or introductions."

Silly me. "O-kay. These two are beings, all the rest that look just like them are structures. Got it. You were getting to the news," I reminded them - and it was as though the moon got a cancer diagnosis.

"The collapse of Maelstrom's Frame weakens and I can feel the change many Frames away," Monk informed Anya and Anwyl.

"Who is involved? Who seeks his Frame?" Anwyl demanded. He sounded pissed, like he wanted to put a fist through a door. I knew that feeling but couldn't dream of denting the kind of thick oak plank he would splinter.

"None will seek it - none will expose themselves in that way. Look instead for those who do not flee the change as it expands," Anya pronounced.

Anwyl considered this, nodded, gave a slight bow. "As always, your wisdom lights our way," he replied, ritualistically but with conviction.

Hand to heart, I thought all three of them were gonna prostrate themselves before her.

She gave a light nod to acknowledge their fealty, then asked the Towers, "Have any come to you?"

Miles said a name that sounded like CharcoalStringCheese.

Anwyl scoffed. "Can such a being be trusted?"

It was hard for me to focus on the conversation. Their discussion left me as clueless as a celebrity journalist on Judgment Day; and in addition, I had thoroughly distracted myself trying to figure out what part of each Tower produced Miles' and Monk's voices. They had no mouths, no skin, no corporeality. When they spoke, their words filled the space around us like water floods a cave. The effect was the same whether I listened to the top of each Tower or his base.

I really wanted to see them move again and got lucky when I alerted, "Cloud at 11 o'clock." I remembered from Anya's first visit to my office that we should stop talking when clouds go by.

"It's CharcoalStringCheese," Miles acknowledged, and translated rapidly to intercept the cloud. I will never grow tired of watching Miles or Monk move. As Miles went to intercept the cloud, he slid over obstacles like curbs and ornamental boulders with a surge in the fuzzy indistinctness that marked where his structure met the ground; it looked like the storm of the century as seen on the farthest horizon. Amazingly, after he passed, there was no sign of disruption where he has been.

While Miles and the cloud talked, the cloud's movement stalled. The cloud had some kind of spatial ADD. It couldn't hold still and as it talked, tendrils of cloud stuff wafted and oozed, then wisped toward us. Miles issued a sharp command and the tendrils snapped back to the cloud body like the hands of a cashier caught stealing your change. Anya turned her attention to the cloud and pointed to the north, just as a wind came up to sweep the cloud in that direction. The cloud moved away with gathering speed, tendrils retracted, shape now streamlined and definite.

As soon as Miles returned, the grownups resumed their conference. I could hear one word in ten, not that I understood when I caught ten for ten. I stopped straining to hear and watched the streetlights in the distance, which changed colors as per normal - _yellow red green yellow red green -_ but also shifted position. Beyond the streetlights, there was a subliminal sense of massive shapes translating.

I really wanted to see what moved out there.

"Nica." Anwyl was good with the one-word commands.

I had started to wander toward the shapes. Now, as ordered, I got my ass back to stand with the group. The conversation must be wrapped up because Anya and Anwyl had their inhalers out. Damn. Wait. I just got here.

"Could we walk around a little before we go?"

"Another time," Anwyl refused me, but the others shot him down.

"Feed the bold, starve the fear," Monk recited, as though it were a folk remedy like _feed a cold starve a fever._

The air around my head charged with static electricity. "Curious is a big step toward brave. You want her useful, you got to let her make some of the decisions." When Miles said this, I felt approval and realized he'd just done his version of affectionately tousling my hair. "When this dude gives you grief you lob it right back, Nica." Miles thought this was funny but Anwyl's glare said he did not.

Anya stepped into place beside me and hooked her elbow with mine. "Which direction do you choose to walk?" She cut off Anwyl's protest with, "We will go no more than three hundred paces."

"Keep the way clear," Anwyl ordered the Towers and they fell in behind us.

The Towers would keep me safe, so I could ignore the implied menace behind Anwyl's concern and gape around me. What a walk. Everything was slightly the same as the Watts I knew - not that I knew Watts well. I should say, the _Frame_ I knew, because it was obvious we were somewhere else. The sidewalks looked like concrete but felt soft underfoot, like hard-packed sand. Anya guided me to jump and sidestep cracks in the pavement, which were dense black gashes that might stretch miles deep rather than inches. An acrid wind stung my hand when it swung over one crack and I kept my arms close to my sides thereafter. I had intended to check out the relocating streetlights, but with each step they seemed that much farther away. It was like trying to catch up to a cat that knows you are chasing him.

The street was lined with modest, family homes with mostly fenced front yards. In the yards were cars, scooters, bikes, and an occasional trailer. At one window, a flat-screen TV peeked out from behind a curtain and swiveled to keep facing us as we passed. In that yard, a rust-pocked Harley motorcycle leaned into a fence and revved a growl at us. In another yard, a trio of bicycles chased a skateboard, which did a 540 backflip off one bike's handlebar. A pair of sedans lounged low as though with flat tires against a minivan, but when the minivan slid to the other end of the driveway, the sedans rose, rolled to follow, then lounged low again. And what was that Kia doing in those bushes? It almost looked like -

"Hey, darlin'," Miles called to a push mower as it did graceful pirouettes around a flowerbed. "Those are smooth moves! I bet you never need oiling." And the lawn mower's blades scritched with a sound very much like a giggle.

Crap. Anya must have meant 300 paces round trip, because we had circled around and now approached the short Towers, the ones that were mere structures. Anwyl stood like a lighthouse watching our return. I waved my inhaler to show I was ready to obey; he flashed some teeth.

"When in an unfamiliar Frame, never set out on your own," he advised me.

Anya agreed. "That is a most important rule for the beginning Traveler. Also know that, except when pursued, you should arrive and depart from the same position." She brandished her inhaler.

"But remember you can always find a path even if no path exists," Monk advised.

I repeated this to myself to see if I could get it to parse differently. Anya and Anwyl exchanged a laugh, and the air filled with friendly static charge, which made me bold enough to tease, "Did anybody else get that? I mean, on a scale of one to ten, _ten_ being clear and _one_ being what Monk said, how would you rate that?"

"My brother's a one's and two's guy." The air brightened with the energy of Miles' laugh.

"His words are easier to comprehend without speech," Anwyl agreed, to which I had no snappy reply.

"Accept my words as objects, don't construct abstract structures with them," Monk advised.

"Dude, put a cork in it," Miles replied. "Nica, you got the picture already. This cat won't make sense no matter how you twist his words, so leave 'em be." Affectionate static charge warmed my shoulders as I marveled at his ability to jumble slang.

Monk ignored Miles. It made sense that they were brothers. Their disagreements had the familiarity of sibling rivalry. "Safe Travels." He vibrated the - _vels_.

"Catch you later, Nica," Miles bid me goodbye. "Take care and we will meet again."

Before you could ask _Are we there yet?,_ we were back in my Watts, where the Towers are silent, immobile and fenced.

At the time, I didn't have the vocabulary or understanding to say that I had just completed Travel to a new Frame, using a Travel novice's Guide, the inhaler that Anya and Anwyl had specially created to make my Travels smoother.

On the return trip I felt little of the disorienting sideways plummet. It turns out the return trips are always easier. Something about home turf having extra pull on us. It also turns out that elapsed time can differ from Frame to Frame. It felt like we'd been with Monk and Miles for an hour. But we returned to my Watts only minutes after we left. In fact, the last of the cop cars had just departed and turned a distant corner about the time I removed the Guide from my clenched teeth.

Anwyl and Anya jumped atop the fence and reached arms down for me. With their strength to propel me up and over, I nearly flew to the other side and trotted to match their long strides, away from the Towers. Dim light slivered the window of the nearest house, as the occupants parted blinds to observe the conclusion of our illegal break-in.

Given that we departed the enclosure of our own accord, did that erase our crimes of breaking and entering, trespassing, and so forth? Not sure I wanted to test that as a legal defense but feared I could have a chance to do so, as high beams approached us at three times the speed limit. Crap! Had the cops only pretended to leave? No, it was our cabbie, returning as bribed.

And here we were in the mundane back seat of the cab.

I was exhilified and terrirated by my evening. And above all I was stoked. My companions said nothing on the return to downtown Los Angeles, giving me an opportunity to relive and reflect. I had just Traveled to some other dimension; or my mind had jumped the thin gray line into stark raving territory. Either way I was having a blast, despite or because of the danger that surrounded us like picnickers in a minefield.

If they were not figments of an inexplicably fevered imagination, then Anya and Anwyl had chosen the right Earth Framer to join their adventures. I don't spook easily. It's one of my best qualities.

The way Miles and Monk had talked, my visit wasn't a one-night stand and already I was eager to see them again, but when the taxi deposited us back at the Henrietta, Anya and Anwyl said nothing about _next_ _time_. I could feel their haste to be gone, but couldn't bear to say goodbye. Anwyl stuck out his hand for an odd horizontal handshake or - crap - he wanted the Guide.

If I were Lincoln Rhyme, I would already have sent it back to the lab for testing. Of course, I had no lab - but I still wanted to keep the Guide. I fished it out of my pocket in slo' mo', letting my reluctance show.

"It is not safe for you to Travel alone," Anya said gently.

"So long as I get to keep Traveling," I said, almost as cooperative as a fifteen-year-old.

"We are pleased that is your view," Anwyl said. He gave my Guide a tug to free it from my fingers and I watched it disappear into a fold of his tunic.

Obviously _farewell_ was next. I said the only thing that might snare their interest and keep them with me. "Something bad may have happened on the roof here. What would make dirt smell like blood?"

It worked. They wanted to see for themselves.

As I led them to the roof garden, I explained about Jay and his disappearance. Anwyl looked bored, Anya noncommittal, until we reached the second stairwell, the one that only goes to the penthouse and roof. They spent a peculiar length of time examining the stairwell's connection to the building.

In the garden, the blighted patch was more extensive than it had been earlier in the day. Anya stared at newly withered tomatoes while she stooped to gently rub a stalk. She touched the leaves like an examining doctor would.

"There's something else," I surprised myself by saying. I don't know why I told them about my bizarre waking nightmare, in which I couldn't see, but my other senses experienced a terrible attack on a shadowy Jay. I felt sheepish talking about it, but they treated me like a witness, not a kook. "Was that a dream or did it really happen?" I concluded.

"Yes," Anwyl replied, and they resumed their inspection of the blight.

While Anya explored each leaf and stalk, Anwyl dropped to his knees and sniffed like an ill-tempered police dog. When at last he stood, he looked at Anya for a long moment then said something I couldn't understand. Anya sagged like a velvet curtain.

Now I was extra worried. "What happened here? Is there blood in this soil? Is it Jay's blood? Is there any way he can be okay?"

"Thank you for bringing this to our attention," Anya became a bureaucrat, making it clear that my questions would remain unanswered. I threw out several more. Who did this? What was _this_? What did _they_ do? Where was Jay?

"There are too many answers. We must eliminate questions before we can discuss this." Anwyl almost sounded sympathetic, for once.

Back in the hall outside my office, I again tried to stall them from leaving. "Come in and tell me more about your case. I can help you."

"You will help. That is the reason we came to you."

"Why me? Why did you seek me out?"

"You are a Traveler, not a Neutral," Anwyl replied, and the words gave me shivers of recognition and anticipation, even though I didn't understand.

Anya watched me and added gently, "But it is not yet your time."

"When will that time come? How long until you come back?" They looked at each other. Did they not understand me? Why didn't they answer? "Uh, how many moons?"

They repeated the question to themselves and one another. Eventually, Anwyl flashed an endorphinating smile and Anya giggled. At last, they understood me.

"Within 24 hours we will return," Anya said.

"And perhaps as early as oh nine hundred hours - approximately one sixtieth of one moon from now," Anwyl mocked me.

Still smiling, Anya swept open my door and ushered me inside. "Stay inside this night." From out in the hall, she slid her hand along the door frame in a ritualized way and then the door was locked between us. I didn't hear their long strides down the hall, but I knew they were gone. I stared at the inside of the door, watching gravity make the glass flow.

I obeyed Anya and stayed inside until sunrise, so I cannot say why - so often that night - I heard the refined ding that announced the elevator opening on my floor, and I heard faint distant dings on the floor below, although that floor is unoccupied; nor can I explain the noises outside my door, which sounded like someone wheeled barrels of metal chickens down the hall.

I spent the night restless, uneasy, and left out.

### 7. His Immobile Axis

The next morning, by the time I usually would have folded away the futon for the day, I had gone for a run twice my usual 3 miles, pumped iron, showered at the gym, and stopped for my bagel with fresh-squeezed juice. Today was pumpernickel with cucumber-ginger-carrot-apple. The roads were still relatively clear of droopy commuters, so it was easy to avoid a flesh-versus-auto incident. I only needed two evasive maneuvers.

Today would be a good and productive day. I would wrap up my other cases so that I could serve Anya as soon as -

_Serve Anya._ I had really just thought that. Well, if it sounds weird, you never met Anya.

I confess to confusion of intent, however. I also wanted to lock in more cases unrelated to Anya and Anwyl, the better to anchor me to my world.

In the lobby of the Henrietta, waiting at the elevator, I touched my hand to the wall's black marble wainscoting. "Thanks for the referral," I said to the wall. If I hadn't distracted myself watching for a reply from a building, I might have noticed that the elevator took longer than usual to arrive, which meant it descended from a top floor. Or I might have noticed the stale medicinal smell in the elevator, which I had encountered for the first time yesterday.

In the doorway from the hall to my waiting room, I collided with _her_ and when I took a step back, _he_ appeared behind me to shove me forward again. Mathead and Scabman, hours before their expected time of return. They must have changed their meds. They were not vacant like yesterday. Their aggression surrounded me like hornets in a sandstorm.

"Hey, good morning! You folks are earrr-ly! I'm impressed!" _Breaking Bad_ had confirmed what I saw in Ben's worst friends: tweakers were unpredictably violent. I wasn't sure how to handle these two, but instinct suggested that I strive to be their village idiot - they have to understand somebody's words before they know whether those words piss them off, right?

I busied myself unlocking the inner office door. With a few more seconds, maybe I could formulate a desperate escape attempt. I retreated behind my desk and pantomimed a burned finger, as though my coffee cup was hot and that's why I hurried to set it down.

"We got all your money so now we want you to find our duffel bag. This one." Mathead sliced a photo through the air. It hit my chest above the heart and fell to my lap. I studied the blurred image. It was a pink and orange bag with some designer label. I had seen this before and recently. I frowned, until Mathead noticed.

I exaggerated the reaction to distort it. "Yesterday you said the bag was black."

"We weren't sure we could trust you back then."

"And now you can? What the hell, nothing has changed!?" I shrilled.

She reached for the photo, I yanked it back, it ripped, I sobbed, "Awww, nooo!"

Her next reach was tentative, like a child comforting an alkie aunt. My emotionalism had thrown her. I felt on top of the situation, until I remembered where I had seen a bag like that before: among Ben's stuff now stored in my closet. Oh Ben, what did you get yourself - and me - into this time?

"We're paying you to find this bag. Start by asking everybody you know, have they seen it?"

Scabman stopped the little sucking sounds. The future depended on my response.

I made no response. Instead, I obsessed with using desk tape to repair the photo, making a big show of removing tape from the dispenser. The plan was that the movements would disguise the shaking of my hands. They knew Ben had the bag. They didn't want a detective, they wanted Ben, and they were here because they thought I could lead them to him.

I needed to convert my fear to useful emotion. I pulled free a length of tape. It stuck to itself. I wadded it with fury and tried to throw it across the room. It stuck to my hand. Mathead unfolded a thick wad of bills and began laying out hundreds like she was setting a table using only knives.

I slammed my hand to the desk. "Oh. My. Fucking! GOD! There is only one explanation!" I yelled to Scabman. He resumed sucking pensively.

I had to stare down Mathead and I couldn't give her room to reply. "What is so important about that stupid gym bag? What have you got in that bag? Drugs, right? There is no fucking way I am helping any more druggies. I was married to one. He took everything from me. EVERYTHING! No fucking way. And then he went for more! I cut him out of what's left of my pitiful life, I can sure the shit cut you out. Oh. My. Fucking! Look at this place! Everything I own came from a garage sale. Get out! Take your money and get out before I completely lose it. Oh, whoops!" I shrieked sarcastically as the desk light hit the floor. By now, I was pacing the room and backhanding stuff onto the floor for punctuation.

Mathead only partially bought my freakout - she stepped back but looked skeptical. I gave a rage-filled stomp, too close to where the glass base of the desk light had shattered, which stomped my sandal onto an evil claw of broken glass.

We all watched my foot ascend, streaming blood, as I raised my leg and yanked free the impaled glass. The pain in my foot was so intense that for a time it was outside the range of human perception. Then it shot up my leg. And the blood. It splashed the side of the desk and pooled on the marble floor like a vampire had spilled a Grande.

I didn't need to fake hysteria now and I was making enough noise to echo in the subbasement. Scabman retreated to the hall but Mathead held her ground at the door. Through my howls, she demanded to know where Ben was.

"You tell me! I'd love to fucking know!" I shrieked, "If you find him before I do, you tell him that THIS time I'm - holy fucking shit. Ow ow ow OW OW." I had tried to wrap a towel around my foot and the increase in pressure detected another shard of imbedded glass. While I struggled to hold still to extract it, the musty medicinal odor receded. Mathead and Scabman were gone.

They weren't gone forever but my display of emotional instability had bought me some time. _Village idiot_ might have worked better, but I had been too stressed to pull that off. I collapsed onto the futon and worried the glass shard free. Suddenly, I was wiped and it took my remaining energy to hold my gaze steady. I couldn't be sure Mathead and Scabman had left the building, so while I focused on my foot, I continued to issue bursts of expletives in what I hoped sounded like soul-torn venting against druggie ex-spouses but, when I tuned in, sounded more like a parrot with Tourette's.

I cleaned my foot, I cleaned the glass, I cleaned the blood. No one was in the hall. I locked my office door and unpacked the closet. It was in the bottom box. The designer duffel bag that was an identical twin to the one in Mathead's photo. Rage and terror hit me like toxic fumes. Removing the duffel from the box, its handle caught on something and I yanked it harder than Ben jerked my chain. This propelled me in a backward ricochet from closet to futon frame to desk.

Immediately, I had a welt on the back of my skull and pain that helped me forget about my foot.

I was starting to fear that this was not going to be a good day after all.

The duffel bag was empty and its interior held no residues or odors. I was tempted to stick it out in the hall, maybe over by the elevator, or down in the lobby. But that wouldn't necessarily get rid of the tweakers. If the bag was a McGuffin, as I suspected, then their real intent was to use me to get to Ben. In that case, the worst thing I could do was acknowledge recent contact with Ben.

Luckily, Mathead and Scabman had come by too early to cross paths with Ben - unless he had stopped by after an allnighter. Was he still pulling allnighters? Who the hell knew? Cared? I dared not rely on luck though. Ben had to stay away from this building. I had to warn him. But I refuse to save his phone numbers nowadays, so I didn't know how to reach him. So he needed to stop by the building. But he had to stay away from -

My mind was on its hundredth loop of this circular racetrack when the light flashed above the door, indicating entry to the waiting room.

At first, the waiting room seemed empty, then I discovered Hernandez, sitting as relaxed as an ice sculpture in the chair behind the door. Without a word, he came into my office and sat again, with his stiffness from pride or injury or military training.

"Thank you for coming back. Did you talk with Karina? That's nothing, just an accident with some broken glass."

Was it a custodian thing? He had immediately zeroed in on the wastebasket full of bloody paper towels. But he wasn't reacting to my words. "Do you need an interpreter?"

"I don't. Do you?" He sneered without curling a lip.

Conversation with him was like walking an alley at night. It was dark and uneven but I sensed there would be light at the other end.

Yesterday afternoon I had done a little digging at the Henrietta's office and learned a couple interesting facts. "I understand you used to work for the school district, as do the Garcias. Did they have anything to do with your getting fired?"

"I didn't know them. I'm just a custodian, they are important people."

Farther down the alley is an abandoned pit bull.

"Now here they are bothering you again, this time at a job that is probationary. You could lose this job if any trouble arises. Is that why you hate them?"

The pit bull sniffs the food you throw to it. "You ask me whether I hate your clients and if so, why. What's the benefit to me if I respond?"

"To find Edith, I need to understand what is going on. I've heard the Garcias' side. As with any story, there will be other sides."

The dog follows you. "I can't help you find Edith. It's better that they don't find her."

You reach the lighted end of the alley. " _They_ the Garcias?"

The dog runs back into the dark, barking. "The Garcias and Maria."

I followed him back into the dark. "It is better if her own mother does not find her?"

"If you want to help Edith, you need to believe that."

"If our situations were reversed, what would you do? Who would you believe?"

"I would seek the truth, not the girl." He stood.

"So help me find the truth." I stood, too. "Get me started. Give me something. I'll get it without you, but I'll be less inclined to believe you if I do."

He made a sudden motion toward me, then smiled, maybe because I had not flinched. He grabbed my pen and note pad. "Maria finishes work at two p.m." He wrote an address and tossed the pad back on my desk with a twist so that it fell in a readable position.

"Let's not waste time on games. You must already know what Maria will tell me so - just. Ho-kay." No point drying out my spit. He was already out the office door.

At the hall door, he turned back to me, spine so stiff it was as though the room spun around his immobile axis. "I'm just a custodian," he repeated.

"Yeah, you mentioned that." I pocketed the address as I joined him at the door. "My investigation will lead me to Maria at two."

"Goodbye."

I grabbed his arm. I thought the space invasion would distress him, but if so, he kept it hidden. "Is Edith safe?"

"Karina says, yes, for now."

There was something noble about him and I felt proud of myself for liking him before I realized that.

I had one more question and blocked his way to ask it. "Jay?"

For the first time, he looked away. "I've got nothing to tell you," he said. I couldn't decide whether his elevated tension was from what he wasn't saying, or having to step around me. The room went dark and we looked up. In the skylight, blue sky was obliterated by the passage of a thick dark thundercloud, the playground bully at CharcoalStringCheese's school. I couldn't remember another July with so many clouds.

He was past me. "What destroyed the roof garden?" This stopped him.

"Is there a garden on the roof?" he asked, to my double disappointment. Jay had told me that Hernandez helped him rig the roof irrigation. So Hernandez knew there was a garden, yet he pretended ignorance - and made the lie convincing.

"There is something very wrong in the garden. I wonder if the problem has anything to do with Jay's disappearance."

He cut the crap. "Don't go up there, it's not safe there."

I wondered how closely his experience matched my vision, but I dared not bring that up now, when I was just starting to connect with him. "His son thinks his dad ditched him." This was an easy jump from the facts. My previous snooping had determined that his son had phoned the Henrietta's business office, looking for Jay.

"I can't help his son feel better."

"You need to tell me what you know."

"I don't - know anything." His gaze held steady.

"Then Jay told you something. Or you heard something. Or saw something." He glanced away and his fear hit me like a load of bricks in the fast lane. "You saw something."

"I thought I saw something that makes no sense. The irrational is embarrassing."

I pretended that I was willing to drop the subject. "Okay. If you want to talk about it later, you know how to find me."

"I've got work now."

"Of course. But I may need your advice after I talk with Maria. May I come find you after I talk with her?"

"I work until eight tonight." He took another minute to describe how to find Maria at her job. As I listened, I observed the separate thinking his eyes were showing while his lips gave directions.

### 8. The Defiance Of A Lightning Rod

I needed to think about what Hernandez hadn't said, about how to crowbar him for more information, about how I would approach Maria. Usually my office was my sanctuary, but right now it felt oppressive. Maybe it was the duffel bag in the closet and the bloody glass in the trash.

In fact, I felt inexplicable urgency to get out and stay out. I decided to head for the Central Library. Just walking through those library doors, I always think more clearly. And the library was on the way to see Maria.

I had a shelf full of library books, overdue and untouched. I love checking out library books but by the time I get around to reading one, I owe fines commensurate with the purchase price. Something about the new and untried being more desirable than the familiar and obtained. If you need to draw comparisons with my marital habits, get it over with and let's move on.

I grabbed the most egregiously overdue and headed out. But no sooner had I touched the books than I felt a need to go up to the roof and check on the garden. Perhaps it was mentioning the garden blight to Hernandez that focused my concern up there.

Every step is an exercise opportunity. I walked briskly down my hall and around the two corners to reach the stairs that connected to the roof. The door looked different but I couldn't place the change. It was like a _tromp l'oeil_ version of itself, a painting on a wall. I could turn the handle but nothing else budged. With each attempt I yanked harder and when the door did open, I became a one-woman comedy skit, thrown off balance with library books flying. All the books managed to land without damaging themselves. I could not say the same.

The air in the stairwell was as refreshing as the inside of a dumpster. I held my breath and sprinted up the steps. At the top of the stairs, the roof door also stuck. I had to hurl my weight into it to push out onto the roof. Maybe the door hadn't stuck, maybe the midday summer air was thick enough to offer resistance. It reminded me why I usually visited in early morning or late evening.

A few strides across the roof, I got my first view of the garden and thought _no wonder I needed to come up here._ Which made no sense but I thought it anyway.

Anya was here. She knelt at the edge of the garden, her fingers palpating the blighted soil. She straightened and smiled at me, which revitalized the air around us and left the world more dreary when the smile concluded.

"Did you figure out what happened here?" I greeted her, resisting an improbable urge to bow.

She stared at the library books tucked under my arm. "Those are not yours and you must not keep them."

"They're late, I know, but I always pay the fines?" I used intonation to ask why she cared about my borrowing habits.

"You must not allow them near you."

"I'm returning them as soon as I leave here." Were we really having this conversation?

"You must dispose of them."

"Are you telling me to get rid of my books?"

"Those are not your books. Books that do not belong to you must be separated from you. You must accomplish this today."

"I'll get my loaners back to the library. Do you mean I can keep my own books?"

"It is safest to keep only those you love best. Are there books that you love?"

"Many."

"Keep those. Do not keep any others."

"Okay." The weirdest part was that I knew I would comply because the instruction came from her. She led me back to the door and I left the treacherous library books inside the stairwell where she indicated. She shut the door snugly, then slid her hands along the edges of the door frame.

She looked up to the sun, yet inward, searching for something that I knew I could not see. I watched her instead, poised and listening. "They have begun." She returned her gaze to me, there on the roof; for a moment, her eyes were sky reflected on glacier and I understood her to be afraid. She already had the best posture I'd ever seen, but now she stood taller and straighter. She thrust her arms toward the sky as though fear filled her with strength. "So, then, must we." She held the pose with the defiance of a lightning rod, then she braced my shoulders and led me away from the door.

I was stunned by the change in the garden. The blight was winning and now more than half the garden was crippled and gray. Her walk past the blighted plants was resolute until we passed the plants most recently stricken. She paused next to a failing bush bean. "Courage, my friend," she whispered to the plant.

At the far corner of the garden, still untouched by blight, she lifted some jasmine vines and ushered us into a secluded bower, deep in the healthy section of the garden. The vines had only a few remaining flowers but when Anya stepped in, the fragrance grew as intense as it had been last spring when the jasmine was in full bloom.

She reached into the folds of her thin white cloak and extracted a flat woven cord that was as supple as silk but glinted and faintly clinked as though spun with strands of platinum and gold. "This will protect you, Nica," she said softly. Until her reassurance enveloped me, I hadn't realized how vulnerable I had been.

I extended my hand and when I touched the cord I heard whispered commands and instructions, too faint to discern but important to hear. I felt eager and frustrated that I couldn't make out the words, which seemed to come from the cord itself.

She lowered it over my head and adjusted it around my neck. As soon as the cord touched my skin, electrified honey surged through my veins. She draped the cord over my shoulders and tucked it under the neckline of my tanktop, then frowned. It was flat, but wide, and still mostly showed, although apparently she didn't want it to. She removed it, which left a chill.

She had me fold down my shorts and peel up my top, so that she could wrap the cord around my waist. She touched me like we'd been best friends since grade school and she was helping me dress for my first wedding. The cord seemed infinitely elastic. She pulled it to slide over my shoulders, pushed it to hug my waist. It did all this without slack or pinch. Then we adjusted my clothes so they lay flat over the cord. Against the skin of my back and stomach, the electrified honey flowed. In other circumstances, the sensation would be one hell of a bedroom gimmick.

Anya said something that I couldn't make out. Touch had won out over all my other senses. The honey spread throughout my body, then stopped flowing abruptly when she punched at my stomach! I deflected her fist with a physical assurance that was novel but entertaining. She smiled and touched my cheek like I was her favorite granddaughter.

"So this thing improves my reflexes?"

"This is a lanyard. It will tune your senses to threats and protect you from grievous harm. It will limit any injury until you are safe to properly heal. It aids self-defense in many ways. On a better day, I will instruct you in its ways. Until then, you will learn on your own."

As she made final adjustments, I bumped into Jay's chair and I couldn't hold my questions any longer. "What happened to Jay, the one who built this garden? Why did I have that terrible dream about him? Did he die up here? Why? How?"

Anya sighed. "Henrietta gives safe haven in all Frames, but this," she indicated the roof, "is not Henrietta. It has become a Connector outside the system of Connectors. It allows danger to enter her safe zone."

"It feels bad up here now, but it hasn't always. I've been up here with Jay lots of times and it always felt great - peaceful and restorative - until lately."

Anya nodded. "The Connector feels newly activated."

"Why now?"

She clasped gentle hands on my shoulders. "That is a question we must answer."

"So once the Connector opened, something dangerous came here and trashed the garden? And Jay?"

"Yes, Nica, I fear your friend met with evil here. Yours was a terrible vision, not a dream."

"But why Jay?"

"He may simply have stood in another's path."

Wrong place, wrong time, on a cosmic scale. "Are you confirming that he is dead?"

"Yes, it is likely that he has Traveled beyond the far Frames."

I didn't understand all of that but I got the essentials. Jay was gone and if my vision was true, his end was terrible. I couldn't succumb to grief right now - and, unfortunately, I've had a lot of practice setting aside such feelings until a better time. _Jay, I love you._

I let Anya lead me out the far side of the garden. "What's a Connector?"

"It is a passageway, a means of Travel for those who have neither powers nor Guide."

"Some people talk about wormholes. Is a Connector a wormhole between Frames?"

"It does no harm to think of it thus. Come with me now, Nica. Quickly."

"When does somebody explain to me what is going on?"

"Arrange a taxi for transport again this evening," she replied as though this were an answer. She paused outside the planting beds and looked for something I knew I couldn't help her find. Perhaps tonight would make things clear to me.

"Are we going to the same Frame as before?"

"You are," she nodded, then laughed at my joyful dance.

"I love those guys," I enthused. I couldn't wait to see Miles and Monk again.

"The free Frames depend on them," she agreed. "As do I."

She hadn't included herself in tonight's trip. But before I could form my question about this, I froze. The air pressure changed like it does just before a tornado, although the sky showed no sign of storm and we were in downtown Los Angeles, not Kansas. Below us was a concussion, as though there had been an explosion inside the building. An explosion with shock waves but no sound.

Anya looked toward the stairwell door. I kept my gaze on her. The very thought of that door terrified me and I did not want to consider it. _I was a weakling and had no hope against the advancing forces._ I wanted to run but there was nowhere to go. _I was an imbecile and would be lost if I moved._ Better to stay and meet my fate quickly. _I was a worm devoid of hope._

Worm wasn't bad. I could make like an earthworm and slither deep among the jasmine's roots.

Anya grabbed my arm and my fear receded like a winter tide. I regained control of my thoughts as she led me farther from the door. Her Guide was in her hand and she gestured to me to follow her lead. "Take up your Guide," she instructed.

"I don't have it! Anwyl took it back!"

With a gesture of frustration, she put her Guide away.

The menace expanded and I knew that soon the door would open. I was not near the door, but I could feel its metal flex and push against the edges of the doorway, which for now remained sealed where Anya had touched it. If I started screaming I would not be able to stop.

Anya led me to the edge of the roof, where a six-foot-high iron railing marked the perimeter. Like everything on the roof, the railing was newer and less stylish than the rest of the building. I'd more than once wondered if suicides had preceded its installation, but I hadn't gotten around to finding out its history and now I would never know. Amazing how fast and pointless thoughts can fly in a crisis.

The pressure concussions continued to build behind us and beneath us, now accompanied by an intermittent sound like a helicopter in a cavern.

"Do you trust me, Nica?" Anya asked unnecessarily.

"What are we going to do?" I asked, but we were already doing it.

Anya leaped to the flat roof of the air conditioning shed and before I knew it, I had scaled the chain link enclosure to stand beside her. Up here, we were above the iron railing. Holy crap, we were going to jump off the building. Well, if she thought certain death was better than waiting for the door to open, then jump it would be. Certainly, the way the approaching sounds made me feel, it was easy to believe a jump was preferable.

Facing me, she entwined our forearms. Her hands gripped my elbows and my hands clutched hers. Her skin felt like a spring breeze on a meadow.

The roof door exploded toward us with a metallic scream.

We jumped off the building into the scuzzy air. Now, at last, I had the balls to look back toward the door, but instead I saw the penthouse windows shoot up and over my head. I looked down ten nine eight stories to the bus stop at the corner. Below, ant people debarked a bus. I fantasized our fall would be buffered by awnings, but there were no awnings. Our fall would end at the steel and glass bus stop shelter. I hoped the ant people would disperse before we arrived.

Anya looked inward, muttering. I felt the same sensation I'd felt last night when I used the Guide - like I was in an elevator dropping 100 stories, in a world where gravity worked at right angles. Plummeting sideways.

The building remained on my left side and the bus stop remained below our feet, but the ant people and the street traffic dissolved into a broad, sinuous path that undulated like a sidewinder. We were no longer in my Frame. The air was like mercury here, and in it we slowed to a feather's speed. My feet hit the ground so gently that I didn't realize we had landed, until Anya let go of one elbow and dragged me toward the building entrance.

The shallow courtyard was the same as it was in the Henrietta I knew, but at the far end there was no door, just a gash like a poorly healed wound. Where the doorjamb had been, stitches of razor wire bound jagged edges of brick that oozed mortar. As we hurried past the door, Anya grabbed both my arms again, spun me around to swap places with her, then released the arm she had been holding and gripped the other arm. She had positioned herself between me and the undulating path, which swerved close to us here.

We turned a corner. Several windows above us were open and I could hear laughter and clinking glasses, like a party in progress. Where the street should be, there was pockmarked relief that had a pattern to it I couldn't place at first. As I stared, I realized I was looking at a city as though a few thousand feet above it. The pockmarks shifted in movements reminiscent of distant cars and people. I eased us closer in a futile attempt to get a better look - getting closer made the scene more distant. Anya didn't seem concerned that I got closer to this, yet something about it filled me with unease far greater than the undulating pathway had. From this angle, the sounds above us, inside the windows, made an emotional Doppler shift; the voices were now animated in arguments and the clinks sounded like slaps.

We turned the next corner and Anya resumed muttering. Again, we plummeted sideways and we were back in my Frame, in the narrow alley at the delivery entrance to the Henrietta. We were alone there and I felt exposed. Anya braced my arms in farewell, then backed away, speaking rapidly to me while muttering to herself. As she backed away, she grew as faint as last week's dreams.

"Do not return to your rooms until Anwyl comes tonight. He will help you dispose of the books that do not belong. Tell him everything that you witnessed today. Tell him I have begun the journey. Goodbye, Nica. We will meet in better times. Now go, and quickly." She vanished before she finished speaking and her last few words came from all directions.

### 9. One Mighty Big Compass

I was a shipwreck in need of an island. Whenever a thought touched on my last hour with Anya, an evil black ooze filled the fringes of my thoughts. I had to stay in the present, so I made a to-do list for my afternoon and repeated it until it became a mantra. Find Edith's mother Maria. Question her about Edith's disappearance. Return to the Henrietta. Get input from Hernandez about the conversation with Maria. Eradicate library books. No - that last one brought the ooze so I scrapped it from my list.

I noted without judgment that I already trusted Hernandez.

I must have caught the Red Line train into Hollywood, because here I was where Maria worked. I stood outside Yucca Elementary School and watched buses line the driveway at the end of the school day. According to their window placards, the buses came from several schools. This must be a hub of summer school activity. I thought about budget cuts and working parents and my eyes filled with tears. I had a titch of PTSD, or I sensed this would be the last time for a long time that I would spectate such a normal scene.

Hernandez' description of Maria was as authentic as a photograph. When she emerged, I had no doubt it was she. Short and sturdy, Maria reminded me of the log cabin where Ben and I finished our honeymoons. She wore sensible shoes like she had no other styles at home, and she walked as though she was on her way to her second but not her last job of the day.

She stopped because I asked her to, listened after I said that Hernandez had sent me, shut down when I explained that I wanted to help find her daughter.

"This I do not ask!" she said, angry or frustrated. "Edith is no - Only the family -" She shoved her arms folded.

"Señor Hernandez told me that you understand much English but it is difficult for you to speak it. I am in a worse position. I only know Spanish that is no use to anyone. _Hace frio este deciembre?_ " This demonstration earned the world's most fleeting smile. Emboldened, I continued. "The Garcias say that you are searching for Edith. Together."

"No!"

"Did they lie to me? You are not looking for Edith together?"

"They did not lie about that."

"But they lied about other things?"

"I miss my bus."

I walked with her down the street.

"Are you still looking for your daughter?"

"No more. Mistake."

"So she was okay all along?"

"No more. Mistake." Her voice was brick scraping cement.

"Why do the Garcias want to find Edith?"

"My bus is here," she whispered.

Getting info from Maria was like the time I tried to drive my scooter up a runaway truck ramp. I kept gunning it, then, too, until the friction burned a hole in a tire. I boarded the bus behind her. She did a cornered animal thing with her eyes when I slid into the seat beside her.

"Do you want the Garcias to stop looking for Edith?"

She nodded.

"Why did you partner with them?" She didn't understand that one. "Why did you help the Garcias to look for your daughter?"

It wasn't any of the answers I anticipated. She met my eyes and announced, "I was ignorant." The way she turned to face front, I knew those were the last words I would get from her today.

I thanked her for her time and got off the bus at the next stop. I'd only ridden about half a mile but I hadn't attended to the turns and I had no idea which direction would get me to the train station. My map app was no help. The dreaded _compass interference_. I waved my phone to draw infinity symbols in the air as I walked. Still nothing. That was one mighty big compass.

I chose a direction that put the Hollywood Hills to my left, which meant I headed east. Within two blocks, the neighborhood became detectably scuzzier, which meant I was nearing Western Avenue, which meant I was walking away from the station and needed to hang a left and a left.

I wasn't lost, exactly; after all, it can be slow to get your bearings when on foot. I didn't know this area, the dregs of Hollywood. Elvis Cole would know his way around here. He knew his way around everywhere - he knew every street in Los Angeles County. He must just drive around between cases... er... between books. Well, anyway, his author sure knew L.A.

Was it possible to be a detective in Los Angeles without a car? Whatever the answer, I would have to make it possible for now. I hadn't expected to get cases so soon. I had recently loaned my car to Jenn, and if I took it back even briefly, she would refuse to borrow it again - and she needed it to get to her more exotic medical treatments. Jenn has M.S. and fights it with medicine from all hemispheres.

I had a blister where my Asics met one ankle.

I turned into an old neighborhood with mature trees, whose roots made the sidewalks treacherous. I had to watch where I put my feet, so almost collided with a construction flatbed that pulled into a driveway in front of me. The driver was a kid who knew he was too good for this job. He jumped out like he dared me to complain about how he had cut me off. I gave him two days on the job, I wouldn't have to lift a finger, he'd hurt himself just fine. I detoured around the back of the truck, turning my other cheeks to him. Gandhi lives.

The apartment buildings that flanked the driveway were three-story boxes with the architectural flair of loading docks. Over one carport was a wooden sailboat, riding waves with most crests broken. Chain link fence with green webbing surrounded the complex and signaled a construction site.

The truck driver caught my attention a second time. His walk had lost its strut and he slunk to a corner outside the webbing, where he huffed an electronic cigarette, pretended to study the dried weeds, and cast furtive peeks at the crew who unloaded his truck.

Call it curious. Call it nosy. I crossed the street to perch on a porch step and get a broader view of whatever had so altered his mood.

Five guys in hard hats unloaded rebar from the flatbed. A sixth stood to one side, watching them. It took me a minute to figure out what was weird. They worked in full sync yet complete silence. At one point, without discussion, they all stopped and changed direction, backing up to turn left in order to deliver that load - and only that load - to the other side of the site. They didn't look at one another, but they would occasionally turn in unison to regard the foreman, before performing a new action in unison.

My waist prickled where Anya's lanyard touched me. The prickle became a searing jolt when the foreman turned to look at me. The crew had their backs to us but turned in unison to follow his gaze to me. I hunched lower onto the porch step, grabbed my phone, and pretended to mess with it.

"Help you with something?" came a bass voice from behind me. In retrospect, I recalled hearing the door and the screen door open behind me.

"Train station? Think I took a wrong turn. Sorry to intrude - your porch has the best shade in blocks," I said, and listened carefully to the porch owner's directions. While we talked, the flatbed drove away and the gates to the construction site closed. The lanyard ceased its prickling.

I had the train station to myself, which disturbed me. I reminded myself that it was typical for a station to be empty at this time of day. Rude attention from construction guys was also typical. It was no wonder that I reinterpreted the ordinary in terms of my experience with Anya. But I had to stop extrapolating or I'd become no use to anybody, especially myself.

I had just missed one train and at this time of day, the next would arrive in 20 minutes. That gave me some time to think about what I had and hadn't learned from Maria. I found a not-very-sticky bench and adjusted my shoelace so my shoe hit my ankle below the blister. There was a rustle of synthetic fabric and after that I was not alone.

The other bench dweller spoke to me. "Why are you looking for Edith Moreno?"

I gave her my best _you talkin' to me?_ She flashed a badge and I hid my surprise with a blurted question of my own. "Which side is the mother on, anyway?"

"Maria's coming around," the detective replied, out-murking me. I didn't like taking second place in the cryptic answer competition, but I liked my new companion, immediately. No makeup, freckles, good bones, auburn hair slicked back in a tight wrap with a shine that said it was pampered off-duty. She wore Doc Martens with toe scuffs that may have come from kicking wrongdoers, and a pantsuit purchased on an honest cop's salary. The jacket was tight like a weightlifter wears tight.

"Are you looking for Edith?" I tried.

"I am not and you need to stop. Are you working for the Garcias?"

"They asked me to find her. I want to make sure Edith is safe."

"What did they tell you?" Her voice was a draft through an igloo door.

"That there was trouble at home with her mother and she split and she is their goddaughter so they are concerned."

"And which parts of that did you believe?"

"Not enough to tell them where Edith is - assuming I find her - before I understand what is going on. Enough to believe Edith could need help."

"She did. She's safe now."

"Do you know where Edith is? Are you hiding her from the Garcias?"

She stripped her face of expression, which seemed to tell me _yes_ when she non-answered, "Why would you think that?"

"You're hiding her? Really? Why? See you've got a really expressive face so when you freeze it up like that, you answer me without answering."

Surprise registered. She didn't know that about herself.

"I don't want to cause trouble for Edith. Tell me what else I need to know about the Garcias. What is their interest in Edith?"

"It's not in her health," she snapped, reinforcing my instinct to doubt my clients. The train arrived and she walked me to the train's door, but did not join me in the car. She handed me a card. "Tell me before you tell the Garcias anything."

I had just spoken with Detective Pat Henson, Domestic Crimes Unit, Los Angeles Police Department.

The train trip downtown was uneventful, apparently. I had too much on my mind to pay it any heed. The walk from the train station to the Henrietta was hot yet refreshing. It was late afternoon, so the sun was low enough to build thick shadows between the downtown buildings. Anwyl was due to arrive in just under two hours.

When I got to my building, I couldn't open the entrance door. It wasn't locked but it was stuck. From what I could see when I pressed my forehead to the glass, the lobby was empty. I searched for a buzzer to the office, but then - shooting up from my toes, flooding my body - came rapid realizations: _I didn't want to be there, I had come back too soon, I needed to leave,_ and _I needed to find a crowd to blend in with._

I joined a brisk squadron of commuters headed for the train hub at Union Station. From there, I rode the trains back and forth and all around. Rush hour flowed and ebbed. At 6:45 p.m., I tried to go home again. Now the building door opened like it had just been oiled. I entered the lobby timidly, but it felt fine. As my finger reached for the elevator call button, the elevator doors slid open for me. There was no one in the elevator but my floor, number 9, was already illuminated.

### 10. Do You Prefer This To Be A Dream?

Anwyl was at my desk behind my locked office door and acknowledged my entry with a lightning bolt of a smile. He was doing something on my laptop - or to my laptop, which made a throbbing noise I'd never heard before. I looked over his shoulder. Gone from the monitor were the usual windows of apps and docs. The view seemed more like a real window now, looking onto a steep barren mountain that seemed dimly familiar until it began to spew chains of numbers that slid down its sides. Anwyl's head moved back and forth like he was reading teletype. At one point he slid a finger across the keyboard, which moved a grid on the screen. Under the grid, numbers flowed. Outside the grid, rocks and dirt slid down the steep slope. "Again," Anwyl said to the screen, then watched intently as a duplicate rockslide occurred.

"Thank you, my friend, and tell no one." Anwyl spoke to the screen as he skimmed a fingernail across the keyboard. The mountain vanished and my computer's desktop windows reappeared.

"Tell me everything that you experienced on the roof," Anwyl belatedly greeted me. "Omit no detail, however insignificant it seems."

I tried to comply, but Anwyl isn't a good listener. In fact, I predict he is somebody who skips ahead to read the last page of a novel first. What am I saying? Anwyl's not a fiction kind of guy. But if he were, that's what he would do. He is about as patient as I am quiet and my attempt to tell the story of my day frustrated him beyond what his rudimentary politeness could handle. Clearly, I didn't understand what mattered. He was dismissive of what I considered the big deals: something came after us that could bulge the steel door on the roof and mess with my thoughts; we went to a Frame where the Henrietta's doorway resembled a poorly healed wound; we had to jump off the roof because he had confiscated my Guide.

Actually, that last point made him look like he might know the definition of _contrite_. He extracted my Guide from his tunic. When I took it from his flat open palm, his fingers snapped to grab my wrist like I was slipping off a cliff. "You must never Travel on your own, for any reason. You could be lost in a manner that prevents us from finding you."

"Okay, I get it." I wanted my wrist back. "Promise."

"A vow uttered aloud has more strength."

"I said I promised. What else do you want me to say?" He made me repeat after him. "I promise I will never use the Guide to Travel the Frames by myself, whatever the reason, however short the journey." I wondered if that was a promise I intended to keep.

He released my wrist. Someday it would bend again. Another lightning bolt of a smile and I savored the flow of electricity, until he muttered, "Anya will banish me to the far Frames if I allow harm to befall you."

He resumed pacing my office like a marathoner in a dash, unable to stride far enough to satisfy his need to move. "Continue your tale. You may have observed something of value." He sounded skeptical.

I'd already told him the afternoon's chronology, from the moment I'd found Anya crouched in the garden to the moment I returned to the building and was permitted to enter. Now I closed my eyes and free-associated tangential memories as they came to me. Three things proved important. Or so I assumed, because Anwyl questioned me about details. I couldn't tell heads from tails with any of it.

"When the door bulged, from inside the building there was a sound like a helicopter in a cavern."

"How far inside the building was the sound?"

"Far. Like down in the lobby."

Grunt. "What else?"

"She didn't want me to hold on to the library books. She made me leave some in the stairwell."

"Where in the stairwell?"

"Just a few stairs from the top. I should show you. She said you should help me return those. And my others, too."

"There are no books in the stairwell now. Where are the others?"

I looked to the shelf by the door, where I keep library books: empty - but there had been five or six books there.

"They're gone. Somebody took them while I was \- - did you see anyone else around when you got here?"

"What books resided here?"

I was a little embarrassed to tell him. They were mostly _save your life and start fresh,_ pep-talk self-help drivel, plus a couple new detective series I had skimmed for business research. I didn't mind telling him about those. But as for the self-helpers, "I don't remember for sure what I had, because my friend Jenn picked them out for me, she thought I needed a boost but to me that kind of crap is more like a kick in the -"

"Most likely they have enlisted. Mercenaries," he hissed, with a violence that frightened me.

"We're talking about books, right? Not soldiers."

He gave me the look you'd give a used car that you were offered for free. "Books are the armies of the Frames." His frustration with my ignorance was palpable.

"Anwyl, lose the long-suffering, okay?" My sharpness of tone surprised us both. "You use this tone _of course everybody knows this stuff_ \- and maybe everybody does in your neck of the Frames. But I ain't from around there."

Now, he did look contrite. "I extend apologies. You have adjusted so quickly that I forget your inexperience." He finished with one of those smiles.

I've never been the type for reassuring hugs, but he couldn't know that. If I said I needed a hug, he would have to - he interrupted my fantasy with, "What else do you recall?"

"Anya said you should help me get rid of books I don't love." I opened the doors of the floor-to-ceiling cabinet, revealing the crammed bookshelves inside.

He grunted again, strode to the bookshelves. Shelf by shelf, he withdrew books and hefted them. Some he returned to their places, some he piled on an emptier shelf. Somehow he removed and piled all the books that mattered least to me. He did this rapidly, then said, "I sense no traitors here. We will thin the ranks another day. What else do you remember?"

The last additional memory I could conjure was of the emotional Doppler effect when Anya and I were on the sidewalk and the happy party talk changed to angry shouts as we walked below the windows. That had thoroughly creeped me out, but Anwyl dismissed it with a rude hand wave and grabbed my arm to pull me toward the door. I reacted to the rude wave and he forced his manner to seem less brusk.

"You have done well, Nica." He looked up at my skylight and the darkening sky outside. "We must away."

"Back to Miles and Monk?"

"We will meet with them, yes."

But we needed no taxi to Watts tonight. As soon as we reached the hall outside the elevator, he brandished his Guide and reminded me where to set the dial on mine.

"Anya could transport us without a Guide." I confess. I wanted to needle him.

"Anya had no choice but to use another method. Whenever possible we will employ Guides. They are awkward but safest for a new Traveler."

He put the Guide to his mouth.

"Really? Why?"

He lowered it with exasperation. "They permit more precise arrivals to fewer Frames."

Thus concluded our Frames FAQs session. I bit down on my Guide.

The Travel sensation was different this time. Instead of the rapid sideways falling sensation, the hall stretched like an old rubber band that had lost elasticity. I looked to Anwyl for explanation. He looked at the floor behind me and spat "No! Release us!" His level of tension frightened me. I turned to find the building cat, Dizzy, prancing toward Anwyl. I reached down to hold her tail as she went by. Her back legs skidded and I released the tail. _Hold the tail_ , this was a game we always played and she reacted as she always did. She stopped marching forward and returned to rub against my legs. I felt no small degree of relief. This was the cat I knew. This wasn't a netherworldly creature that Anwyl and Anya mistrusted.

"Do not toy with us, cat," Anwyl muttered. Dizzy puffed up like Anwyl was a foe.

I recalled the wording of a question that Anya had posed when she first spied Dizzy. "This creature is known to me, Anwyl." To Dizzy, I whispered, "Remember the alley, babe." I had rescued the cat from an alley where she was cornered by a trio of dogs, and brought her to live inside the Henrietta.

"I hope it is sufficiently known," Anwyl replied. After hesitation, he stepped aside and Dizzy pranced past.

Just as the sideways sliding sensation began to build, the elevator chime sounded, the doors opened, and Hernandez exited the elevator with his back to us, pulling a cart of cleaning supplies.

Anwyl issued expletives in a language I couldn't place.

"The Guides aren't working," I said.

At the same time Anwyl exploded. "The cat yet holds the route open!"

I looked past Anwyl. Dizzy was at the end of the hall and before she turned the corner to disappeared from view, she flicked her tail. I looked back toward Hernandez and realized I had been mistaken. The Guide had worked, but somehow Hernandez had shifted Frames with us.

When he first saw me, he raised a hand in greeting but the hand lowered hesitantly as he approached. The hall walls and the cleaning cart became translucent, transparent, gone. We stood on a long stretch of platform and the skin on my cheeks felt the bite of a breeze that suggested we were still nine stories up.

"Nica. Anwyl. Over here."

The uppermost points of Miles and Monk poked up beside the platform.

"Hold on tightly, there is wind on our journey." Anwyl strode to the edge and climbed off the building onto Monk's frame.

I headed for Miles, but called out, "Anwyl, what about?" I gestured back toward Hernandez. We couldn't just leave him here.

Hernandez walked to the edge of the platform, looked down at the Towers. "How'd we get to Watts?"

"We're not - long story," I replied.

Indeed, we were still surrounded by the buildings of our block in downtown Los Angeles. Nine stories below, there were cars and an occasional bus moving slowly, every which way, on sidewalks and asphalt, as though grazing rather than driving. We stood in a divide between two halves of a building that looked like the Henrietta except for this gap through the middle.

"Why does this warrior dress like a servant?" Anwyl demanded, studying Hernandez, who studied him back.

"My job cares not who I am," Hernandez replied.

"Hernandez is known to me," I tried the phrase again. Anwyl looked at me, baffled. "You don't need to send him away. I can vouch for him."

"I will not send him away. If he is here, he is meant to be here." This statement interested me on many levels. For one: maybe Anwyl isn't ye olde compleat control freak, after all.

The wind picked up and Miles suggested that we get moving.

"Is this a dream?" Hernandez marveled, taking it all in.

That was a good question. We looked to Anwyl for guidance.

"Do you prefer this to be a dream?" he replied.

_No_ , I didn't need to reply. I swung a leg out to climb onto Miles.

Hernandez looked around as though weighing pros and cons. Eventually he replied, "No."

Anwyl nodded approval. He held an arm out for Hernandez to use for balance and Hernandez jumped onto Monk. Then Anwyl climbed from Monk back to the platform. "I will meet you there," he told Monk, and he loped back into the building.

### 11. Cats Have Only Their Own Side

The Towers moved out to the street, and I felt chilled and exposed as though I'd been in a tent that got yanked away by a sudden blast of wind. Rounding a corner, we moved closer to the building and I was enveloped in warmth. We pulled away again and I felt exposed again.

"Henrietta makes me feel protected," I realized.

"Got that right," Miles chuckled.

"But not when I'm on the roof in my Frame. Which isn't the same roof in this Frame. She has a different roof here."

"What is up with your roof!" Miles agreed.

I rode a few blocks in silence, not thinking about the roof in my Frame, nor what might have happened to Jay there. "Does Henrietta move around in this Frame?"

"She is sentient in all frames but animate in none."

"Poor thing! Or - well. Is that bad or good?"

"That is her circumstance, not a point of judgment," Monk replied. I took that as Monk speak for _it is what it is._

"Are all buildings sentient?"

"The answer is as varied as the Frames," Monk replied.

"So some buildings are sentient in some Frames, some in others? And some in none?"

" _None_ and _never_ and _nowhere_ cannot be used when speaking of the Frames," Monk advised.

"When you say something never happens, maybe you just never got to a Frame where it does happen," Miles added.

Hernandez had listened carefully and now asked, "What is a Frame?"

"A glimpse of reality," Monk said.

At the same time Miles replied, "A layer of the universe."

Hernandez nodded and looked around in that careful way he had, as though memorizing his surroundings.

"Do you talk to Henrietta?" I asked them.

Miles tilted toward Monk, who answered instead. "We meet with more clarity than words allow but you may imagine it as talking."

"Next time you 'talk' to her, tell her thanks for watching out for me and - careful! There's a cloud."

"Yes, that is a cloud," Monk agreed, with what might have been puzzlement.

"Clouds are bad, right?"

"A sky without clouds is a Frame we don't want to visit."

"Anya makes us stop talking whenever there's a cloud around," I explained uncertainly, wondering if I had misunderstood.

"Caution is one kind of wisdom," Monk said.

"Clouds go most everywhere," Miles explained, "so they get gigs as messengers, and some of 'em work as spies."

"Spies for whom?"

"Agreed. Or for what," Monk said.

I thought about that one and I thought it made sense, then it didn't, so I let it go. Anya and Anwyl usually ducked my questions. It was refreshing to have some answers, even though I didn't feel closer to understanding.

"Why am I here? Why did Anwyl and Anya come to me?"

"It was time," Monk said.

"I don't get what you mean."

"You will when you do," Miles assured me.

"That sounds like something your brother would say!" Which filled the air with static charge.

I checked on Hernandez. He listened and watched with the intensity of a lip reader in dim light. His body made an elliptical rolling motion as he clung to Monk and I wondered if I looked the same to him. Under me, Miles' translation felt like waiting for a wave in a gentle surf with erratic swell.

We were out of downtown Los Angeles and headed south, just past USC and the Coliseum. The buildings were surrounded by what looked like an off-road rush hour. Cars were everywhere, at all angles and directions, and now I confirmed my earlier impression: they grazed on asphalt. It wasn't the only curious thing I had noticed.

"I haven't seen any people in this Frame. Do you not have people here?"

"Not native," Miles said. "But our Frame and yours are pretty close so you can catch some folks moving around in your Frame. See, there's some right there."

"Where?"

"There's some more."

"What direction should I look? I don't see anyone."

"Right there."

"Sorry, I still don't see anybody."

We kept going _ad absurdibus infinitum_. There! Where? Right there, Where _there_? Abbott and Costello could have finished _Who's on First_ before I finally figured out he was referring to ghostly flickers of light, which I had taken to be reflections in glass.

"Those quick flashes of light, those are people?"

"Those are the traces of people in this Frame," Monk said.

"This Frame moves faster, that's why the view doesn't last," Miles added.

"Some Frames are faster than others? Wow."

Wow wow wow. When my mind finished boggling, I felt ready to send it for a new spin. "How many Frames are there, anyway?"

Monk and Miles made similar noises and the air filled with static electricity. They were laughing again.

"That is a question answered by faith, not knowledge."

"So nobody knows how many Frames there are?"

"Ill-formed questions have stillborn answers," Monk intoned.

"How many Frames have you been to?"

"Many and yet few," Monk replied.

"Have you ever tried to just see them all?" I had a vision of teenage Towers blasting through Frames on a dare.

"Few of us could survive an attempt," Monk answered.

"So it's dangerous? Why?" I persisted. They needed to talk faster. We were nearing Watts and I feared that Anwyl would show up and terminate the Q and A.

"Danger is everywhere sometimes," Monk said.

"Frame Travel just ain't healthy if you go too far. You get too far from your own - environment, like." Miles groped for words, like an Italian who had to teach cooking in German. "Even here, near your own Frame, you spend too much time here and you'll feel it. Just like we need maintenance in your Frame."

"Metal and flesh cannot share meals," Monk agreed.

"Deep-sea fish die in shallow water," Hernandez offered, his voice pitched lower than usual. He made a gesture to indicate bulging eyes. I understood what he meant. We must have seen the same PBS show about those strange white creatures that live at the bottom of the deepest oceans with no light or warmth. That show distressed me; it was like learning about Serbian orphanages.

I wondered if I looked like Hernandez, who was pale and had a sweat mustache. I hoped he wasn't going into shock, and I hoped I wouldn't join him. I doubted the emergency rooms here would suit us.

My next question tackled a conundrum that I couldn't think about on my own because it gave me such a headache. "So. The Watts Towers must not disappear from my Frame when you are here because I would have heard news stories if the Towers vanished or reappeared. That means you occupy two Frames simultaneously. Am I in two Frames now too?"

"No, you are completely animate," Miles said.

"Animate beings are only in one Frame at a time?"

"Is the cat with him?" Hernandez asked. I thought he was playing _Trump the Non Sequitur_ with our hosts, until I followed his gaze. It wasn't a _non sequitur._

Next to the Towers that were mere structures, Anwyl stood, facing us but looking down. His stance said _locked and loaded_ and even from this distance he was intimidating. He didn't hold a weapon but he was ready for battle, equally prepared for offense or defense. My stomach knotted and I felt a very personal betrayal. His aggression was directed at the ground, where Dizzy ignored him, washing her face with a paw as though she had just dined on fresh sparrow.

The fact that Dizzy was here intimidated me, too. "No!" I shouted, then explained to the others, "I love that cat but I'm starting to fear she might not be on our side."

"Cats have only their own side," Monk said.

"Love her all you want, just don't trust her," Miles advised.

Dizzy was too far away to hear us, but she looked at Monk then Miles then me, then walked away. Suddenly she wasn't there anymore. She either went behind an invisible curtain or she vanished. I thought of all the times she had curled up on my futon for an afternoon and wondered if we'd ever share such normalcy again.

Anwyl beckoned us to follow him. Hernandez and I tightened our grips, and the Towers resumed their translation south. On paths to intercept our route, half a mile away and closing, were two of my favorite LA landmarks.

From the south came the Vincent Thomas bridge. In my Frame, this suspension bridge spans the Los Angeles harbor near the ports. It's so tall and solid, whenever I drive near it I feel like a midget; and, gawking at it, I always miss my turn. I love the sliding intersecting shadows its struts and cables cast on my car hood as I drive by it. I don't love the racket of all the car horns, but I guess they have a point. Mesmerized by the sliding shadows, I have more than once strayed from my lane. The bridge looked so elegant here on its own, away from the cranes and diesel that infest the waterfront. It moved toward us with a ratcheted walk; its suspension cables rotated around its pilings and met the ground at a hundred faceted angles, reflecting light as they advanced.

From the north came a red trolley car, legacy of an early mass transit success. Decades after the auto and tire industries snuffed the Red Car as a real transportation option in Los Angeles, it had been reinstated as a tourist attraction at a single steep hill called Angel's Flight. You wouldn't know that this squat square car was a frivolity. Its red lacquer paint gleamed like liquid rubies. It advanced with a slight sideways sway and as it sashayed, it trailed a section of track that was endlessly replenishing. The track was solid steel beneath the black-spoked wheels and dissolved to a glittering chrome trail that remained visible behind the car for several seconds before it evaporated, marking the train's sinuous passage.

"There's that classy chassis I love!" Miles called to her, and although the car didn't respond, the sashay swept a wider arc afterwards. He was teaching me how to flirt with machines. I wondered where I might apply that skill.

From the northwest, a blurred pillar took form as it neared. It was a Hammerhead roller coaster, come all the way from Magic Mountain, 40 miles north of Los Angeles. It was something like twenty stories tall, with a caution-yellow occupants' cage that plummeted from the top, faster than it takes to describe the fall. In my Frame, I couldn't bring myself to ride the thing or watch when Ben rode it. Now, with each drop of the cage, it catapulted a few hundred feet closer. It moved at such speed that my vision could only register a blur of previous location, a blur of current location, a blur of future-now-current-now-past location, with shimmering arcs between, as though Christo had wrapped the air with a fabric of fog.

I fixated on the mundane to protect myself from amazement overload. "Are there north and south in this Frame?"

"North east south west," Miles turned four times so that I faced each direction as he named it.

"Same as in my Frame." I said.

"These hold in all Frames where direction exists," Monk informed.

"Nix on more questions, Nica," Miles advised. "Our meeting's starting now."

Miles, Monk, Anwyl, and the newcomers launched discussion when they were still a Tower's length from one another. I swallowed my next question, which was to wonder if someone at this meeting was controlling the airspace. There were clouds on all horizons but the sky directly overhead was clear and vivid with stars. Far as I could tell, they were the same stars as in my home Frame, but they were so much brighter here - whatever illuminates this Frame at night doesn't interfere with the sky view.

The meeting attendees spoke in a language I had never heard. At each pause, Miles summarized for Hernandez and me, although hearing the conversation in English did not guarantee comprehension. Actually, I heard the summary in English - but when Hernandez asked a question in Spanish (" _Demasiado_?"), I realized that we each heard Miles in our native tongue. Neat trick! In his summary, Miles did not reveal who had said what. Back then, I didn't know the participants well enough to be able to guess.

"From all our years together, we know we can trust one another. We agree to trust no others without first consulting this group, united here."

"We cannot ignore the signs, which grow in number daily. Those faithful to _[name that sounded like]_ Warty Sebaceous Cysts and their master may seek to free him. Although _[name that sounded like]_ Maelstrom is in prison, we dare not assume his bonds are unbreakable."

"Anya will Travel as close as she dares to the prison, to get evidence of the escape attempt and proof that Warty Sebaceous Cysts still follow their old master. The Framekeeps may act if she brings proof. She will not succeed if our enemies know her intent. Thus we must hide her quest, and her absence from the free Frames."

"We must continue espionage to understand who helps Warty Sebaceous Cysts - and Maelstrom through them - and who would join his cause should he break free."

"We need more allies."

"Look to survivors of the dead Frames for allies."

"No, their anger makes them unstable."

"And we must ask why they survived."

This launched a debate and Miles didn't translate all the details. I used the pause to ask him, "What are the dead Frames?"

The debate stopped and it was Anwyl who answered, as though reminding the others while instructing me. "Maelstrom demonstrated his power by obliterating all life in Frames that fought his rise. His methods were so cruel that some Frames, knowing that he would come for them, chose to kill themselves before he could touch them. Maelstrom took what revenge he could by rendering those Frames uninhabitable. It is those we call the dead Frames."

"A few survived because away in other Frames," the red car explained.

"The loyalties of the survivors have always been questioned, as have the loyalties of their offspring," the Hammerhead added. "I believe this to be a further injustice, but we dare not trust them as allies."

The others nodded agreement and resumed their previous rapid-fire comments. "We must rally more allies without sounding an alarm with our suspicions."

"We must appear oblivious to the changes that are taking place."

"We need more information."

Translations ceased again during a long, heated discussion that seemed to target Miles. He stopped his usual fidgeting, and for the first time I was aware of sitting on cold hard metal and cement. When this discussion concluded, no explanation forthcame.

"What was that about?" I had to ask.

They all looked at me, then below me at Miles. It was Monk who replied, although his words seemed directed at Miles, not me. "As Miles would say, he needs to get off his bitch ass and take action for the good of the free Frames."

"Do me a lemon! I ain't lazy! I just got my priorities straight!" After what seemed to be laughter all around, "This ain't about lazy. Your plan is sketch. The risk's too high. I can't go back there - I won't make it out again. We can't afford to lose nobody. 'Specially not me."

"You are the only one among us who dare make this visit. All in that Frame know you. They treat you as one of them." From Anwyl's tone this wasn't a compliment.

Miles lurched and I clutched his girders to stay aboard. "Let me say it one more time. They used to be all groovy and fun. But no more. A bunch of wankers came in and now the whole Frame is a clusterfuck. You heard what they did to ( _name that sounded like_ ) Happenstance. If I go back there I'm next."

The mood shifted and silence erupted. Anwyl was the only one still willing to press the point. "No one knows the truth of that disappearance."

"Yeah! 'Cuz Happenstance is wiped from all the known Frames, so we can't ask him, and nobody else is talking. And that was the last Frame anybody saw him. And he disappeared before things turned as ugly as they are now."

The debate overwhelmed me with a sense of dread that emanated from Anya's lanyard. My dread did not dissipate when the crisis resolved in Miles' favor. Whether Miles' arguments or his fear persuaded the others, the mood changed and Monk summed up the new view. "We will not yet ask you to do this. There may be another way. We must use other ways if they exist."

Anwyl looked at the others like they were trying to climb a waterfall, but he conceded to their decision, of which he obviously disapproved. "We will seek all other ways before we ask this of you," he told Miles. Anwyl then turned attention to Hernandez, who had raised his hand.

Hernandez said with grave reluctance, "I must go home to my daughters when my time at work concludes."

Anwyl replied, "Do not feel concern. We will depart soon, yet when you return you will still have your work hours before you. Time moves more slowly in your Frame." He looked at me with amusement and held up a hand, which stopped my questions before they got from my brain to my mouth.

He looked from me to Hernandez. "Whatever you have heard here, you must forget. When you return to your Frame you must pretend that you know nothing."

"That won't be hard," I assured him. "But why did you bring me-us to this meeting?"

Monk, speaking with the other group, looked away to call an answer to me. "We need your help. This you have always known."

Hernandez beat me to it. "How can we help if we do not understand?"

We?

Anywl replied, "You can observe. Your Frame is a way station and many beings pass through it. There are travel corridors called Connectors within your Frame. These require scrutiny and as natives you are best suited to observe." Anwyl included Hernandez in his stare, so I included Hernandez too. We.

"So we are supposed to stand around and stare for you?" I did a poor job hiding my displeasure. I don't get bored easily, but when I do, it is a kitten killer. In fact, my earliest bad memory is of my discovery of boredom. My whole life has been a flight from that feeling and now - just as I discover the marvels of the Frames, a guarantee against boredom forever - I'm supposed to stay home and watch passersby.

Actually maybe it wouldn't be boring to just watch visitors. I recalled the un-boring visitor to the roof garden. Which reminded me, "I want to help you find Anya."

"Heed my words. She is not lost and we must not behave as though she is absent. She can only fulfill her mission in secret."

"But we don't know where she is or whether she needs -"

"Nica, you gotta listen to Anywl." The air around my head had a stinging quality. Miles was frustrated with me. "Or you could lose Anya her life."

Even Hernandez was giving me a _get with the program_. It felt like one of those pivotal decision moments. If only Gittes had agreed to stay away from Chinatown.

"Okay take me home and show me where to sit and watch." I tried to keep my tone neutral but you could cut the ennui with a toy knife. Now the air fizzed with mechanical amusement. Glad I was so entertaining.

"Enjoy these last days without action, Nica, you will soon know them only through nostalgia," Anwyl said to me, and then concluded to the group. "We ready ourselves for a war without battlegrounds. Our defeat would mean the end of the free Frames and thus we will not fail. Thank you for coming to this meeting."

"The beginning is now," Monk hummed, and this brought silence, a stillness deeper than space. The others meditated on the coming conflict. I felt spooked and looked over my shoulder, expecting to see the horizon crowding in. At last, Anwyl raised his arms and I regained the energy to soldier forward.

The guests exchanged words I didn't understand, then departed. I gave myself whiplash watching each and all of them move away in their separate directions.

### 12. A Memory To Cherish

Miles and Monk took us most but not all the way home. Anwyl stopped the Towers and had us dismount a few blocks from the Henrietta, at the outskirts of Skid Row. We walked the remaining distance and throughout the walk, Anwyl was distracted. He studied the ground like the sidewalk held directions; all I saw was trash, a filthy bikini bottom, and feces that didn't look canine. Suddenly, he bent to sniff a discarded food wrapper. This part of town and this time of night, his behavior didn't strike passersby as odd. Anwyl dropped the wrapper and sprinted around the corner, barking at us to wait for him where we stood.

Hernandez gave me a look and I returned him a shrug. We jogged after Anwyl and found him with a young man and woman in pricey business suits. Anwyl had them smashed against the concrete wall of a garbage bin enclosure, one of his hands to each of their throats. They didn't try to pull his hands away and instead stood frozen as though standing at attention. Watching them made me nauseous, thanks to Anya's lanyard.

I thought I heard Anwyl growl to them, "There is no hunting in this Frame. Move on and do not return." He released them and they gave nods like salutes, then departed at race-walking speed but without the goofy arm pumps. I figured out what was odd about them. They were in business attire but carried no briefcase no laptop no purse.

Anwyl didn't react to finding us behind him, although I had expected him to be pissed that we followed him. He remained distracted while he escorted us to the Henrietta. In the elevator, he seemed to be listening.

When we exited on my floor, he turned to Hernandez and spoke even more formally than usual. "Henrietta speaks well of you. I see you to be a true warrior and your aid is welcome to our cause."

We stood at the custodial cart outside the elevator where Hernandez had left it. Hernandez reorganized custodial equipment as he considered responses. He was holding an upside down mop when he spoke, yet still looked solemn, strong, and dangerous - every bit the warrior Anwyl had recognized in him. "I must serve my daughters before all others, but whenever I can, I will strive to assist."

As they clapped arms, I realized that Hernandez was now talking like Anwyl. I further realized that Hernandez took on the speech patterns of whoever he spoke with - a vocal chameleon. I wondered what the real Hernandez sounded like.

"Until tomorrow, then," Anwyl said to both of us. "I will return at the second meal after you break fast."

"You mean, at lunchtime?"

"Yes, as I said."

I let him have that one. Break fast. He was better with my computer than I was, but he talked like Lancelot was a homie. "What is your Frame like, Anwyl?"

"I hail from all Frames. In a better time I will show you those I favor," and he left us with his most endorphinating smile. It was a few moments before I realized he was gone.

I was in afterglow, but Hernandez was trying to get my attention. He got it when he said, "Jay."

"What about Jay?"

He looked up and down the hall. I led him into my outer waiting room, then shut the door to the hall.

"Okay. Privacy."

"I saw something. I thought it was impossible. But now." He stared through my wall, no doubt remembering tonight's events.

"What did you see? What happened to Jay?"

He began to shake and took himself over to sit down. Usually he sat perfectly erect, but now he filled the chair like warm wax.

"It was a vine." His puzzlement morphed to controlled terror as he allowed the memory to overtake him. "The vine jumped out of the dirt and twisted around his ankles and he should have fallen but the vine held him at an angle nobody can stand at. The blood." With each syllable, his voice lost a decibel and I knelt to catch the words he breathed next. "The blood came from his -"

He tapped his arm to remind himself of the word, then pressed a nail into his skin to break the memory's hold. "His pores. First blood flowed from his pores. Then thorns stabbed out from his pores. Then he was gone."

"Dead, you mean?"

"Gone. Puff. Disappeared."

_Maybe he was injured but alive somewhere, maybe he had just shifted Frames, maybe he needs rescue, maybe he would -_ The existence of Frames elevated my denial of death to a whole new level.

Hernandez was shaking. He had witnessed a horrible thing happen to Jay. He had protected his psyche by convincing himself he had imagined it. Now, the evening's events had stripped him of that protection. Meanwhile, his story shared the horror with me. It was tempting to run and hide, drool and whimper in a corner, but we had a job to do. He revived first; I spoke first.

"We must tell Anwyl about what you saw. Until then, we are better off not thinking about it. Look at the time! Your shift ends in ten minutes. Can I help you finish up?"

"No, I'll skip doing this floor. Just need to store my cart and change my clothes. I can be back at one tomorrow. Will that be too late?"

"You don't need to stay involved with this - Anwyl --- the Frames. I can tell you how it turns out." I watched his face, saw my determination and curiosity matched there, plus an anger that was all his own.

"I want involved. I joined the Service to protect the good and stop the enemy. That's what I do best. This time I'll be able to tell them apart."

"In that case, yes, one o'clock seems like a good guess about Anwyl's return time. If he gets here earlier, we won't leave without you." As we walked into the hall, we looked both ways and I sort of joked, "Have you wondered if maybe we're both crazy?"

"No. I've always known we don't know jackshit about what's really out there."

"Yeah. Okay. Maybe I've always believed that too."

I walked him to the corner, from which I could see my office door and his elevator door. He looked in the elevator corners before he pushed the cart inside.

Back home, I locked the hall door behind me and checked the file cabinet. Yeah, I had plenty of snacks to last me until morning. Going out to eat tonight had as much appeal as sightseeing the Gaza Strip. I was spooked, to put it politely.

My growing unease made it hard for me to focus on my snacks. _Put it all out of your mind. Don't think about it._ I had given Hernandez great advice, which I couldn't follow. What Hernandez witnessed meshed with my vision on the roof, when I sat in Jay's lawn chair and heard felt smelled something terrible happen to him. I cycled through Hernandez' story and my memory, confirming the fit. Then the other penny hit me or however that saying goes.

_When I sat in the chair_. Which was still on the roof. Damn.

With enormous reluctance, I unlocked my door and dragged myself to the penthouse stairwell. The door wouldn't open. Pushing on the door, I announced to the walls, "Henrietta, there is a chair stuck on the roof that I need to rescue. It is sentient and it should not be left up there. Is it safe for me to go up and get it? You know I'll hurry."

I gave the door a shove and it opened. I hoped that was Henrietta's doing! I sprinted the stairs, smashed out the top door, stumbled, righted, dashed to the garden, grabbed the chair, dragged it through blighted dirt - which released a stench best not described. I was back in my waiting room with the hall door locked before I had finished my thought about how dangerous it could be to go on the roof.

It was a cheap aluminum beach chair with frayed interwoven strips of plastic webbing. Was my guess right? Could the chair be sentient? Were all such chairs sentient? I had recently sent a similar chair to the landfill. Maybe if I sat in the chair I could confirm my hunch, but I didn't think I could handle what it might reveal. For once, curiosity did not dominate my decision. With gentle respect, I folded the chair and slipped it behind the defunct radiator. I kept my hand on the chair as I thought about Jay and _went back to the morning we discovered the first shoots from our seeds, tiny green fingers as bright as hope. I heard my voice shout the discovery to Jay, heard his calm acknowledgement that this was just the beginning, heard the squeak of the faucet and the distant-traffic rush of water through the hose to our green new lives. The dense odor of healthy soil and the invigorating warmth of solid friendship enveloped me._

That was a memory to cherish. I thanked the chair and welcomed it to my office, then grabbed more snacks from the file cabinet and headed for bed.

I opened the door to my inner office and jumped to Jupiter, dropping the box of crackers and converting the bag of dried fruit to a projectile. Dizzy was curled atop papers spread over the futon.

She opened her eyes, as though from a nice nap, and did a long slow cute stretch, exposing the soft fur on her belly. It was like a hundred other times I'd walked in on her, except it wasn't. Tonight she had gotten past two closed doors. And I hadn't left the papers like that. Maybe the cat had been reading them. After she returned from antagonizing Anwyl in another Frame.

My stomach tightened and I was filled with regret for the lost innocence of our relationship. Again, the intense feeling seemed to emanate from Anya's hidden lanyard. I would have appreciated something more conclusive from the lanyard as I tried to figure out where Dizzy fit and what her allegiances might be.

Something else I had been wondering. "Did you hold the Frame open so that Hernandez would join us?" Dizzy blinked slowly like an all-knowing or sleepy cat. "That's what I thought." I was surprised Anwyl hadn't picked up on that. I didn't point it out at the time, because I didn't want Hernandez to be tainted by Anwyl's mistrust of the cat - a mistrust I now considered, but could not bring myself to share. I gave Dizzy a few chin scratches then went to my desk.

When I'm feeling stressed or threatened, lying in bed is like living _The Pit and the Pendulum_ \- so I sleep outside or sitting up. Previously, I had slept in the roof garden, but I have no plans to ever go to the roof again. That night, I thunked my legs up onto my desk, which tilted my chair at a perfect angle for shut-eye. Dizzy could keep the futon.

I went under fast but couldn't get much real damn sleep, thanks to a miserable dream which revisited the last days of my fourth husband's life.

Near the end of our three years together, it was _Twilight Zone_ , how happy we were. This got my superstitions worried, but Karmin Ickovic would scoff at my concerns. "This one's the forever one," he'd whisper, and with _forever_ he'd send a tickle of air into my ear. Ick made me laugh, he enthused me to deal with all the pointless trivial crap that could fill a day - because he was out there plowing through similar crap and when we finished we would be together again. Together. Within fifteen feet of him, I got consumed in such a state of arousal it was like a never-ending trip on the very purest LSD, um, as it has been described to me.

The dream started during our last shower together, that Thursday after our last run together. Soaping his ankles, I noticed wide odd bruises pooling blood on both his legs. One bruise was on a calf, the other on a shin, which made it unlikely that the bruises came from a forgotten bump or fall. Ick never went to a doctor so he didn't call one now. The next day, Friday, he fell as he got out of bed, so we went to my doctor; by Friday afternoon, he was in a special hospital swarmed by experts in accelerated-onset leukemia. Or whatever the fuck they called it. He wasn't conscious much over the weekend, when they did tons of stuff to him and I held his hand.

By Monday, they had to induce a coma so they could perform treatments too aggressive to be tolerated while conscious. As they prepared him, for the first time since his fall, he came fully alert and insisted I lie beside him in the narrow bed. It was hard to hold hands with all the tubes. As they started pumping more poison or salvation into him, he touched his lips to my ear and said "my forever" and that was the last anybody heard from him, because he disappeared into their fucking coma and by Tuesday he was forever fucking dead.

After the dream's fifth or fiftieth run-through, I switched on a light and thought maybe I'd read - but I wasn't sure which books I should trust; and I thought maybe I would call Jenn - but I wanted to honor her isolation. When her M.S. finished doing its most recent number on her, she went away to a retreat. Some kind of ashram thing, she is into that spiritual stuff and I never have been, so I can't tell you for sure. _A month of pure sheer withdrawal away from the world and into her essence_ is my understanding of it. I could phone her if necessary, but a night of rotten dreams hardly counts as an emergency. And anyway, I need to practice being without her. Not that I need more practice. If you matter to me your time will be brief.

Ooof. This is the kind of attitude that I usually manage to avoid. I plugged my phone into my speakers and blasted my most life-affirming playlist. Right now I needed Mary J., the Carter Family, Aoife, and Br-u-u-u-ce. Over on the futon, Dizzy's ears twitched and she opened one eye. I needed to take the cat at face value, so I knelt beside the futon and set aside the urge to see what would happen if I spoke Klingon to her. Instead, I rested cheek to fur and let the rumble of her purring fill my head.

### 13. The Last Kid In Line To Talk To Santa

Next morning the futon was open, the sheets were on it, I was between them. Dizzy was gone. None of the books had changed position. Someone had lined my mouth with sandpaper. Maybe I hadn't brushed my teeth last night, although someone had opened the door to my bathroom and left the toothpaste where I leave it.

I uncorked the special water and ground the magic beans and with my first sip of espresso, color came into the day. I tilted back in my desk chair to examine the sky and waved to a cloud that might have been CharcoalStringCheese. No response, but then we'd never been formally introduced.

All in all I was in a fine mood, considering, and the mood persisted when someone knocked on the outer office door. The knock was tentative yet solid, like your best friend at the new school, and I opened the door to find Hernandez with a mid-teenage girl who shared his wide angular jaw and velvet eyes. She wore five earrings and a push-up bra that hadn't yet had much work.

"You can only be Karina," I guessed, and they shot me smiles like I'd stoked twin furnaces. I sensed or maybe remembered that she was of the age where each would struggle with her evolution from daddy's girl to her own young woman. I'd lost my dad before we got past that struggle, but I know we would have come through it okay.

They took seats flanking the door. I gave her space by perching on the chair arm farthest from her. "Thanks for agreeing to talk with me, Karina - and for getting up at such an unteenage hour on a Saturday morning."

"I'm always up early for basketball practice. The thing with Edith," Karina said, "It's not like you think."

"Consider how it looks to an outsider like me. Edith's missing, her mother doesn't know where she is, they've had some fights, her godparents are worried."

"They only say they're worried when they want to look nice."

"I know. But they hired me to find her. Still \- they're my clients so I'm not supposed to say things like this - there's something about their story that feels bogus. I can't get myself to trust them. Whereas, your dad I trust a lot." He sat, impassive, perhaps unwilling to influence the conversation.

"Edith is okay but she needs to stay away," Karina insisted.

"I'd like to believe you," I began.

"I know, Dad explained about you," she said. A lesser ego might have wilted.

I sipped my espresso. "I probably seem like a relaxed person to you."

"I guess." She wanted to stay on my good side.

"Well, when it comes to getting information, I'm such a pain that people get their ass amputated to get rid of me." She choked a laugh, which I ignored. "I'm relentless. And I'm resourceful. I'm going to find Edith. It's up to you whose side I'm on when I do."

"The Garcias are liars and Edith is fine! She just needs to stay away for a little while longer."

"I so want to believe you, but it can only happen if I see Edith. Why don't you bring her here?"

"No! I can't do that! Why can't you just believe me? I'm telling the truth!" She stormed out, pausing to glare at her father. "Thanks a lot, _Dad_."

After my door slammed, I heard their argument in Spanish recede toward the elevator. Then I heard Hernandez speaking English and after a time, I realized he was on the phone. Then I heard nothing and brewed myself a second cup of espresso. The first sip had crossed my lips when the door shuddered like someone hit it with a mallet. They were outside, Hernandez behind his steaming daughter.

"I don't want to upset you, Karina, it's just that Edith -"

"- is the only one who can convince you. I know. That's why we need to take you to her."

I downed the espresso in one gulp and chewed grounds as I pocketed my phone and wallet. They were already down the hall. "Let's go," I agreed.

Hernandez drove a Toyota truck with so many dents that it looked laminated in golf balls. The paint was a red plaid, thanks to its many touch-up shades. "How many miles?" I asked, as I pretended to protect myself with the middle lap belt, which in a crash would crush my intestines and impale my forehead on the rearview mirror.

"Just passed two hundred k," he said.

"Just getting started," I said appreciatively.

"Don't encourage him," Karina advised me and immediately told her dad, "I still need my own car."

"Kids today," I said. It felt good to have a conversation with no subtext or import.

As Hernandez pulled out of the Henrietta's subterranean parking garage, I caught a flash of movement at the curb. A tinted car window slid closed, but not before I saw eyebrows and forehead that seemed familiar. I watched the late model silver sedan in the rear view mirror as we moved down the street and I tried to place those eyebrows. The sedan pulled into traffic two cars behind us. I could see two forms in the front seat, but couldn't see who they were.

"Don't head out just yet, wander a few blocks first," I instructed. The sedan duplicated Hernandez' increasingly arbitrary turns. When Hernandez made a last-minute three-lane shift from left turn lane to right turn lane, the sedan did the same. Yup, it was tailing us - and suddenly I could picture the face that went with those eyebrows.

"The Garcias are following us. That silver Camry. Ditch them."

Hernandez sped up out of his latest turn. Garcia was a considerably more cautious driver, so it did not take long to lose them. Hernandez kept weaving and turning until there were zero late model silver sedans behind us. That took a while.

At last satisfied that no one tailed us, Hernandez pulled over and traded places with Karina. She slid behind the wheel, but she kept the stick in neutral and looked expectantly at her dad.

"You can trust me zero or one hundred per cent," he told her in a voice full of paternal frustration. "There is no half trust."

"Dad, you still have to."

Muttering, from the dash compartment he produced four eye patches. He put one over each of his eyes and when I had done the same to my eyes, Karina shifted into first gear and joined the traffic flow.

Haar maties. I don't know where she took us, but we got there after 10 minutes on freeways at full speeds and where she exited, the air smelled like cumin and garlic.

Left turn, left turn, right turn, then left turn into what must have been an open garage. As soon as the ignition shut off, I heard Karina's door open, rubber soles scuff the pavement, followed by the characteristic garbage-truck-full-of-marbles vibration of a motorized garage door.

"C'mon, okay, now," was our signal to remove the eye patches. Karina led us to a tidy granny cottage in a barren backyard and opened the cottage door without knocking. Inside, a TV action drama chased colored light across a couch, where a girl I recognized from the Garcia photo album napped in an upright fetal position, arms clasped around knees, with earbuds blocking both ears. Karina toggled the light switch and strobed the room with fluorescence. Then she shoved at the side of the couch like it was a stray dog that wouldn't get out of the street. Edith's eyes opened. She saw Karina and said, "Hey." She saw Hernandez and uncurled. She saw me and removed the earbuds.

In person, Edith had a lanky frame that would one day be svelte, a voluptuous mouth that she used to hide her big teeth, and eyes like the last kid in line to talk to Santa. Immediately, I could tell that she wasn't somebody who liked to be alone and she was glad to have our company, even though she mistrusted two of us. She was a lost kitten under a car.

Stylized as a jazz dancer, Karina lowered herself onto the couch next to Edith, then with a giggle, slammed her hip sideways to butt Edith out of the way. Edith smiled fleetingly and made room for her friend. Suddenly Karina seemed younger and Edith seemed older.

Hernandez stood out of sight behind the couch, leaning against the counter that separated the miniscule kitchen from the beensy living room. Even so, it took some time for Karina to get Edith started talking. But then Edith started to spill, to explain why she was in hiding, and soon we were all drowning in her sorrow.

I had been slightly right, when I interpreted the photos from the Garcias. Edith did have a massive honking crush on her coach and P.E. teacher, the Garcias' son Antonio. I'd worried that he might not handle her delicate feelings with sufficient care. I had feared slingshots while she had been nuked.

For a time, Karina had a thing for the Coach, too. All the girls did. He made every girl feel like she was special and beautiful. And sexy. They competed for his attention and touches. Where he touched each girl was a measure of her appeal.

We're talking about fourteen-year-olds, folks. I could tell Hernandez had heard Edith's story before, by the way he shrunk into himself, nursing his father's shame at failing to protect so many daughters. I had already mapped out several slow painful ways for the Coach to conclude his sorry existence before the girls got us to the main event.

Edith. She was most special to Coach, so on his 33rd birthday, he took her virginity in the romantic setting that every woman yearns for, the floor of the faculty bathroom. But, hey, he locked the door.

That day was only the beginning. Eventually, the principal reported him and a detective came snooping around. Detective Pat Henson. The Garcia family machine kicked into high gear to protect their son and their name. Norma and Aurelio flooded Edith's friends and families with help and gifts. They manipulated Edith's mother Maria: Coach Antonio did so many wonderful things for Maria's family that at first she trusted the helpful friendly teacher more than her silent moody daughter. Her mother tried to persuade Edith it would be wrong to press charges.

Nonetheless, under Detective Henson's guidance, Edith did press charges. Karina helped Edith move - run away from home if you will, although her mother allowed the move - to avoid more pressure until the initial legal hoops got hurdled. Eventually, Edith would go home, but for now she needed the Garcias to leave her alone and she needed her mother to stop seeking forgiveness. Which could only happen if they didn't know how to find her.

In the silence that followed Edith's story, I felt how alone Edith had been. Detective Henson lived in the front house but was usually at work. Karina hung out when she could. Other times, Edith sat there in a room full of elephants, trying to avoid getting crushed by her own thoughts.

I shoved everybody out the door for an illegal drive - four in a pickup. We took Edith to breakfast at some chain restaurant with ten pages of menu and nothing worth eating. Edith had hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and kind of grinned while Karina teased her.

When the pickup returned to the driveway, Detective Henson paced her front veranda like a panther in a shipping box. Her face went through the four stages of grief as each of us emerged from the truck. I got _anger_ and I raised a hand to deflect it. I warned, "Edith needs to get out more or else she -"

Suddenly I felt dizzy unto nauseated. I dropped my wallet as an excuse to double over. As I rose, I spotted the source of my distress: a pair of joggers with fresh-off-the-shelf exercise apparel. The way they surveyed the neighborhood as they ran, I imagined their expensive earbuds piped not music but chainsaws and screams. They reminded me of the pair in business attire that Anwyl had caught downtown. Were these two also illegally hunting in my Frame? I didn't know what they were hunting but I wished their prey successful flight.

Detective Henson gave them a hard stare. She didn't know from Frames but she knew bad guys. The joggers glanced at her, stared at me, and I tried to will a visit from Anwyl. They sped up as they rounded the corner and loped out of sight.

"You know those guys?" she demanded.

I shook my head to hide a shudder. "Guess there are still some assholes I haven't dated yet."

She snorted. "Your life story too huh?"

Well, at least the joggers helped us to bond.

"Karina, check this OUT," Edith yelled from inside, turning up the TV volume. Soon we could hear the girls shrieking like the fifteen-year-olds they were.

The detective smiled like she was testing a toothache. "You're not a scumbag after all," she complimented me. Total lovefest, baby.

I gave the detective my card. "I want to testify against the Garcias, if it gets to that."

"Oh, it will get to that," she promised, fished a crumpled business card from her breast pocket, proffered it between two fingers like a cigarette that needed a light. The card edges looked like they'd served as a toothpick, but I treated it like my half of a -

"Friendship ring, remember those? We each get a piece and together they make a... never mind."

"Anyway, what other kinds of cases you work?"

It was a gesture of friendliness, quickly retracted when I hedged, "That's kind of hard to explain." But I hedged for her own good. She didn't want me to tell her about the Frames and make her take me to a loony bin. Are there still loony bins?

### 14. I Don't Do Mistrust

Karina let us ride home without the eye patches. I watched the miles slide by like grease down a gutter. In this butt-ugly part of town, neighborhoods were tight-knit despite the warehouses and light industry that divided their blocks. There was a lot of character here, all on the inside.

When we got back downtown, we had the windows down and cruised in dense traffic. As we proceeded along the Henrietta's block, it suddenly turned drive-by. We passed a delivery zone where idled a late model silver sedan with tinted glass and one window down, framing the driver. Hernandez tensed and I pointed. I'm mostly glad my finger wasn't loaded. "Stop the truck. Right here!" I had the door open and one foot out before Karina could comply.

It must have been something in my expression, or my walk. When Aurelio the driver saw me, he shoved his sedan into gear, and Norma the passenger nervously repeated "go go go."

I hooked my arm through their open window and grabbed the steering wheel. If they wanted to drive away, they would have to drag me - and they wouldn't want to make such a public mess. "He started when she was fourteen," I greeted them.

"Is a lie," Norma sniffed, tilting her head up as she looked out the windshield, finding great interest in the blank white back of the delivery truck ahead of them.

"The family needs help and this lie is the only way they know how to ask for money. We are doing what we can for them," Aurelio added, with the kindly concern of a pill doctor.

"They try to destroy our son and our name. Everything he has worked for! His students are his life. He is such a good person." Norma's chin was way up.

"No, he's really not," I replied. "And somewhere inside you know what he really is. Let me add that I can no longer help with your investigation," I added, as professional as a pre-recorded message. "I have incurred a few expenses on this case but you do not need to reimburse me. You have a good day while you still can." I released the wheel, ducked my head back out the window, and concocted an ancient-sounding curse. "And may your actions rule your dreams." I didn't know what the hell I meant and neither did they but it troubled them, which satisfied me.

Karina and Hernandez monitored my exchange while hurrying into the Henrietta. I caught up with them on the stairs to the subbasement. A glance at the time explained Hernandez' haste: 11:15 a.m. His shift started at 10 a.m. Something about this made me sad. This wasted sense of duty. He could start his shift late every day and nobody would notice. Office staff at the Henrietta consisted of a bookkeeper and a maintenance guy who rotated among several properties. Wait. I was thinking like Ben. Hernandez was reliable because that's who he is and not because he might get caught being late.

The stairwell echoed their voices. Hernandez and Karina negotiated where she could take his truck that day and when she would be back to fetch him. They continued practicing for the father-daughter debate squad as Hernandez disappeared into overalls and rubber soles. He stepped into the supply room and backed out wheeling a vacuum.

"Hey!" I interrupted his futile demand that homework get more of Karina's time than the mall. "Thanks for trusting me to talk with Edith."

"Now you see," Karina said simply.

"I do, indeed," I replied.

"I'm late, Daddy," she said, and he forked over the keys.

Her steps up the stairs were as light as Saturday morning. Listening made him smile and when I noticed he asked, "Do you have kids?"

"No." I said and regretted my tone. "Sore subject," I added, which helped not at all. My "Some other time -" came out simultaneous with his -

"It's not my business."

"I would like to explain to you, but not now." And that was as de-awkwardized as it was going to get.

"Anwyl arrives at one," Hernandez rescued us.

"Yes. Meet us in my office?"

"No. I thought about it all night and decided I can't continue with the adventures. I've got two daughters and they've only got me."

"I understand and I respect your priorities." Too bad. Stakeout would be less fun without him.

Dizzy had departed my office through two closed doors, which was as unsettling as finding her inside last night. That cat was the last person I wanted to mistrust. I don't do mistrust, usually. I trust you or you're on the other side of my personal force field. Your choice.

I had just enough time to go to the gym, so that's how I killed the incredibly long hour until Anwyl was due to return. Hearing Edith's story had left me with much bad energy to expend and I put speed metal in my earbuds while I pounded the treadmill and slammed the punching bags. I planned to put Coach Garcia in the front line the next time we fought Maelstrom.

I can't explain how, but I knew when Anwyl entered the Henrietta so I went out in the hall to meet him. "I saw more hunters," I greeted him, "but not here," and I described the whereabouts though not to his satisfaction. He made me detail every nuance of the encounter, even whether they had looked at the detective before or after they looked at me. With each new question, he grew more dangerous. He stared out my skylight like daylight pissed him off. _Same team, same team_ , I kept reassuring myself.

He went to the window and looked down from the edge of the glass to maximize the area he could view.

"It's bad, right, to have hunters around?"

He looked at me like he had just noticed I was there. "It is not unexpected," he said, with a gentle smile that gave me the warm fuzzies in all the right places. And since you asked, no. I never do stop thinking about Topic A.

Except when shamed. Surely I hadn't been speaking aloud, yet Anwyl looked at me with fond bemusement, like when your puppy humps your ankle. Surely he could not read my mind! That would be worse than freshman year when Joey Maricopa read my journal. Some parts of high school never end.

Astonishingly, now Anwyl looked sheepish, which suited him not at all. "I extend apologies. Anya forbids gathering thoughts."

"You sound frustrated about that."

"It is more efficient and time is short."

"So when time is short and Anya is gone."

"Know that I will not intrude again." He concluded this formality with a _don't tell Anya_ look _,_ which thrilled me with the prospect that she might show up again soon.

"I don't care either way, so don't stop gathering on my account if it helps you get the job done." Let's face it. Private thoughts don't help me for long. I can embarrass myself sooner or I can do it later, might as well get it done at the _thoughts_ stage and save my jaw some use cycles.

I don't know whether he heard me. He had returned attention to the view outside. Bottom line: he hadn't looked horrified by my warm fuzzies, so I labeled his reaction positive enough to merit future exploration.

"You always open my window," I noted as he opened my window.

"Buildings do not suit me."

"I don't like being inside either but I didn't know opening a window could help."

"It limits isolation," he said, then cocked his head as though something just proved his point.

"What do you hear?" I heard much and thus nothing, a wash of sound from the cars trucks sirens pedestrians skaters car stereos street hustlers.

"Each day, more steps that should not walk here," he said darkly, bringing a cryogenic chill.

For the first time, I felt the seriousness of the situation. "My job is to wait somewhere and watch as they come and go between Frames, right? Tell me where to go and I'm on my way." Captain my captain, reporting for duty.

My assignment sounded easy enough when he ran through it. Each evening I would hang out and observe and remember. I would record my observations and report them to Anwyl each morning. How would I know whom to observe? I would just know. Now that I'd spent time in other Frames, I would be able to distinguish visitors from natives of this Frame.

"Why only in the evenings?"

"That is the time when those Connectors function."

I would eventually learn that a Connector is a tunnel between two Frames. Anyone can use a Connector to Travel, after a little training. Outside the Neutral Frames like mine, children learn Connector Travel in school. Most of us can use a Guide, too, but only beings with powers - like Anya or Anwyl - can create a Guide or move from Frame to Frame at will.

Anwyl stressed that on my assignment, I must be careful to remain anonymous and I must do nothing to call attention to myself.

When I learned that one Connector was in a bar, I thought about spending my entire evening there. "I might need to have friends with me. If you don't want me noticed, you don't want me drinking alone."

"Follow all customs," he agreed, sounding pleased. "I am not familiar with the rituals of bars but you are right to conduct yourself appropriately."

"OMG you've never been to a bar? When we're done saving the world we're going out."

"Is it an important ritual?"

"Maybe not, but it's a fine one, with the right company."

"I will enjoy your optimism about the future." He smiled for the last time that day and brought me back to task. "Nica, now listen and obey without questions or resistance. If you observe someone who departs the area near the Connectors, you must not follow. Let visitors pass by you without seeing you and under no circumstance should you leave your Frame."

"I already promised that I won't Travel alone."

"You must not leave your Frame, no matter what occurs, no matter who or what you witness. Repeat this as a vow."

His solemnity rattled me. If that was his intent, his plan worked. I repeated, "No matter what happens, I will not leave the Frame tonight and I will never use a Connector."

When I made the promise, I fully intended to keep that vow. But of course not even Anwyl could have predicted how the deal would go down.

I needed wheels to get to my Connector stakeout, so I broke a long-standing vow to myself and went to Ben at home. He always lived in cool apartments and he never stayed longer than a year in any. His current abode was a stucco cottage at the Day of the Locust Arms. He was down the far end of a terra-cotta courtyard with a burbling ironwork fountain. I heard the murmur of a single voice, found an actor in a chaise lounge memorizing highlighted lines from a few stapled pages of script.

Ben was home here at mid-day, which bode ill, but I only had to knock once, which was a hopeful sign. Jiminy Jehosophat, again I had reverted to old ways, looking for signs and portents to discern whether he was using, or what he was using. All of which infuriated me so fast that by the time Ben opened the door, I shoved it at him. The empty pink duffel bag sought by Mathead and Scabman.

When he recognized the bag, he went whiter than overcooked macaroni. "Did -"

"You never get any better with your choice of friends," I overrode him.

He looked up-down the walkway while he tossed the bag behind him into the dimness of his apartment. He pulled me in and shut the door.

"It's not like you think," he began.

"Gee I have never heard that from you before," I monotoned.

"But it's complicated."

"Really? You went back to that line? Oldies but goodies day."

"Nica, I'm not using. I swear on our first night."

Okay. That was the one oath that remained sacred proof of honesty. So far. "You look good," I noticed and admitted. His shirt was ironed and matched his - good lord, a tie.

"Just got back from a -"

"- funeral?"

"- meeting with investors."

Another entrepreneurial phase. "In other words, you interviewed at Starbucks?"

"Something like that."

Don't worry, he wasn't deflated by my jabs. He only deflates when he can't have something he wants, and then just to make room for more desires, the same way my exercise ball initially loses a little bounce when I insert the air gun to pump it fuller.

You probably think I am too hard on Ben, who is always so upbeat and so ready to try something new. You might be right. But it's an attitude that is necessary to keep myself from getting captured in his orbit. Ben is the sun. I used to be the inner planet, and life was steamy but I was always getting scorched and facing only him. Now I'm more of a comet. I get close occasionally but I'm protected from recapture.

A timer went off. I followed him back to the kitchen, where he poured himself a tall green thick one from a blender; from a double boiler, he added things that sank with hisses. He gestured, did I want one?

"What would I be saying yes to?"

"Cucumber smoothie with steamed grapes."

I shrugged. "Two fingers for me." It couldn't be as bad as it sounded. Ben never chose to do anything that wasn't pleasurable.

"So are you in rehab?"

"Got out a while ago." He led us from the kitchenette to the overstuffed rattan couch that felt like sitting on a cloud. My favorite furniture ever, purchased during our flea market days. I let Ben take it when our second marriage concluded, because sitting on it without him, I only felt the iron screws and the hardwood frame.

"You didn't mention that you were in rehab again."

"You went through it with me twice as a spouse, twice as an ex-spouse. I didn't want to disturb the symmetry."

When he put it like that, I had to agree. My rehab support dues were paid in full.

"What is so life or death about that empty duffel bag and why do you have such royal scumbags hounding me to get to you?"

He slouched like he had a rubber spine. "They're not technically trying to get me, they just want more contact than I think we need."

What a crock of. I set my glass down hard enough that we checked the plywood tabletop for dents.

"How's your smoothie?"

"Best green glop I've ever barely tolerated. Ben, next time they show up they'll threaten me. That's the direction it's headed in."

He stopped slouching. "No way will they hurt you."

"Don't puff yourself up. I don't need your protection - I can take care of that myself. What I need is to understand."

He draped himself across the cushions like a thrift shop shawl. "Understand what?"

"What the fuck, Ben."

"It really is complicated and I can't explain yet. But I'm not dealing and I'm not using."

I took a moment to parse and re-parse, looking for loopholes where he could mislead me without officially lying. I didn't see any, but that didn't mean they weren't there. I didn't have his genius or his experience.

You see, Ben is a junkie, so he is a brilliant liar. He is an omni-addict who has tried everything, although heroin remains his one true love. He stays clean for longer periods of time now - whoever heard of an old junkie? He knows he's running out of time. So he pauses - and maybe this pause will be the time he stops. I don't have hope left. I don't have grief left. I've spent my rage. I've spent them all. Somehow, when I am with him, he still manages to share his confidence and optimism. That is one of his many gifts, all of which the fucker has squandered. Sobriety may one day be his crowning achievement, the one he spent half his life trying to attain. The other half he will have spent trying to score.

Today was apparently an angry day for me. Sometimes it is easier to feel my love for him when I am not around him.

He wrote his current phone number on a scrap of paper, which I pocketed without reading. I no longer store his numbers in my phone. Probably to prove a point about trust, he tossed me the keys to his van without demanding to know why. So I tossed them back and invited him along. He was the perfect cover for my stakeout.

Me, his sax, and his van. Those are the only loves from the old days that Ben has kept in his life. I say _van_ , but the correct term is panel truck. One of those serial killer specials with no windows in back. Ben kept it clean and getaway ready. It was so well-tuned, it started with a purr.

In no time we had reached my stakeout and we parked where we always parked when we went to this bar. Yes, I'd been there before. I'd laughed a good long time when Anwyl told me where my stakeout would be. The Largo at the Coronet in West Hollywood. In a city of a million buildings, this was one of the few that I claimed as mine. So much of my past was lived at the Largo. Ben and I had been regulars at the first Largo location. Ben introduced me to Ick, standing in line there. He'd met Ick a couple weeks before, also waiting for a show. Later, Ick and I - sometimes accompanied by Ben when he was sober - had spent many an evening at the relocated Largo at the Coronet Theater.

I wondered if Henrietta knew the Coronet. I assumed the Coronet was also a sentient building, it had such a special presence. From the street, it was an ignorable red brick box, dwarfed by a hulk of a parking structure and washed by a flashing neon boast from across the street: _live nude girls_. But as soon as you entered the courtyard, you knew you had arrived somewhere special, where the deejay always plays the right tunes to sustain a mood of mellow enthusiasm. The lights hang low and dim, and make the worn brick and wood mysterious yet homey, varnished with decades of high expectations, routinely fulfilled. The auras of the past performances are magical. Buster Keaton was there. Bertolt Brecht directed Charles Laughton there. Photos of them line the courtyard and flank the box office, which has a big corner window that I have never seen open, adding to the sense of ghost lives. Seeing that window tonight made me speculate about what shows play the Largo in other Frames.

Ben wasn't interested in catching tonight's performance - some comedian we had watched through several incarnations - but he was quite interested in hanging with me at the bar before the show began. Two steps into the Largo's bar, called The Little Room, I stopped and let nostalgia have its sappy way with me, until the bartender greeted Ben by name, then gave me a friendly professional squint. I could have said _hey Louie_ and made him feel bad that he didn't remember me, but instead I focused on recalling how to detach from Ben. That Ben was still a regular here set me looping like a paper airplane, pondering his sobriety. I skidded my thoughts into a sheltered corner and let them rest; I hoped he was taking care of himself but if I let that be my concern, I would lose my own concerns.

### 15. At First Glimpse, He Terrified Me

The Largo has two Connectors, one here in The Little Room and one in the back of the theater. The bar was crowded and I tilted my chair so that I could see between Ben's shoulder and the head of a guy at the next table. This gave me a sliver of view to the far side of the bar where the Frames connected. An off-duty employee was the only one standing near the Connector and then just-like-that someone else was there and brushed past, behind the employee. If you hadn't been watching, you'd assume he had exited the unisex restroom at the end of that aisle. Except I had been watching and knew he hadn't.

How can a Frame Traveler transfer into a room full of people yet avoid notice? Maybe a crowd makes it easier. I watched the guy walk the length of the bar and out the door to the courtyard, then excused myself for a pretend trip to the women's bathroom, past the courtyard in the lobby. The guy crossed the lobby without a glance in any direction, then yanked at the rear door to the theater. It was locked. The gal at the snacks counter tossed him a cheerful, "Doors won't open for 30 minutes," then looked startled by his reaction, which I couldn't see.

He pretended to loiter in the courtyard but he couldn't stand still long enough to work up a convincing loiter. As more people arrived for the show, his movements became ricochets. He and other people were magnets with the same charge; they repelled him.

Otherwise, he seemed like anybody else in this Frame. Were there always visitors from other Frames among us? Were there Frames with beings quite different from me? Maybe those nutso sightings of aliens were real sightings of visitors from distant Frames!

I needed to see Monk and Miles, they would give such questions the serious answers they maybe deserved.

I followed the visitor back into The Little Room, undecided whether he was dangerous or benign. I watched hard but couldn't witness his exit out of the Frame. He was there, walking toward the unisex bathroom, and then my eyes were still moving but their gaze paced someone who was no longer there.

"Did you want a real drink?" Ben nursed his fizzy water and wondered why I was staring at the bar.

"I'm good, thanks."

"Nica, Nica, always searching," he covered my hands with his, like he was cheating at a shell game. "Maybe I will join you at the show tonight."

"It's been a long time," I said noncommittally. I let him catch my eye and suddenly there was my Ben, upbeat and funny and sage; and I couldn't figure whether he had just showed up or I had overlooked him until now. Sparring with Ben the hustler king, you couldn't look him in the eye or you'd get frozen like snake food.

"Private investigator suits you. You're happier, I can tell. Your moxie opened the right door this time."

"Yeah, I like it. I might be too zen to be a great detective, though. For years I've been training myself to not pursue, to let it all happen. But clients don't want to hear 'I'm letting your case evolve.'"

"Some might. Those are your clients. It's interesting. Lots of your jobs taught you how to sneak and pry and push. Those are good detective skills."

"Yeah, I was thinking about that too. Remember when you helped me repo that furniture and the guy came home and he had a gun behind every chair cushion?"

"'Course I do. Remember when you subbed at the family therapy place and you talked that guy off the roof with my Lakers tickets?"

"I forgot about that one, actually."

"Because they weren't your tickets. How about the time you were threatening deadbeats at that credit agency and I turned up on your call list?"

"That one got me fired, asshole."

He snorted. "You hated that job, so you're welcome." He looked around the room like it was the pony he never got for Christmas. "Do I feel longing for what used to be or for what can never be? Did the good old days ever really happen?"

"Somewhere they're still happening," I said to the bottom of my glass, then added to him, "What the hell are you doing?"

What he was doing was bowing and kneeling at my side. "I bow to the _sensei_. 'Somewhere they're still happening _._ ' You out-Yoda'd me, Neeks."

"Dummy, get up, you'll trip somebody," I pretended I was embarrassed and needed to look away. Before, Ben had been in the perfect spot for me to look at him and watch the Connector behind him. Now my gaze was off. Peripherally and partially, I saw a torso materialize and I jumped up to follow its exit. "Excuse me. Too much coffee today." I used the old standby, the weak bladder excuse, to dash after the torso. I sensed Ben's surprise - he wasn't used to all this walking out on him - but that awareness was faint as a jet contrail. My focus was on the torso.

In the lobby, the visitor turned around. It was the same guy as before, now in different clothing. Fashionista or incognito? What would happen if I asked him? I wondered what his voice sounded like.

Being around Ben put me in a reckless mood. I approached the visitor. Up close, his skin was the luminous grey of soapsuds in a metal sink. I said conspiratorially, "It's later than usual, isn't it? That they're opening the doors tonight."

He looked at me like I had phlegm on my face, winced, stepped away; and I realized that his ricochets were not nerves but an effort to avoid contact with everyone in this Frame. I couldn't tell you whether the concern was germs or cooties.

I walked past him like my plan was to purchase a snack and I waited in the snack line with my back to him. After a time, the air changed - the theater doors were open. Immediately, the visitor pushed his way into the theater. I dropped out of line and followed. He race-walked along the back aisle and my eyes kept pace. Fortunately, there was no one between us to block my view. Where the back aisle intersected with the far side aisle, the visitor stepped through the Connector and I was looking at aisle with no visitor. I walked to the spot where he had vanished, walked past it, turned down the far side aisle, pivoted, made the return trip. Nothing special or different about any of it, walking the aisles at the Largo, a walk made countless times.

What would happen if I stood directly at the vanishing spot all night? Would I block egress or would visitors somehow flow around me? That could be a counterproductive experiment, given that I was supposed to observe who and what used this Connector.

When I got back to The Little Room, Hernandez sat in my chair laughing at something Ben described with large gestures. When Hernandez saw me, the laugh converted to smile and he stood.

"Everything okay, Nica?" Ben greeted me.

He sounded so concerned that I felt ever so slightly heel-like to duck the question. "I didn't know you knew each other."

"We looked familiar and we figured out that we've seen each other at the Henrietta," Ben explained.

"I'm glad you came here and thanks," I told Hernandez, who dragged a chair from the next table so that I could join them.

"I discussed the situation with my daughters, how I could be away sometimes. We came up with a strategy that lets me participate."

"And Karina let you have your truck after all?"

"No she dropped me - off." Something over my shoulder had caught Hernandez' attention. It was a matron with waist-length silver hair, a denim work shirt loose over a flowing flowered skirt, arms bright with stacked bangles and pastel tattoos. A gypsy grandmother who Ben ignored but Hernandez watched intently, though he was oblivious to the many others populating the bar.

I thought she was a visitor, too. Sure enough, she walked into the Connector and vanished. "Good eye," I told Hernandez. Hmm. The Connector in this room went two ways, and allowed exit from as well as entry to this Frame. Was that also true for the Connector in the theater? Did Hernandez and I need to split up to watch both Connectors? Anwyl could have given me a wee bit more information about the set-up.

On my phone, I made notes about the two visitors and used the note-taking time to observe the fellas.

Hernandez always returned his root beer to the same location, and every time he lifted the bottle, he wiped moisture from the table with his napkin, single action same motion like a robot with OCD. From his usual deep slouch, Ben watched with a bemused smile. When Hernandez noticed Ben watching, he explained, "I had some attitude adjustments when I entered the Service, which got me special cleanup duties, which set some habits."

Hernandez was something. The way he presented himself to the outside world was so different from the person that was emerging over the last couple days.

"What branch were you in?" Ben asked.

"Marines," Hernandez sat straighter if that were possible.

"How long?"

"Two tours in 'Stan, one in 'Dad."

"Wow," Ben said slowly.

"Meaning?" Hernandez replied.

"I'm amazed they didn't fuck you up."

"Who says I'm not fucked up?" Hernandez bristled.

"Okay psycho, let's see what you got," Ben play-taunted him. Or, anyway, I knew it was play. I also knew it was pointless to intervene.

Hernandez tightened his clench on the root beer bottle while meeting Ben's stare.

"Are you really going to break that bottle in here in this crowd?"

Hernandez stopped squeezing. "If I stop, you'll have to trust me that I've done it before."

"Seriously? Your grip is that strong?"

"Will, not strength, breaks the bottle. You just keep squeezing."

"And the bottle shatters in a blow out? Glass everywhere?"

"No, it gives way. You see cracks on the outside, but you feel it weaken from the inside. Until. It just gives way."

"I want to see that!" Ben enthused.

"Try it for yourself. It's boring to watch."

"I'm a watcher."

"I would not have thought that."

To my astonishment, Ben was the first to look away from their staredown and he loved it. You'd think he had Cuban cigars to give out, the way he extracted two ginger chews from a pocket, gave one to Hernandez, popped the other in his mouth. "I've met other vets, can't hold a job or a conversation."

I reached into Ben's pocket and got a ginger candy for myself.

"It takes a certain mindset to move on, and I struggled to find it but I had no choice. Failure wasn't an option. I've got daughters with no mom."

The conversation ceased for a time. The ginger chews are so small, yet they can glue together so many teeth. Chewing rebalanced the mood, which had started laid back like Ben, evolved tense like Hernandez, was now restored to laid back.

"You serve?" Hernandez asked Ben.

"What's your guess about that?"

"How about them Dodgers?" Hernandez laughed. I had not heard him laugh before, abrupt staccato bursts like ball bearings dropped on cement.

Ben laughed, too, his gleeful chortle as familiar to me as my own pulse.

I loved it that they were engaging in guy talk at first meeting - and I couldn't wait to find out from Ben what they were really discussing and learning about each other underneath the small talk. Because in reality when -

I stopped thinking when the next being slipped into Frame. She wasn't Anya - I realized that immediately - but she could have been a sibling. Same high cheekbones, burnished skin, cornsilk hair. As she passed me and saw me staring, she hit me with a glancing smile that seared me with hope. Just seeing her made me happy. I stood to follow and took a shot put to the gut. I had not felt anything from Anya's lanyard for so many hours that I had wondered whether a battery needed recharge. Now, the pain was so sharp I had to hold the table to avoid writhing on the floor.

The source of the belt's negativity was a patron who swiveled to watch the woman who reminded me of Anya, as she stopped at the bar to request then sip a glass of water.

I didn't know how long this guy had been at the bar. He had an empty glass in front of him, but neither Hernandez nor I had noticed him before. At first glimpse, he terrified me - next to him, even Anwyl would seem more prey than predator. Gaunt and sinewy, with stiff jowls and deeply wrinkled skin, he swayed from the neck as he surveyed the room and reminded me of nothing so much as a cobra. Louie the bartender didn't want him here, that was clear. Louie never let an empty glass linger unless he wanted the patron to hate the service and go elsewhere. The instant the cobra guy pushed away from the bar, Louie grabbed the glass and toweled the area clean.

The Cobra followed the Anya-like woman and I followed him. Hernandez and Ben took no notice of my departure. The Anya-like woman slowed to appreciate the crazy sculptures in the lobby, and stopped to smile at the phonograph on mannequin legs. The Cobra hovered behind her and suddenly thrust an arm toward her. His thrust got deflected by oblivious teens who shoved between them. The woman seemed unaware of danger, but I was certain he meant her grave harm. He went ahead of her into the theater and all I could think was _ambush_.

I stood in the theater doorway, pretending to study the seating chart as though I hadn't memorized it many performances ago. I thought I saw the Cobra sitting in the back row, just this side of the Connector. I waited until the Anya-like woman was behind me and walked in just before she did. The Cobra uncoiled from his seat. I stepped in front of him, but he ignored me. I forced myself to stop and peer into his face, my hand lightly on his arm. "Doug? Doug Hughes? Is that really you?"

He glanced at me, then returned his intensity to the Anya-like woman who passed behind me. He stepped around me to head after her, but I kept my hand on his arm and again stepped in front of him, as though to let the dim light catch my face so he could see me. "It's Debbie, remember, from last Halloween's rave in Altadena?"

He hissed over my shoulder, which I took to mean that she had moved out of Frame. "I'm sorry, I thought you were someone I knew." I let go of his arm and I might have gotten away with the ruse, but as I stepped out of his path I glanced over my shoulder to confirm she was gone.

For the first time, he looked directly at me and I was ever so sorry to attract his attention. He hissed again, slowly and speculatively. He had breath like a corpse. I stepped back and he stepped forward, closing the distance between us. I hastened to get out of his way. At the intersection with the far aisle, I jostled with some patrons and got pushed back in his direction.

Thanks be, he had continued into the Connector and disappeared. My relief mutated to terror when suddenly his hand was on me, gripping my wrist with fingers as unyielding as iron pipe. He dragged me toward him, or where he would have been if the rest of him were still visible. I twisted my wrist to get away, but it was hopeless. To free myself, I would have had to chop off my hand - and although I was willing to hack, I lacked sharp objects and by now his fingers gripped my bicep.

All these people around but nobody noticed - or they tried to ignore a lone woman having a mental health episode, fighting the air. My body blocked their view of his fingers on my arm. I dug my heels into the carpet, yet, inch by inch, I got dragged closer to the invisible Connector at the juncture between the aisles. The room grew dimmer and the pre-show chatter faded. Moving through the Connector was like dozing on a jet, not quite in one realm or the other. Colors and sounds sharpened again when I felt a new grip on my outside shoulder.

"Nica," Hernandez whispered at that shoulder, "I've got you."

"Pull," I pleaded, and he did, until the Cobra hissed and squeezed tighter. From those iron fingers, lava flooded my arm chest shoulder. Hernandez cried out and searing pain scorched my shoulder. By reflex Hernandez loosened his hold. He clutched me again immediately yet that was not soon enough. I was gone.

That was what it felt like, like I was absent from my Frame, not present in another.

Where the Cobra and I were now, it was as dark as despair. The Cobra shoved me backward and my back collided with stone. I felt damp slippery walls on two sides, so maybe we were still indoors, maybe I was in a corner, but there was a numbing cold wind that shrieked where it slid against the walls. A smell burned my throat, reminiscent of fire at the landfill. I heard whispers like cobwebs inside my skull, repeating the same phrases. _What is this? What does it know?_ I rubbed my head but couldn't clear it. With the intuition of a nightmare, I knew that when the questions got answered, I would die.

I turned, running my hand along the wall as though searching frantically for escape. The whispers in my skull now punctuated with chuckles. _No escape, fool._ I turned more, patted high and low, hoped I wasn't overdoing my performance. Another turn and I faced the wall. By now, I had slipped the Guide out of my pocket and he couldn't see me shove it into my mouth, so hard I chipped a tooth. Home was still the destination on the dial, after my previous visit to Monk and Miles. I inhaled like it was my last breath. A howl told me when he spotted the Guide.

The Guide delivered me to the Largo but I didn't feel safe. The Cobra could follow so easily. I twisted the dial for Miles and Monk's Frame and inhaled again. The Cobra wouldn't know to follow me there - would he?

I so longed to see the Towers, and as my molecules settled again after transport, I envisioned my foot route from the Largo to Watts. With my current adrenalin rush, I could run the whole twenty miles. I couldn't think about what dangers might dwell on that route.

It was dark here, too. The adrenalin rush faded as I groped forward like a mime exploring a box. A one-armed mime: where the Cobra had touched me, my shoulder wasn't working. I seemed to be in a large empty room or container with no furnishings, no light switches, no windows, no doors. When I had convinced myself there was no way out, except by using the Guide, I set the dial to home then counted to five thousand. Presumably, the Cobra would have chased me right away and would not linger if he didn't find me at the Largo.

When I got to five thousand, I inhaled with the Guide and went nowhere. The scene started to shift, then stopped. It was like I was blocked. I thought about how far I had walked in this blank black room and wondered if I was trying to transport into a Largo wall. As best I could, I retraced my steps and when I got back to where I may have started, I inhaled again. The effort felt softer, more yielding, but still I remained in the dark blank room. I took a couple steps, tried again. Took a couple steps, tried again.

It would have been so easy to succumb to panic and flip the fuck out. But I really prefer to stage a drama where I might get an audience. So I kept up the routine. Step step inhale. Step step inhale. Step step inhale. Sometimes the path yielded, sometimes it didn't. Each time, I remained in the enclosure. Step step inhale. Ah.

I was back in the Largo. Time had elapsed and everyone stood, clapping for an encore, so no one noticed me. I sprinted away from the Connector, shoved through the doors to the lobby. Now I could feel that someone watched me, someone followed me through the lobby. I don't know why I didn't break out running. I don't know what I thought I could do to protect myself, except stay the hell away from the Connectors.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and I may have screamed. The pre-show deejay stopped packing up to study me. He frowned as I twisted free from the hand on my shoulder. Free, but only for a moment.

### 16. Some Questions About Her Disappearance

"Nica!" Hernandez grabbed my arm with both his hands and spun us around to face each other.

"Let's get Ben and get out of here."

"Ben left, he said to tell you he had things to do."

The shriveled everyday part of me twinged, wondering what things those were. The rest of me led Hernandez toward the exit gate.

The pre-show deejay stepped in front of us. "Everything okay?" he asked me, confirming that I had, in fact, screamed when Hernandez touched me.

"Yeah, I screamed because he touched my sunburn. Now we are leaving together because we both want to. But thank you for checking."

The deejay stepped aside. He was half the size and a quarter the muscle of Hernandez, but sometimes it really is the thought that counts.

Ben had left his van for me. As Hernandez drove us to the Henrietta, I described what had happened to me after I disappeared, huddled against the passenger door so that I could watch his expressions and determine whether he thought I'd whacked out. He had not seen the Anya-like woman in the bar, but he had noticed the Cobra and didn't have a good impression. When he'd realized I had followed the Cobra, he'd hurried to find me.

He parked in the delivery driveway behind the Henrietta. At this time of night the area was deserted, but the Henrietta's lobby was mere steps away and cast a protective glow. The night had cooled just enough. Summer night is when all that daytime heat makes sense. Without discussing it, we rolled down our windows. Hernandez shoved back on the balls of his feet to get a hand into a jeans pocket and extract his phone, which he plugged into the van's sound system. Empty savings account, billion-dollar sound. Thassa my Benny.

Hernandez scrolled slowly through his musical options. I didn't get impatient; the night and the situation called for the music to be right.

I knew his choice from the first beat. I don't know much rap but all of my husbands idolized the same dead gangsta, which probably says more about me than about them.

"Tupac? Really?"

"What'd you expect? Mariachis?"

"Maybe Menudo."

I was tickled to see him go all huffy, but he faked me out. "You think I would listen to that? In July? Menudo is winter music." We listed to a couple Tupacs in silence, then Hernandez said, "Any requests? Let me find something for you..."

"Don't try to find a band I like. The ones I like break up before anybody knows them."

"Always 'the ones that got away', for you?"

"The doctor izz inn, for me?" It was my best _bad German shrink_ accent.

"You're right, it's none of my business."

"Leave it. This music feels exactly right for now."

We stayed in Ben's van and blasted fury, crudity, and wisdom into the July night. Eventually, Hernandez dropped the volume so we could resume discussion. He also fished through an antique first aid kit he found under the seat and got an ice pack, which didn't help me at all. From my right wrist, up across my chest, and over to my left shoulder, my insides blazed and stung. The Cobra had shot an evil lightning through me to break Hernandez' grip. Curiously, when I'd felt heat, Hernandez had felt pressure and expansion like my shoulder had detonated. I wouldn't let Hernandez examine my shoulder, which was where I hurt the most. I didn't want to know what it looked like because it didn't matter. I wasn't going to pop in to Urgent Care. I would wait to ask help from Anywl about the Cobra's injury.

We agreed that morning seemed too far away to notify Anwyl, but we had no way to contact him to come back sooner.

"Let's go to Watts. We can use my Guide to get to Monk and Miles. They'll know how to reach Anwyl."

Hernandez couldn't believe he heard me right. "You were just trapped inside that Frame in a room with no exit."

"Yeah, but I got trapped because I Travelled there from the Largo. If we go to Watts, we should be fine. Hey, I just thought of something. Maybe that blank room exists to stop Travelers who come through the Connector at the Largo. Maybe that room prevents Travelers from entering Miles and Monk's Frame."

"That's a reasonable guess," Hernandez agreed. "I wondered why that room would be different than the Largo in our Frame, when everywhere in that Frame that we saw last night was configured exactly like our Frame."

"Configured?" I teased him.

"Configured." He held firm.

"Anyway, we won't get lost or stuck if we start our Travel in Watts, I'll know my way around."

"We've only got one Guide."

"There must be a way to share it." I admired Hernandez' stamina for the debate. Usually I won simply because an opponent dropped out.

"Anwyl told us to stay in this Frame."

"He didn't know what the evening would turn into. He and the allies need to know about the Cobra A.S.A.P."

"He must expect bad visitors or he wouldn't have us watching Connectors."

"True, but - holy freaking shit!" I interrupted myself. A face loomed next to my outside mirror. I saw the uniform, registered _cop_ and concluded, "You startled me, officer."

Now we had eye contact. "Step out of the vehicle, please." Another cop hovered outside Hernandez' window. Hernandez complied in slo' mo' and, without being asked, clasped his hands behind his neck.

"We already turned it down. Sorry if we bothered anybody." The music had to be the reason for their interest.

"Is this your vehicle, sir?" the other one asked Hernandez. Oh oh. A van from Ben could have legal issues.

Before Hernandez could answer, my cop snapped, "Forget that, Johnny!" To me he demanded, "Veronica Static?"

"That's me."

He pulled a photo from his breast pocket. It was a picture of Anya. This double freaked me. I hadn't thought Anya could show up in anything as earthly as a 3 by 5 glossy. Also, seeing her in the photo made her seem trapped by the cop.

He watched me react to the photo. "How well do you know this woman?"

I took the photo to study it. It wasn't a very good likeness. She only looked transcendently beautiful. "Not very. I only met her recently."

"We would like you to stop by the station and answer some questions about her disappearance."

"Disappearance?"

"That is what I said."

" _Like me to_? It's up to me?"

"It is up to you." He tried to catch my eye but I held my gaze on the photo. Anya's image was fuzzy as though snapped while moving. The background was in focus but in shade. The more I looked at it, the more it looked like the area outside the front entrance to the Henrietta.

"Where did you get this photo?"

"Let's talk about that at the station." He took it back and slipped her smooth face into his scratchy pocket.

I reached for the truck's door handle but they led me to their car. They didn't tell Hernandez that he couldn't come with us, but insisted that he move the van and park outside the loading zone - and as soon as he complied, they drove away without him. That was when my situation started to feel hinky, although they remained as friendly as Wal-Mart greeters.

### 17. Shady Or Legit?

It was a short drive to Parker Center. I had never before been behind-the-scenes at police headquarters. I looked around with great curiosity - it was like a grade school field trip, seeing all sorts of cool stuff I wasn't allowed to stop and touch, such as the photos in a timeline that looked straight out of _Cold Case._

Suddenly it was a small world, like underpants two sizes too small. As they steered me around and between desks, there in a chair with her back to me was Mathead, waving her hands while she talked non-stop, her every gesture emphasizing her familiar attitude. Negative negative negative. The cop who seemed to be interviewing her looked everywhere but at her: he doodled on a yellow pad, he surveyed the room, he followed our progress. I kept my eyes on the linoleum from then on. Just in case. Without eye contact, she was less likely to recognize me. If she saw me, she would wait for me outside and that tweaker was not how I wanted to end my evening.

"Coffee?" My cop's smile seemed genuine.

I shoved my smile into place and replied, "Water would be nice, thanks." He left me in a room with his partner, who spent our alone time lining up his chair _just so_ with the table. I took in the view. The room was the size of the bathroom at my laundromat and twice as clean. It was decorated in early strip mall. The low-watt fluorescent ceiling lights resembled mutant corkscrews and coated everything with a weak pink film.

I couldn't decide whether I was nervous or eager to get started. I wanted to know what they knew. Why did they think Anya was missing? Who filed the report? When? Who took that picture of her and how did the police get it? Who else had they interviewed that knew her?

As soon as my water and its bearer arrived, I fired off my questions. They exchanged a glance and my cop played the photo onto the table like it won him the jackpot. Instead of giving answers, he added a question, "When was the last time you saw this woman?"

There were so many things I could have said. I settled for, "Why don't you use her name?"

"What is her name?"

I recalled how Monk had once referred to her. _Anya of the first lands._ "Anya Firstlander, I think she said."

"How long have you known her?"

"Less than a week."

"How did you meet her?"

"She hired me. She came to my office."

The other cop at last had his chair the way he wanted it and tilted backwards onto two legs, which skidded and changed the alignment but I wouldn't be the one to tell him.

"And what is it that you do?"

"I'm a private investigator."

"Oh, really? See your license?" He poised pen to pad of paper as though all set to copy the license contents.

"I don't have one yet. And seeing as how it's late, could we skip the questions that you must already know the answers to?"

He nodded like I'd just made a good point.

"When was the last time you saw - Anya?"

"Couple, three days ago. I would have to look at my case notes to say for sure."

"Where did you see her?"

"At my office. She came to my office."

He played another photo. "Was this man with her?"

It was a photo of Anwyl. It had a different quality of light: Anya's photo seemed to have been shot midday, while this one had late afternoon shadows. In this photo, Anwyl stood behind the bus bench with the Henrietta behind him. Everything in Anwyl's photo was in crisp focus except him. Anya was similarly the only thing out of focus in her photo. Interesting.

"Should I repeat the question?"

"No, not that day."

"You've seen them together other days?"

"Yes they hired me together."

"And what is his name?"

_Anwyl a framewalker._ "Anwyl something. I don't recall his last name. If I had my case notes... "

"They hired you to do what exactly?"

"They've wanted me to take them around L.A., show them the sights."

"Like a tour guide, you mean?"

"Pretty much. So far."

"They tourists then?"

"I'm not sure where they're from or why they're in town. It hasn't come up in our conversations."

"Why not hire a tour guide if they want a tour guide?"

"I've wondered that, but - being low on clients - I haven't pressed the point."

"When was the last time you saw this Anwyl?"

"Earlier today."

"Was Anya with him?"

"No, I told you - I haven't seen her for a few days."

I sounded certain about what I had told them, but in reality I was getting lost in their questions. I struggled to remember what I had said, versus what I planned to say if they asked. That was dangerous. I had to stop anticipating their questions and focus on what they had just asked. And kiss kiss kiss. Keep it simple, stupid.

My cop tapped Anwyl on the eye. "When you saw him today, did he ask where Anya was?"

"No. I assume he knows. Whereas I don't need to know. One or both of them comes to my office, asks me to take them somewhere. I take them. That's the extent of our interaction."

The other cop now aligned the notepad to be one inch from the side of the table and one inch from the bottom of the table. Apparently it was really hard to get the notepad positioned correctly.

"You say Anya came by herself that day. The last time you saw her. Did you go anywhere together?"

"No, we never left the building."

The OCD cop now worked on pencil alignment. This was his greatest challenge yet.

"Go anywhere else in the building besides your office?"

It took everything I had to hold my casual slump of a position. I turned to the other cop. "Sorry. I don't want to be rude but my uncle had OCD and you are really distracting me." I returned to my cop. "Yes, come to think of it. I took her up to see the roof garden."

"You have a garden on the roof?"

"Not exactly. I help a guy with his garden. The custodian, Jay."

OCD made a big show of extracting a notebook from his pocket, flipped through it, found an entry midway through the pages, read it aloud.

"Jay Mansour, reported missing four days ago."

Now seemed like a safe time to sit up straight. I wasn't sure where this was headed but wanted off the bus. "I didn't know that, but I have been asking around the building, asking when he would be back. He hasn't been at work."

"Didn't try calling him or anything? Ask was he okay?"

"I don't have his number. I only know him at the building."

My cop turned and repeated this to the OCD cop, who made a sarcastic note. "She only knows him at the building. Ms. Static, let's get back to you and Anya. You show her the roof garden, then what?"

Carefully, oh so carefully. After all, we'd just met. It was a tad soon to tell the nice officers that Anya and I jumped off the roof and broke our fall by shifting Frames. "We looked at the garden, then she left."

"Why did the two of you climb to the top of the shed that encloses the ventilation system?"

What the fuck. How could they. "Oh, yeah, that's right, we did, now you mention it. I wanted her to see the pattern in the garden. Jay laid out the plants so that contrasting colors would spell 'Hola' to helicopters." Crap, that was many more words than my previous answers and they had noticed. My nerves. I showed them embarrassment instead. "Heh. I do go on about that garden. Jay really planned it right. The pattern still shows now that the plants have grown ten times bigger! I don't know how anybody thinks of something like that! If you are ever in the building again you should check it out."

"Did you and Jay climb up on the ventilation system shed to admire the garden?"

"Uh. Probably at some point. I don't remember. Usually we'd climb on top of the penthouse skylight. That gave the best view." The OCD cop had stopped arranging to listen.

"You didn't want Anya to have the best view?"

_There wasn't time to climb to the penthouse roof, an evil but inexplicable presence was coming to get us._ "She's a client, not a friend. I don't know her level of athleticism. I didn't want to embarrass her. There was a chance she might not manage a climb up to the skylight. Whereas anybody can climb the ventilator shed."

"Good answer," OCD snorted.

"True answer," I replied, with just the right mix of annoyance and puzzlement.

"You're pretty athletic then?"

"Yeah, I am." Like the song goes, he gave me the once-over twice. My response was a look. _I could take you in a fair fight so better hold on to your gun_.

"After you admired the garden, then what?"

"Like I said, we went back to my office and soon after, she left."

"Can you prove any of this? For example, does your building have a guest sign-in book in the lobby?"

We knew he knew the answer was _no_. "Not to my knowledge. It's a pretty low-frills set-up at the Henrietta."

He smiled like he found my composure amusing. I really wished OCD would resume organizing and stop listening so intently. "You didn't stay on the roof that day? Maybe do some gardening?"

"No, you can't garden at that time of day in July."

"You ever throw anything off the roof?"

"What would I throw off the roof?"

"How about an empty fertilizer bag? So you don't have to carry it down to the trash?"

"I wouldn't throw anything off the roof. I could hit a pedestrian. Anyway." Fewer words the better. Fewer words the better. My loquacious nature was not an interview asset.

"Anyway?"

"There is a pretty high railing around the roof. I would really have to lob something in order to clear the railing. Easier to cart it downstairs."

"I see. Let's go back to the ventilator shed roof. How high is the railing there?"

"The shed stands above the railing."

"So it would be easy to throw something from the top of the shed."

"Dragging it up to the shed roof would be a lot of work. Anyway there is no 'it'."

"Would you have to throw it? Once you're up on the shed roof, maybe you could just push it?" My cop had sketched a decent rendering of the layout of the roof. He drew two stick figures, one going off the edge, the other with arms out.

"What the hell do you think I pushed off the \- oh for chrissake, are you saying I pushed Anya off the roof?"

"Now, that's a funny thing to say. What makes you say a thing like that?"

"Maybe she's been talking to our witness," OCD sniggered.

"You have fucking got to be fucking kidding."

"I know, right? You just never know when someone is watching."

"You know that isn't what I meant."

"Do you always know what people are thinking? Is that a burden or a gift?"

At last and too late I said nothing. I looked from one to the other and back again, couldn't decide who was the bigger or more dangerous idiot.

"Tell us about the last time you saw Jay. Was that also up on the roof? Maybe the shed roof?"

"If I'm pushing people off the roof, why isn't anybody finding a mess on the pavement below?"

"We wanted to ask you about that."

"Don't take it personally, but your accusations make no sense."

"I'm sorry, did I misunderstand? I thought you were the one who mentioned the pushing. Wasn't she the one?" he asked his partner.

"That was my recollection, yes," OCD replied.

"Dudes! Enough! I'd better talk to a lawyer."

"Thought you'd say that." They nodded together and rose up like they were auditioning for a chorus line.

They left me alone in the room to call my lawyer. Except I don't have a lawyer. So I called Ben, who surely knows many criminal defense attorneys. Except my cell phone reception was crappy and I couldn't complete the call. I gestured to the one-way mirror but nobody came to help. I found the door unlocked and the two of them hanging outside the room with mugs of skunk piss disguised as coffee.

They would be most happy to let me use one of their landlines and they led me to a cubicle that was empty save for wall phone, 1998 phone books, and a molded plastic chair. The station was a busy place in the middle of the goddamned night and I couldn't make immediate use of the landline because all its outgoing-line buttons were lit.

While I waited for a free phone line, I thought about how my staying at the police station was voluntary and how I wanted to stay because cooperation appeared more innocent and how it somehow felt like they were expecting me to think that way. It was almost like they were stalling me, keeping me there, but every time I explored that idea, I hit a wall, because I couldn't imagine why they would want to do so.

"'S'up." Ben answered on the fourth ring and barely got the slurred syllable out.

"You sound high," I greeted him.

He said nothing for a moment, then sounded fine when he replied, "I just stuffed a piece of pizza in my mouth right before the phone rang. Didn't you hear the rapid chewing?"

He always had an explanation and sometimes they were true.

"I need your help, ASAP."

"Are you hurt? The insurance card's in a pouch behind the seat."

"It's not your van. I need a lawyer."

"What kind?"

"Cops are claiming a client disappeared and they might blame me for something soon. I've been answering too many questions."

"Are you looking for shady or legit?"

"What are the pros and cons?"

"Shady is better protection but makes them more suspicious."

"Then legit. It's all bullshit, the client is fine but I can't prove it right now and I don't want to swallow my foot trying."

"Got it. I'm on it."

"How long?"

He thought aloud. "It's way past their bedtimes but I can call some favors. An hour. Ninety minutes tops."

Two hours later, I called Ben again, but went straight to voicemail. I called every ten minutes after that and got that cold recorded bitch of a voice every time. As 4 a.m. neared, I decided that I shouldn't judge her when I didn't know her history and that maybe Ben's slurring wasn't pizza and that I needed to go home.

I remembered the card I had shoved in my wallet and fished it out to leave a lengthy message on Detective Pat Henson's office line. I trusted her to believe me innocent without evidence. When she got to work later this morning, I hoped she might have a lull in Edith's case that would allow her to inquire as to why the fuck I had been kept here at the police station for hours. A family abuse detective would have no sway with these robbery-homicide guys, but she might know somebody who could ask somebody.

It was time to head home. I wandered past a swinging, thigh-high door into the compound where the detectives had their desks. I spotted OCD across the expanse and wound through the desks in his direction. Would placing the desks along aisles have been out of the question?

I zigged and zagged and zigged. I found myself facing a detective, a detective who spotted me, saluted with sarcasm, and smiled to bare a row of teeth jagged enough to strip bark. It was Mathead, sitting at a desk with the placard _Detective Fitzpatrick_. Mathead was a robbery-homicide detective and she wasn't surprised to see me there. I froze, stunned, then filled with molten lead. My interrogator approached her desk with his back to me and set down a folder. From the folder slipped the photo of Anwyl.

I wish I could say the pieces fell into place at that moment but I enjoyed no clarity of connection. Why was my interrogator working with Mathead? No answer came to me.

Mathead gave an infinitesimal nod, at which my cop turned to face me and blocked my way. "You need to stop please, Ms. Static, and head back that way. No civilians are permitted in this area. Is your lawyer on the way?"

"No, I'm going home."

"I understand why you feel that way but I'm glad you haven't left yet. Got some late-breaking news and I was just coming to find you."

OCD stood beside him now and the two of them blocked my view of Mathead. "Veronica Sheridan Taggart Ambrose Taggart Ickovic you are under arrest for the kidnapping and murder of the woman known as Anya."

"You are fucking kidding me."

It all happened so fast. Their smug turned to shocked when I shoved between them. I wasn't attacking them, I wanted to talk to Mathead. But her chair was empty and then they had me on the floor.

It's hard to get back on your feet when your hands are handcuffed behind your back.

### 18. Denying Black Doesn't Make It White

Things only got worse from there. Getting charged with crimes lowered my status and, from that point on, they dragged me from one holding room to another and interrupted whenever I tried to speak.

Better treatment resumed when my new lawyer showed up. Kathleen _Kick-Ass_ Kimball. That was how I instantly came to think of her. She was half the size of anybody else in the room but nobody dared look down on her. Her make-up was thick - and beneath the professional suit jacket her sequined top promoted cleavage - but nobody dared come on to her. Her nails were professionally-honed talons, the color of fresh blood, the kind of nails that don't lift a dime or type a sentence. She was the youngest person in the room but nobody questioned her credentials. She radiated _cum laude_ and her card said she was a partner in Beauregard, Collins, and Ishikawa, a firm even I had heard of.

Four eighteen in the ayem she arrived. She wore a complex fragrance of perfumes, plural, and maybe aftershave and maybe vodka. I guessed she had been clubbing and threw on a suit when she got the call to get me the hell outta there. As we exited the police station, I said, "I didn't know lawyers worked crazy hours but I'm glad you do. I almost went to law school. Got as far as the LSAT before I lost interest. Better then than later, huh?"

"Yes."

"So how do you know Ben Taggart?"

"That is not a name I recognize." As I geared up to explain the connection, she cut me off. "I charge by the minute. Does your defense require me to know Taggart?"

"Not that I can see. So what happens now?" I jumped to the fast and easy conclusion that to get me a lawyer, Ben had called in a favor that called in a favor. During the jumping, I missed her next question. "Cha-ching. Could you repeat that?"

She considered the feasibility of a smile. "It's very late. Come to my office at 135 p.m. tomorrow to discuss next steps. Get some sleep before then." Her Mercedes matched her nail color and was compatible with the shade of red along the curb where she had parked. She didn't wave when she u-turned through my crosswalk and sped away.

If she had offered a ride, would I have accepted the ride? So many things are not ours to know.

The Henrietta was only a few blocks, an easy walk if I didn't think about how completely empty the streets felt. My _walk_ sign began a countdown. Fourteen thirteen twelve seconds to get my ass across the intersection before the light changed. The signals were timed and orange numbers flashed offset countdowns at the next block and the next and the next. When I had three seconds, the next block had twenty-three. Allow 1000 feet in the block, twenty seconds to travel, it was simple algebra to calculate the speed a body must move to hit nothing but green lights. Let me know what you come up with. I always hated word problems.

It was still borderline hot, which meant today was going to be a bitches' barbecue. I shed my blouse and the air felt cool against the shoulder the Cobra injured. The strap of my tanktop chafed skin that felt damaged, yet showed no sign of injury. My head throbbed, or it was the bass from that car stereo - hey, was that Tupac hey! Benny's van!

Hernandez was stacking zzz's, head turned, cheek on hands that clutched the wheel. I whistled for Fang, the beagle of my childhood. Hernandez opened one eye then the other, much like Fang used to do. By the time we got back to the Henrietta, I had filled him in on my police station adventures. He had once encountered Mathead at the Henrietta, so was also stunned to learn she is a detective. We agreed she must be a detective and a tweaker, not an undercover cop masquerading as a tweaker.

We parked in the Henrietta's basement, in the reserved spot next to the elevator. I insisted he stop there. As exhausted as we were and as empty as the garage was, Hernandez intended to drive down a level to the unreserved spots.

"Stop the van here. It's fine. Watch." I found a used envelope in the glove box, ripped a neat rectangle from it, printed on the un-used side _Watkins and S.T.A.T.Ic.,_ inserted the rectangle in the placard holder under the _Reserved_ sign. There. Now this was my parking space.

"Okay if I return Ben's keys when I start my shift?"

"Of course. Thanks again for waiting for me. I'll let you know what happens at the lawyer's tomorrow I mean later today."

I assumed he intended to borrow the van to go home and I was in the elevator before I realized he hadn't driven away. I exited one floor up - the lobby - and took the stairs back down to the basement. Inside the van, he was already asleep, again with his cheek resting on hands that clutched the steering wheel.

"I thought you wanted to drive home?"

He kept his eyes shut as he replied, "Thirty-minute drive each way. I'd rather get the extra sleep sitting up."

"Then come upstairs. We can rig something more comfortable for sleeping than you've got here."

He opened his eyes. "No, I don't want to interfere with your -"

I was tired enough to interrupt his gentlemanly refusal with the kind of truth one usually keeps to oneself. "Don't worry, I'm way too tired to molest you tonight."

On the way up in the elevator, we pondered the implication of what I might opt to do when I was rested. He kept squinting at the elevator doors like he was replaying the comment, looking for alternate interpretations. Every once in a while a smile flickered, which set me flickering in return. I don't fraternize with co-workers but this guy just might require an exception.

Now that I had opened the door to the steam room, I couldn't get the temperature down again, even though the only thing either of us wanted to do was sleep. Without talking, we worked together to open the futon in my office, then worked together in the waiting room, pushing chair seat against chair seat to makeshift a bed for him. Our arms brushed once and my skin remembered his touch when we were lying separately in the dark.

I glimpsed his profile when he raised his phone for a final text to his daughters, who were staying with Edith. After the phone light clicked off, I could still see the blunted edges of his nose and chin. "Good night, Nica," He lay facing my office door.

"Sometimes I snore. 'Dreams," I murmured and turned to the skylight. Looking away made no difference. I could feel him all around me; deep inside, that glorious ache began - and shut itself down, having expended the last of my energy. The edges of the skylight glittered with city lights, the center glowed with a dawn coming all too soon.

The light was gray when I slid on top of him where he slept with legs tangled in the chair arms. I straddled him, found the spot, eased him inside me with a delicious squelch. He grew as he awoke, grabbed my hair with both hands, pulled me in for a first kiss.

The light was pearly when he joined me on the futon. We had barely begun anew when he stopped. "Are you okay with this?" he asked.

"Best mistake I've made in ages. Better stress reduction than a vacation and way cheaper!" But the mood was changed and I shifted to a cuddle.

He cuddled back but remained the voice of damn reason. "There are many kinds of costs."

We sighed. He was right, and anyway, Anwyl needed us undistracted. We lay together, watching dawn change the skylight from pearl to gold. I pressed against him everywhere I could, savoring that soft smooth skin over those dense solid muscles. "Here's what I propose. Come morning, we will never speak of this again. That will make us uncertain whether it happened, but we won't bring it up because 'Didn't you and I fuck recently?' is not a conversation anyone wants to start. We'll treat this like a dream and for all practical purposes it will thus become a dream. It makes such a nice dream."

"That can't work. Can it?"

"It's all about how much you can keep yourself in the present. When we wake up, this will be past. The past only exists if we allow it to."

"That is how I talked myself through every night in Baghdad. When the sun came up, the night had never happened."

"And people talk about denial like it's a bad thing." This crack earned my second time getting to hear him laugh. "Your laugh sounds like ball bearings on concrete."

" _Lo siento_. That sounds painful to hear."

"No, it's awesome. But you make a good point. We can't really hear our own laughs, can we?"

"Your laugh is like wind in a convertible."

"Really? Hey. I like that."

"So do I." By now we were both just about asleep. We snuggled closer and went the rest of the way.

We never talked about what happened that night. If something happened. If it was a dream, I couldn't get it to recur, despite much encouragement.

Quacks bleats obnoxious won't stop blurting hateful must stop. My phone. Incoming call.

Hernandez was gone and there were piranhas in my bloodstream that ripped at my arm torso shoulder. Whatever the Cobra had done to me, it was much worse today.

"Nica, it's Patti Henson. Did I wake you?"

I dropped the phone as I fumbled it to see the time. It was 923. "You did, and thanks! I need to get up!" I yelled toward the phone, which had slid under the futon. I wrestled it back up to my ear. How do phones always land somewhere importune?

"I got your message. I made a few calls this morning and all I can tell you is what you already know. You stepped in a deep pile last night."

"Did I step or was I pushed?"

"What are your thoughts on that?"

I told her as much as I could about what I knew. We agreed that my best hope to clear myself of charges was to produce a live and healthy Anya. I didn't know when that could happen and thus saw it as important to find out what evidence the cops thought they had.

"I wouldn't recommend that kind of snooping, it could cause you more harm than good," my new voice of reason advised.

I noted the advice then ignored it. "Did your source mention an eyewitness? How can we find out who that is?"

"I assume you don't think that _we_ includes me."

"Only if you want it to." When she chuckled, I joined in. "Is that tweaker Fitzpatrick working my case? It is important for me to know that."

"That wasn't a name they gave me. One last note. I don't recommend making accusations of drug use against detectives, especially without evidence."

"Only among my closest friends," I assured her. "She's a dirty cop. I can't prove it but I know it. You heard it here first."

"If you say so."

"There's gotta be proof somewhere."

"Would you rather focus on getting that proof or clearing yourself?"

"Point taken. But I bet she's the next Dave Klein."

"Who? I don't know many of the names at Parker."

"It doesn't matter."

"I did hear something you should know. They volunteered this, so it's not confidential. They know that your bank account received two big deposits from overseas, the first around the time of the custodian's disappearance and the second around the time of Anya's disappearance. That fact is circumstantial but it doesn't make you look good."

"Except those deposits didn't happen."

"Denying black doesn't make it white."

The new tone in her voice made me sad. Maybe we weren't gonna be bf's for f after all.

"Weird they would make a claim so easily shown as totally fucking bogus," I said as I headed for my laptop.

"Exactly," she agreed.

"I'm logging on right now, I'll send you a snapshot of my account activity and you'll see. I have my whole bank life automated, same incoming outgoing every month no changes no sur- but that's impossible. But how. What the." Amidst the clockwork predictable automatic deposits and scheduled debits, there they were. Deposit for $10,000. Another deposit for $10,000.

"Patti. Somebody is. Framing me. In at least one Frame."

"What's that?"

"Somebody is framing me."

"I might believe you. You'll need twelve more."

As if on cue, I heard a shuffling step that stopped outside my hall door, but no one knocked or tried the knob. An envelope slid under the door. Big handprinted letters. TO TENANT V. S.T.A.T.Ic. Inside was legalese about how I'd disregarded section 8.2 of my lease, which voided it. Because I'd been living in my office, I now had 30 days to vacate it.

On Henson's third or fourth round of "Nica? What is happening? Why are you making those noises?" I read the notice to her. If the notice was a hallucination it was a clever one. It used words I don't know.

### 19. And Raspberries

My visit to my new advocate confirmed it. All I needed was a crown and I'd be royally screwed. Even Kick-Ass the lawyer went a titch pale when she looked at the deposits in my bank records, and every time I said I didn't know how or from where the money came, she said some variation of _"I can only represent you if you are completely honest with me."_ When I insisted she investigate the money source, I could tell she thought I was wasting her firm's resources and my fee to find an answer I already knew.

Pain management consumed my afternoon. My body showed no outward sign of injury, but whatever the Cobra had shot through my hand arm torso shoulder to loosen Hernandez' grip, it felt like it was still in there trying to eat its way out. Except, with teeth like that, it should have been out by now. I tried heat. I tried ice. I tried stretching. I got a street corner massage. I'd be okay for a while then - blammo. The pain came and went, surged in great nauseating waves. I thought I had a high pain threshold from all my years of playing through injuries on soccer teams. But this was a growing struggle to ignore and function with.

The only thing that helped was Anya's lanyard. I hurt much less where the belt touched me. With the lanyard's infinite elasticity, I was able to drape it bandolero-style to cover more of the injury, yet contour it snug against my body. Pain still flowed, muted, outside the edges of the lanyard.

When Hernandez first arrived, we coulda had a moment, the way he first smiled at me - until I grabbed his arm as my knees buckled. It was the worst wave of pain yet. Either the lanyard was losing effect or the pain was growing.

"Nica! What's wrong?"

I swiped at my body where the pain was and he understood it was the Cobra's injury. He made me sit down and insisted on investigating. Last night, I had the energy to stop him. Today, he cut me off with "I was a medic," and pushed and tapped and rotated joints until he ran out of things to try. I could tell he was baffled by the lack of evidence of injury versus the contortions my face made in response to the discomfort.

Just as suddenly and inexplicably, the pain was gone. By now, the absence of pain was also debilitating because I didn't know when it would return. I stayed on guard for it, braced for it, anxious and tense.

Hernandez followed me in his truck and our first stop was to return Ben's van. We were nearly there when we had to waste a half hour making arbitrary turns. The damned Garcias were following us! At a stoplight I texted Hernandez about them, but he had already figured out why I made wandering progress. The Garcias must have hoped we would lead them to Edith. They were harder to lose this time, but not by much; I don't think they ever realized that we had spotted them. That they could be so vile yet clueless especially pissed me off.

I was eager to confront Ben and pounded on his door. Today, I would force him to tell me why Mathead was in his life. Despite the minor detail of no evidence, I was convinced she was a dirty cop. Nonetheless, Mathead was a cop and Ben didn't hang with cops. Hernandez let me pound Ben's door for a while, then he slipped the van keys through the mail slot and led me away, making soothing noises. The day was wearing on me.

The Little Room is not a full tilt bar, it is only open an hour before and after each Largo show. We were too early to go in, so we grabbed a starter drink at the vampire bar down the block, a room with no windows, black walls, and the lowest electricity bill in the county. I was glad Hernandez was driving tonight. I needed a second drink before I had finished telling him what went wrong before noon.

I was so bummed that I had missed Anwyl's visit, which coincided with my meeting with my lawyer. I'm sure Hernandez did a perfectly fine job relaying the previous night's events to Anwyl, but he didn't ask the questions I would have asked. Not that Anwyl would have answered them. One of the scariest nights of my life distilled as follows: Anwyl wasn't surprised to hear about the Cobra - but we don't know what he thought about our seeing an Anya-like Traveler. Anwyl was displeased that I had meddled in the Cobra's business - but we don't know if he disapproved my instinct to protect the Traveler. Anwyl dismissed the gravity of the police charges against me - but we couldn't say whether that was because he didn't understand this legal system, or wouldn't care if I had to do time. Anwyl thought we would be _safe enough_ at the Largo tonight, provided we stayed more than 10 feet from the Connectors. Somehow _safe enough_ wasn't enough.

Yet here we were in the Little Bar, overwhelmed by our night's assignment. Last night, visitors had trickled from the Connectors. Tonight, they poured. Tonight was also a more hectic and crowded night for the Largo theater - a sold-out comedy show, a benefit featuring everybody from Seinfeld to Russell Brand. Hernandez and I debated whether the volume of Travelers linked to conditions at the Largo: in tonight's crowds, more people could move through Connectors without detection. Amazing how oblivious we all can be to the strangers around us. Hernandez and I were the only ones who noticed traffic through the Connectors.

Most of tonight's Travelers arrived from the Connector in the bar and hurried to depart via the Connector in the theater. They had a negative vibe I couldn't identify at first. About the time Hernandez said, "they look worried," I realized they reminded me of crowds I'd seen in a recent news special.

"They look like refugees."

"Hurrying away from something," Hernandez agreed.

The Little Room shuts down during performances, and we couldn't buy last-minute tickets to the sold-out show, so when the show began we strolled through the neighborhood, headed for the truck, parked a few blocks away. The piranhas were back inside my shoulder and Hernandez kept my mind off the pain by having me describe it in lurid detail. By the time I was done, I was speaking from memory of the pain.

"It hurts so much less! You are my hero. You did that. How did you do that?"

"When you describe the pain, you accept it without trying to change it and that limits its effect on you."

"My hero and my mystic."

He snorted, or I did. It was a perfect night for a walk. The breeze carried a hint of cooling and pushed ginormous phosphorescent clouds overhead, their edges illumined by the nearly full moon. Their undersides glowed with reflected city lights. Somewhere nearby was a late blooming jasmine, which reminded me, "I really miss Anya."

"Is she very different from Anwyl?"

"Oh, yeah, and she bosses him around."

"That is difficult to imagine."

"What is even crazier is -"

"Nica." For an instant her voice was everywhere.

We stopped and looked around, searched everywhere, earning puzzled wary glances from the dog walkers and after-dinner strollers who passed by. None of them acted like they had heard the voice.

"Anya!" I whispered to Hernandez. Even though this universal voice might be a private experience, I sensed that I should keep its identity quiet.

"Convey this message to the others." The bougainvillea vibrated with her words.

"Do you see where she is?"

Hernandez touched my arm. He looked like an Old Testament illustration. Awestruck, he pointed at the cloud overhead. Anya's next words confirmed that her voice came from the cloud. _Messengers and spies._ That's what Miles had told us about clouds.

"Tell them this: 'Two in the west for three. And raspberries.'" Her final words felt illusory, a _tromp l'ears_ as a wind picked up and faint thunder rolled. As the last word vibrated around us, the cloud spread and blocked the moon.

The first raindrops plunked our cheeks as we stared skyward. So did the second third tenth drops. Finally, Hernandez came to and got us running to his truck.

Like most of our summer thunderstorms, this one was over before you could wish you owned an umbrella, and afterward the air was as soft as a bunny.

Although it seemed pretty clear the encounter with Anya was over, we sat in the truck with the windows down. Just in case.

"'Two in the west for three,'" Hernandez repeated, like repetition would give it meaning. "'With raspberries.'"

"It must be a code. She usually makes more sense than that. Sometimes."

As anxious as we were to deliver this message, we decided that we must first finish our observations at the Connectors. As soon as the Largo closed and our evening's assignment concluded, we would tell Henrietta about the cloud's message. And maybe we would go talk to the Watts Towers, too. We spent the rest of our break trying to decode the message itself. Hernandez guessed _and raspberries_ was an authentication, a prearranged proof the message was from Anya. That made sense. Clouds could be messengers or spies and our allies shouldn't count on Hernandez or me to detect the difference.

The rain was over by the time we got settled into the truck and soon the dog walkers were back outside with their mutts. Pardon the hell out of _moi_. No mutts in this part of town. None of those people strolling and chatting past our truck behaved like they had just heard a cloud talk. We had to conclude that the cloud's message came only to us, even though it emanated from everywhere. Trying to understand this new reality gave me the same kind of thrill and sore brain I get when I think about infinity.

When we got back to the Largo, the show was just letting out and to get back inside the theater compound, we pushed against the tide of chattering leave-takers. The bar was open and packed, the theater was emptying fast. We opted to check the Connector in the theater before they shut those doors.

"Looking for anyone we'd like to see?"

Hearing that voice was more fun than dragging my knuckles across a grater. "Detective Fitzpatrick," I alerted Hernandez, but Mathead took it as a greeting. Scabman stepped from behind her, widening the sea of Largo attendees who flowed around us. Hernandez nodded without surprise. He turned away from me in order to lock his view on Scabman, whose lips twitched. When the crowd thinned, we would be able to hear Scabman's little sucking sounds, so my short-term goal was to be gone before then.

"Imagine my surprise to learn that you have this important job where you frame people for a living."

"Your arrest wasn't our doing, although we were highly interested to learn about it. Weren't we interested?" She did something I hoped never to do, she touched Scabman on the arm, unleashing a nod that hammered the air with his forehead. "If you help us find Ben Taggart, maybe we could put in a good word for you where it counts."

"What do you want with Taggart?" Hernandez drew their attention. Their eyes were so dark and so bright.

"We were close and now we've lost touch," Mathead mourned.

A fresh breeze came up and blew their medicinal smell away. Their eyes stopped glittering when a shadow fell on them. Anwyl. I had never been so happy to see him - and he always puts a pistol in my pocket.

"We must make haste," he greeted us and ignored them. Scabman took a step back and I swear the little sucking sounds developed a whimper.

Mathead stepped between Anwyl and me. She looked from Hernandez to me and back again, spoke slowly like we were supposed to memorize her words. "Tell Ben he has 24 hours to get in touch."

Anwyl pushed her aside. "These are not messengers. Begone." And then he had his arms around us and guided us to the Little Bar.

"You must avoid those creatures henceforth," he advised me.

"I couldn't agree more!" I assured him.

The bar was filled to capacity and there was a line of people waiting their turn to go inside. No one else could enter until somebody left. Nobody could enter except Anwyl, who shouldered us ahead of him. I expected Mathead to follow us. I expected the front of the line to complain. Instead, for a split second, everything froze - mouths contorted, heads mid-turn, words crystallized in the air from a dozen conversations "Harry... second... wasted... Tuesday... tour... sister...Venice... cutest... sale... because..." - and it was like we stepped through a life-size photo of a busy evening at the Largo. When the freeze ended, we were inside the bar.

A trio of patrons gulped to finish full glasses of wine, stood and vacated as we approached their table. We sat. Although we held no drinks, no one questioned our right to occupy a table.

"We heard her voice," I told Anwyl, cautious about uttering Anya's name although I had to yell to hear my own voice in the post-show racket.

"Expect a message each day henceforth," he nodded. "What word this day?"

"'Two in the west for three,'" I quoted, and again he nodded as though not surprised.

"'And raspberries,'" Hernandez added.

Anwyl reacted like Hernandez had sprouted pink wings. " _Raspberries!_ Are you certain?"

"As reasonably as we can be, given that we have no idea what your codes mean and you have no plan to tell us."

"We must make haste." He stood, watched us exchange a look that said we weren't moving without explanation. He sat again with a sigh. Humans. Can't live with 'em, can't exterminate 'em without repercussions. "It is a simple code to rank how rapidly our enemies proceed."

"A is slowest?" Hernandez guessed.

Before Anwyl finished his nod, I was on my feet. "Then R is way too close to Z. Where do we need to go next?"

"To the west," Anwyl said, nodding toward the Connector in the aisle beside the bar.

### 20. No One Waits To Enter That Connector

As we headed for the Connector, Anwyl made us hold hands and as a loose human triangle we shoved our way through the Largo crowd. This did not make friends. Otherwise, we were ignored. No one wondered why a trio headed for the solo bathroom, and no one saw us leave the Frame, which I knew had happened when the bar sounds damped, then muted.

We took four steps through a narrow dank tunnel, then the temperature dropped thirty degrees and clammy walls mushroomed around us. I knew this Frame. The Cobra had dragged me into it last night and, returning now, I wanted to do two things: shriek and run. Fortunately, Anwyl kept us moving forward. The walls dropped away as we went through another tunnel, longer, broader, and brighter. One hundred nine steps later, Anwyl loosened his grip on my hand and I slipped. I grabbed at a tree with a slick trunk, which made me slide further. Every surface here was covered with a soft lichen that pulsed with pearly light. I clutched Anwyl's arm with both my forearms and this kept my sliding under control as we advanced. It sounded like Hernandez stayed upright; I heard him slip-walk behind me. Another tunnel, and we were on a flat sandy plain where Anwyl released our hands.

Through all the Connectors, we had bumped and shouldered refugees who pushed to go in the opposite direction - to get away from our destination. We paused at the top of an incline and the refugees flowed around us. "Turn back, fools!" one whispered. I shrugged it off because I knew Anwyl would.

A Connector is a corridor unlike any of the Frames it connects and when we exited our last Connector, I recognized my surroundings again. We were in a Frame _configured_ (as Hernandez would say) like home. We stood on a subtle hill looking west to where Olympic Boulevard slides down toward the ocean. We were about a mile southwest of the Largo, heading toward Venice Beach. This Frame was only superficially similar to home, I soon realized. The landforms were recognizable, and in silhouette - if I squinted - the buildings were about the same, but they were empty shells without walls or roofs: skeletal edifices that felt more cemetery than construction zone. People flowed along the streets and through the buildings. The flow coagulated as they waited to enter the Connector we had just exited. I saw other bottlenecks in the flow of people and pointed to one.

"Are they waiting to use another Connector over there?"

"They are."

"Where does that one go?" Such a look he gave me. I didn't want to hear the insult that went with that look, so I answered myself, "It goes to another Frame. Duh. Got that part. I mean - oh, never mind."

We stood at our vantage point, watching the flow. Anwyl explained that this Frame is a hub of Connectors. From here, Travelers can go in all directions, and that is just what they did as we watched.

"We must determine their direction of origin," Anwyl instructed. Because they reminded me of refugees, I was not surprised he thought these Travelers came from a single location. We watched. There were so many eddies and whirlpools of activity, it was not clear which Connector was the source of the refugees.

Among the refugees I spotted other Travelers who seemed to be making routine trips. They would emerge from a Connector and be surprised to encounter a crowd headed the opposite way; and they showed more frustration than fear as they shoved their way through the crowd to reach another Connector. Overall, the flow of refugees slowed as we observed. Bottlenecks and ill-formed lines were everywhere, as Travelers waited to leave this hub. Amazingly, no arguments broke out, despite the fear-filled haste.

"I suppose asking somebody is out of the question," I said, at the same moment Hernandez pointed to our far right.

"No one waits to enter that Connector." As we watched, one of the non-refugees tried to do so, but a refugee grabbed his arm and said something that made both turn and flee.

"Quickly," Anwyl loped down the hill toward the Connector that had no entry line.

_Quickly_ was relative in these crowds. We jogged a shortcut through a dilapidated building shell that had no refugees inside; I could only hope it was sturdier than it looked. There was a reason the crowds avoided this structure. The steel girders were lacy with holes as though infested with iron moths.

"Does anyone live in this Frame?"

"No. It is a dead Frame."

And then we were out from under the building and in too much commotion to talk.

Here at the bottom of the incline, it was hard to get bearings. I wasn't sure where our target Connector was and maybe Anwyl wasn't, either. He stopped to evaluate the refugee flow. I touched his arm and pointed to Hernandez, who pushed through the crowd with conviction. He knew the way. Anwyl bared his teeth in respect and we followed Hernandez.

As we advanced, the crowds thinned and became distinct as individuals. There were some who could not pass for human. One had body hair that looked like fur - wouldn't that be a treat to never mind let's maintain our PG rating - a walk that used all fours, and sightless eyes with long erect whiskers for navigation. Holy mother of Mister Rogers, did that one have a third eye? Frigging awesome! Many of the non-humans lugged bags and rucksacks and had the air of disoriented tourists.

We spotted the Connector that Hernandez had identified back yonder. Sure enough, nobody lined up to enter it. With this visual confirmation of our target, our pace quickened, until a hand with seven digits grabbed Anwyl's arm.

"Turn back, friend! Foul death lies ahead!"

Anwyl tapped the hand to thank and dismiss. The warner stood a moment, perhaps to say more, then doubled his speed away.

Our last few hundred steps, we passed no one. Everybody else had gotten the hell out of this Dodge. Without slacking pace, Anwyl grabbed our hands and in our loose human triangle we entered the Connector. Now we would see what everyone fled.

The walls squished in an intestinal way and I stumbled more than once in soft muck that lined this Connector. It smelled like third grade when the Halloween haunted house did too good a job. It smelled like fear. Adrenaline. Undesired bodily emissions.

And then we were through the Connector to a Frame of horrors.

I recognized the area. It was called Ocean Park in my Frame, but this was Ocean Park before gentrification and during genocide. The congested streets were the same as in my Frame, but here the streets were packed with corpses. And body parts. And the occasional barely-living soul, dragging itself toward the Connector because that is where it was headed before it sustained fatal injury. I understood that compulsion. I wanted to expend my last breaths elsewhere, too.

The air smelled of ocean salts and blood. From the main thoroughfare, Lincoln Boulevard, came sounds of death and battle. Anwyl headed that way, which pulled us with him, which made him stop. "Stay here," he told us, but he didn't let go of our hands. "Come -" he began again, and took a step back toward the Connector. Then shadows covered us.

"Stay inside us," Monk greeted us.

"At all times," Miles added. Hernandez and I climbed to cling to girders deep inside Miles, while Anwyl strode forward to climb Monk. As the Towers translated toward the battle, they elevated several feet above the ground to avoid bodies.

We stopped at an intersection and watched the carnage evolve. The slaughter of the remaining refugees. Some refugees still carried bags of belongings, now hoisted for futile protection. Most had dropped everything and huddled under whatever cover they could find - storefronts, building entries, parking structures, corpses.

At that time, it was the worst thing I had ever seen.

Most of the death came from above, from thousands of birds with stiff backs and wings that were layered and rippling. I thought they were birds, anyway, until light reflected on a dust jacket. These weren't birds; they were books.

The killer books sliced through the air, spines up, propelled by slowly flapping covers. Under each of them a black rain fell; their pages riffled and shed letters that had a delicate look and a deadly touch. The letters were all edges and the edges were unthinkably sharp. Some of them stretched to the size of razor blades as they fell, others remained tiny and fell as a deadly black dust. The letters impaled themselves into concrete sidewalks. They sliced long curls of metal from a railing. They slid through flesh and bone so cleanly that the victims kept running a few steps before falling into pieces. Occasionally, a picture slid from a large-format book and became a free-flying guillotine blade.

Those who managed to outrun a book did not get far. They would trip over a pile of body parts or slip in a pool of blood, then futilely regain balance as the slow-moving book caught up to them.

Some books approached us. Monk vibrated and lightning cracked at his peak. The closest books exploded in flaming ashes. Most of their letters melted, hitting the ground in congealed lumps; some letters shot sideways, slicing through other books and more refugees.

A quintet of books hovered beyond Miles, pacing us just outside the zone where they would explode. I recognized their dust jackets. Los Angeles City Library. "Those are the books that Anya made me leave on the stairs!" I yelled to Anwyl.

He watched them hover at my eye level. "They have attached to you. They seek to do your bidding."

_Lose Twenty Pounds of Worry in Twenty Days_ made a sweet little chirp. That this murderous beast could be cute! It was Pixar from hell. "No!" I said without thinking. "Stop it!"

_Lose Twenty Pounds_ made a dip like a bow and veered away, plunging into a knot of other books. It killed three books before it was itself destroyed, sliced to pieces by dust cover edges. I hadn't intended to send it on a suicide mission.

Anwyl said, "Do not dispatch the others."

At the same time, Hernandez pointed and told Miles, "You can get to them before the books do."

_Them_ meant two young boys, crouched beside the body of a woman. _Lose Twenty Pounds_ had killed her killer before it reached her kids. Miles translated over to them and Hernandez jumped down to boost the boys up to safety on Miles' frame. They didn't understand to hold on, fell back to the ground, and crawled to their mother. Hernandez grabbed them again and I showed them how to cling and brace themselves. When we all had a good grip on the Towers, they moved out. The refugee children did not cry or fuss, instead watched their mother recede from view.

I studied the boys clinging to the Towers and got hit with a big dose of amazement, a brief tonic for the horror. The children looked human but had a spectacular advantage. Their bones could bend. Their legs and arms were stiff enough that they could climb and run. Yet now, for a better grip on Miles, their legs and arms wrapped around girders such that elbows touched wrists, ankles touched knees. I poked Hernandez to show him. "Gumby people," I whispered, and we shared an amazed grin before he resumed scanning the ground for more survivors.

That rescue was the only good news. The books dispersed as we moved deeper into the killing field, but that wasn't to avoid us. They were running out of victims.

Anwyl produced two nets, which he cast to catch some books. He suspended these just outside the Towers' protective burn zone, tethered with a net of threads as sticky as spider webbing. The captives flailed and tangled themselves trying to escape. One of the captive books dropped text, which sliced through the netting. However, before the books could fly through the hole, the net healed itself. The captive books gave up their struggle and hulked on the bottom of the nets, dust covers glinting.

The library self-help books continued to pace us as we translated to the Santa Monica Pier, where the merry-go-round spun, empty. In this Frame, the pier's wooden pilings dropped into an alien ocean. The water sparkled as though it suspended a billion needles; and it was as blue as only a July afternoon can make it - however, it was not afternoon, it was long past dark. At the far end of the pier, a few remaining refugees jumped off the pier to escape a hail of text. They hit the water, stood suspended on the surface for an instant, registered shock, and sank rapidly without trace. The water remained glassy and undisturbed by their passage.

More refugees ran to the edge of the pier and Anwyl shouted, "Stop! Do not jump!"

"But they'll die if they don't jump!" I said. We could not get there in time to incinerate the books that menaced them.

"A rapid death is not the worst fate," Monk replied.

Miles said, "Whatever happens, whatever it takes, never go in that water."

"You convinced me," I assured them.

Incinerating books as we approached, we got to the pier in time to save another dozen Gumby people. The survivors climbed deep inside Miles and Monk, yet the remaining books kept up their attack. Some dived too close and burned, others flapped circles around the Towers, until one of the captive books issued a multi-syllable squawk. At this, the free books flew up and shot away, a meteor shower in reverse. My four minions, the self-help library books, continued to flap just outside the incineration zone, as close to me as they could get. The same captive book issued another squawk and my minions launched into the stratosphere. At a third squawk, Anwyl swore and grabbed at the nets, but he reacted too late to prevent what the book's third order from being carried out. The captive books rose from the bottom of the nets and jetted toward us, which pushed the nets and the captives into the incineration zone. They burst into flaming ash. No prisoners.

"Why did they do that? And why did you capture them?"

"We would test them to learn their allegiance." Anwyl glared at the book ashes as he pulled in his nets.

"You mean who sent them here to kill these folks."

"That is correct. These soldiers died to preserve that secret." Anwyl folded up the nets and they disappeared inside his tunic.

"Maybe you can use their weapons to identify them?" I pointed to text and photos embedded in the sidewalk.

The Towers rumbled, Hernandez looked up from ministrations to a refugee, and Anwyl gave me a funny stare.

"I mean, maybe the text has DNA that will identify the books."

"Such a test might yield information. That is a good idea, Nica."

"Don't act so surprised!"

The Towers chuckled, Hernandez twitched a smile, and Anwyl dropped to the ground. He filled a pouch with text of various fonts and sizes.

We retraced our steps to transfer the surviving refugees across the killing field to our Connector. We learned their story _en route_. It took me a while to realize the Gumby people spoke English to us - they had that thick an accent, a Slavic drawl like Russian immigrants who had settled in Mississippi.

Their Frame was sparsely populated and survived through the earnings of its subsistence farmers, master crafts folk, and a modest tourist industry. Recently, men came to offer surprisingly large quantities of money to buy most of their land. The natives would retain their homes, only. Most residents accepted the offer. The refugees here today were the minority who had declined the offer, because the deal required them to relocate for one year so that the buyers could renovate and build more easily. The relocation Frame was completely isolated. Most Frames have many Connectors, but the relocation Frame has only a single Connector, the one that connects to their home Frame. The buyers planned to close that Connector during much of the remodel, which made the relocation sound like imprisonment.

The holdouts who declined the offer could not stay at home - life would be too hard with so few people, and inconvenient during the remodeling. So they decided it was time to move closer to a center of civilization. The men who purchased their Frame gave them generous relocation funds and the _émigrés_ left their Frame with the intent to roam until they found another Frame they liked. However, as soon as they entered this Connector hub, their adventure became a pogrom, when the books appeared, intent on killing all.

The survivors didn't know the identities of the men who had bought their Frame. The buyers paid well and said they intended to convert the Frame to a playland with resorts, to make it a recreational Frame with broad tourist appeal. Previous visitors had been limited to those seeking a rustic getaway. The buyers said they wanted to keep the development secret for one year, until it was ready for business. But these survivors had mistrusted the men and this attack confirmed their suspicions that the developers hid their real intent all along. Who would murder thousands as a business development plan?

Apparently they were unfamiliar with corporate America.

Whatever the purchasers' secret plan had been, surely it would be exposed now. If the Towers had not appeared, all these refugees would be dead. But the Towers had appeared, and now there were hundreds of witnesses who had managed to flee through Connectors. Surely the purchasers must abandon their plan and hide.

"Disagree," I said. "Witnesses are a complication that might make them move faster instead of run away. Whatever their real plan was, it was slated to come to fruition in a year. Maybe they will speed up the implementation instead of scrapping the plan."

Again I earned surprised approval.

"Well reasoned, Nica," Anwyl said.

"Our haste grows," Monk added.

We had reached the Connector that would lead the refugees to the Largo, one of the first of many Connectors they would walk. Miles gave them instructions to reach a safe Frame where they could rest. The survivors vowed perpetual servitude to all of us, then with the orphans in tow, they moved into the Connector that would take them to my Frame and beyond.

"Know that you are in grave danger. Try to remain alive, as your survival is important to all the free Frames." Anwyl's parting words underscored the refugees' risk and his limited people skills. The few survivors who were not now crippled by fear led the others into the Connector.

### 21. Here Is A Tumor

We went back into the killing field to search for evidence of where the books came from and who controlled them. "There!" I pointed to elaborate curlicue letters stuck in a concrete wall. "Those are not from any language in my Frame."

"Well done, Nica, your worth grows anew." These became the first of a few dozen meaningful samples. Based on the letters we found, most of the books in this attack could be from many Frames, but a few were published in rare languages used in scant few Frames. Two had potential significance: the Frame of the refugees, which Anwyl said is _[named_ _something that sounded like]_ Halcyon; and the home Frame of Warty Sebaceous Cysts. Our money was on the Cysts as perpetrators, of course, although we didn't understand the reason for this carnage.

"More hints, no proof," Miles lamented, which launched debate about what evidence would convince the Framekeeps to imprison the Cysts again.

I listened to the debate but kept my focus on a hunt for alien letters. I had to. Enough focus just might keep me from passing out. Focus, and the realization that if I fainted I would fall among victims. I looked around in sorrow and outrage. "Why did these souls need to die?"

"We been talking about that," Miles said.

"You have? Wow." They had grown quiet and I hadn't realized they had continued their discussion without words. "Can you teach us to talk without words?"

"He needs no teaching, he has already joined us," Monk said about Hernandez.

I gaped at Hernandez. "You can do that? Talk in your head with them?" I notched down the accusatory tone and wound up sounding hurt.

"I thought you were listening," Hernandez mused, "but you could not hear. That would explain your silence."

"So catch me up on what got discussed."

"It is likely they died to keep secret the sale of their land. But we cannot understand the secrecy or the purchase. Their land is not valuable."

"Still, it can't be a coincidence that somebody took their land right before they died - can it?"

"A coincidence is a sign of limited vision," Monk agreed.

We looked for an explanation as though the answer was written on the corpses. And maybe it was. "We know where the refugees came from. Would it help to know the direction the books flew in from?"

"What do you see, Nica?" Anwyl encouraged me.

"The way the bodies fall. It changes. Over here, the bodies lie every which way. When they walked out of the Connector from their homeland, they fanned out in various directions, giving each other space and in no big hurry. By the time they get over here, they all face the same direction - and they all clog this one street like they were running away from something."

"Something that cut them down while they ran." Hernandez was with me.

"They ran from the west." Anwyl mused.

"Anya's voice in the cloud mentioned 'west'", Hernandez reminded us.

"So what is in the west?" I asked.

"One fourth of the universe." Anwyl shook his head. Not a way to reduce possibilities.

We headed for the Connector that no one had wanted to use, which took us back across the killing field to the pier. The bright pale ocean surrounded the pilings like poured glass and at the horizon, white ocean met cobalt sky in a line of razor sharpness. On the pier, Anwyl laid out the letter weapons he had collected; I got the sense that he and the Towers continued to discuss them mentally throughout their external conversation with Hernandez and me. Anwyl nodded, half in agreement and half in distraction, when I said, "Let's talk about the land grabbers. Why would they evict the Frame's residents for a year and only a year?"

"The time limit might be a lie, to trick them into moving." Hernandez noted.

"Excellent point. Okay. If the Frame itself has limited value, then maybe its location matters. Or its connectedness. What Frames does it connect to? What Frames does it not connect to? Maybe isolation is important."

A charged silence followed. I was on the right track and we all sensed it. From that moment, our relationship changed. I became a partner and ally rather than a cute but annoying novice - which made me prouder than Chuck Berry's guitar.

"Show her the map," Monk suggested to Anwyl.

"And then we gotta split," Miles warned. He and Monk stared at the ocean's horizon as we spoke.

"What do you see?" I asked them.

"Something comes," Monk said cryptically. And yes, _Monk said cryptically_ is redundant.

"This wise blue has got something going on," Miles agreed. And now I sensed it too. The ocean looked the same but something about it was different. Change was brewing.

"The map," Hernandez prompted.

Anwyl led us to the Connector entrance. He swept his hand over a wooden emblem and the side of the entrance contorted to form or reveal an alcove. We stepped inside the alcove to stand and gape. Suspended around us was a fantastic hologram, which, as Anwyl demonstrated, we could move and rotate to view from any angle. Imagine a 3-d subway map with Connector tunnels rather than train lines. The Frames were the negative space between Connectors. Our current location radiated orange in a customized "you are here" symbol that included three glowing sticks, grouped as Hernandez, Anwyl, and I were grouped, with the longest stick - Anwyl - in the center.

Zoomed in, I could see the breaks between the short segments of individual Connector tunnels. At each break, a Connector intersected a Frame. If I tapped the break, I selected the Frame, and illuminated the Connectors to that Frame; all other Connectors went dim. The number and locations of Connectors varied greatly from Frame to Frame.

Zoomed out, the Connectors appeared as sinuous tubes that stretched, curved, interwove into infinity. The map was a 3-d mandala of Celtic knots, intricate as a whole yet simple in its components. It was as though the Frames were incidental to the larger pattern of the Connectors, as though the pathways - not the worlds - defined the universe.

Following Anywl's example, I pinched and swirled fingers to adjust the view and explore a path. The map edges changed as I ploughed along a Connector line, jumping over break after break. I looped up and over, back and around, following that line - yet for all the changes, the path never became confusing. The focus and the color intensities shifted and rescaled to show the increasing distance and changing orientation from our current location, which glowed like a winter hearth in the map's distance.

I felt Anwyl watching me and cast a quick glance his way. He almost smiled, acknowledging and allowing me to pursue my wonder. Hernandez watched with slack-jawed awe as I explored the far reaches of the universe we had so recently discovered. Who knew a map could deliver a religious experience?

Monk hailed Anwyl to come outside, where the Towers kept watch on the ocean. I knew that when Anwyl returned, it would be time to move on. Until then, I hurried to explore more of the map, which was brilliantly designed - I didn't need instruction or a legend to understand it. If I touched our position then tapped a location, the map traced a route to show me how to get there from here, and numbers appeared next to certain Connectors to show the locations and order of transfers I would need to complete the trip. Small rectangles adjoined about half the Connectors, including this one, and the rectangle at our location glowed the same burnished orange as the alcove we stood in, so it was an easy guess that those rectangles indicated other map alcoves. I was disappointed but not surprised that the Connectors at the Largo lacked map alcoves. When the natives don't know a Connector exists, you don't want Travelers lingering there to read a map.

There appeared to be hundreds of Connectors to and from my Frame, but none had alcoves. "How come Connectors in my Frame don't have maps?" I tested my theory as Anwyl rejoined us.

"There are no maps when the host Frame is Neutral, because the hosts lack awareness of the Frames," he said, which confirmed my guess.

"How many Frames don't know they are Frames?"

"For each Frame with awareness, there is a Neutral Frame without." It made me feel less deprived to learn that 50% of the universe was as ignorant as my Frame.

"How do I scroll to the end of this map? I keep scrolling and I keep seeing new stuff - the map never seems to end."

"There is no end."

"It's infinite? Wowza. Are you sure? Have you ever tried to find an end? Hey, okay, I'm not doubting you, I'm just wondering. Also, I notice that when I scroll using two fingers, a counter and a dial appear; and the longer I scroll, the higher the number gets on the counter. Is this showing me elapsed time? It is? Cool! - got that right, too. Also, the longer the time that elapses, the more things change. See? As I keep going along here, those Connectors move and that one fades. Is this map actually four dimensional - does it show time as well as space?"

"That feature is of no importance to you. Your journeys must all be short, you are not suitable for time-evolution Travels," Anwyl said with impatience. "It is time to set aside your curiosity. Have you looked for answers to the question at hand?"

_Time-evolution travels._ I loved the sound of that! But if Anwyl was ever going to teach me how to make such travels, it wouldn't be now. "I have looked for answers. I think this might be one here," I pointed. "The refugees' Frame, Halcyon, is here and it's just about a dead end, like they said. This Connector that we are standing in now is the only one that links Halcyon to the universe of Frames. Halcyon has one other Connector - this one over here - which goes to the Frame targeted for relocation for one year. That relocation Frame is even more isolated, it only has the one Connector to Halcyon. Which is all like they told us. But look. The refugee Frames, old and new, stand at the edge of this funny dark space, see what I mean?" I zoomed out to show how the knotted interwoven flows of Connectors were distorted around a dark mass. "It's like, if Connectors are hair, then this is a bald patch. No, that's a 2-d example. It's more like, if this map is a catscan of a brain, then here is a tumor."

I spun the map to show the dense black area from other angles. Hernandez gave a startled nod - he suddenly saw what I meant to show.

Anwyl's nod was slower. He recognized the tumor. "Maelstrom's prison," he growled.

"Maelstrom's prison." I forced myself to utter the words. "There's something different about the tumor next to the refugees' Frames. Look at it in other locations and there is a black gap between the prison and each Connector, a cohesive dark sphere. But that isn't how it looks right here. The refugee Frames and Connectors are harder to distinguish, the tumor's dark sphere has fuzzier edges. Everywhere else, the Frames and Connectors are distinctly separate from it."

Anwyl explained, "We collapsed Frames within Frames to construct a prison for Maelstrom. This we call a complete collapse and it yields walls that are impenetrable, for the energy of a collapsed world surrounds Maelstrom."

"It's like he's inside a black hole."

"It does no harm to think of it so," Anwyl nodded, an echo of something Anya had once said to me.

"However, in these areas," he pointed to the fuzzy zones, which included the refugee Frames, "one less Frame was collapsed around his prison. This we call a partial collapse. Some fear that a partial collapse may be reversed."

"Why do it that way - why risk letting him escape?" Hernandez demanded.

"There were those among the Framekeeps who argued that partial collapse was more just. The other collapsed Frames were empty and could be sacrificed more readily. These Frames had dwellers, and the humane choice was to preserve, not collapse, their worlds."

"Why would you accept that choice?" Hernandez was pissed.

"We trusted our Framekeeps, whose engineers assured that partial collapse was adequately strong. We did not anticipate that Maelstrom controlled the advisors. Framekeeps who approved the plan did so in secret support of Maelstrom." Anwyl's tone said the devil had infiltrated heaven.

I stopped moving the map and stared at him. "Hold it right there. We're gathering evidence to take to the Framekeeps, but Maelstrom controls the Framekeeps?"

"No longer. His Framekeeps were executed long ago."

Goodness, we were a bloodthirsty group. Hernandez made a satisfied noise that matched my reaction to hear this. "Well, that was justice for such a crime."

"Justice was not exacted. All evidence suggests that Maelstrom killed his Framekeeps to guarantee their silence."

"I see." I paused, waited to see if sympathy for the dead Framekeeps might well up. Nope. "That makes a good deterrent to any other Framekeeps who might be thinking about switching allegiance." At Anwyl's macabre chuckle, I turned back to the map and slid our view along a dim line of Connectors, moving to the far side of the visible universe. "There are other tumors over here."

"Yes, there are evils older and graver than Maelstrom," Anwyl nodded. "But they remain well and fully entrapped. No fools or traitors work to free them."

"Why not stick Maelstrom somewhere with only unoccupied Frames around? Is the universe too crowded?"

"We trapped him where we could. To move him risks losing him."

"Anyhow," Miles called over, "that's where he had his baby farm. Nobody can handle being in that place except him."

I didn't want details about the baby farm. I could tell.

Suddenly, Anwyl and Hernandez swiveled to face Monk and Miles. I followed their gaze and saw the Towers translating toward us at a rate fast enough to make Nascar cringe.

"Climb onto us! Now!" Miles shouted.

"No time to climb! Run!" Monk howled.

I had never heard them raise their voices before.

Behind them, a wall of ocean water crashed onshore. It engulfed the pier and the beach in a fast-rising flood. The Towers would be fine - the waters just flowed around their girders. But if we stayed where we were, or ran back through the killing field, we would drown. We took our only hope, which was to run into the Connector, where our path sloped steeply then gently upward to the refugees' Frame. The ocean surged into the Connector behind us, then slowed and lapped gently when it reached the change in slope. The steep slope was submerged, but the gentle slope stayed dry. Just past the change in slope, we hunkered down, inhaling deeply to refill our lungs after our mad dash upslope. I shifted and my toes squished. The water was still rising, albeit more slowly. I squished my toes at Anwyl and Hernandez to show them, and we stood, watching the water surround our feet. We had no choice. We had to continue through the Connector to Halcyon.

### 22. I Had A Rat Inside My Head

We exited the Connector to a quaint shoreline village. It was textbook storybook, with hand-hewn wooden buildings, streets of crushed stone, and scenery requiring adjectives such as _verdant_ and _azure,_ like this: behind the village, verdant hills rolled to the horizon and beside the village was a glittering azure ocean, placid and inviting. It was daytime here, although night in the Connector hub.

"The ocean doesn't look evil here and now I don't know what to think." I wasn't happy with a universe in which the ocean could be a bad guy, but now that my experience in the last Frame had opened my eyes to the possibility, I carried mistrust with me. If a being was deadly in one Frame, could it be safe in others?

"The ocean is never evil."

"In the last Frame we visited, the ocean swallowed refugees and tried to drown us."

"Ah, so that is how a Neutral sees these events. Your interpretations are not correct but we lack the time to discuss these matters now. Know only that the ocean is essential. From Frame to Frame it may be ruthless or uncaring about individuals. We cannot understand its ways, but we can be certain its actions sustain the universe."

"So it didn't just try to drown us?"

"We cannot know the motives of the ocean, but if it had killed us then we needed to die."

"Then why did we run? If the ocean knows all?"

Anwyl looked at me but said nothing, giving me time to reflect.

"Did we escape a flood or did the flood drive us here?" I paused and answered myself, mockingly. "That is not knowledge we little beings are given leave to possess." The diss lost its piss when Anwyl smiled approvingly.

"As always, you learn rapidly, Nica," he said.

Sincerity, the sarcasm killer, has ruined many a fine joke. I strode ahead into the village thoroughfare, where a few carts were tethered. I stayed mindful at cross-streets and I looked all ways to reduce the danger from oncoming donkeys.

Actually, I would have liked to see a donkey. This place felt irrevocably deserted.

We wandered into and around buildings, each of which had a frontage on a street and a property that stretched back into the verdant hills. Each building had a unique design. The materials were rough and unprocessed yet finely crafted, every edifice more art than construction. Signs outside the businesses were chiseled like woodcuts. Even the carts were master works, fit together without bolts or nails, pieces locked in place with butterfly wedges.

Everywhere was beauty. The air mixed refreshment from the sea with strength from the fields. Every inhale improved my health. The crops were varied, lush, and ready for harvest. I nicked a blackberry from a roadside vine and it melted in my mouth, so sweet and soft that I felt responsible for the other berries, abandoned in these bushes. They were too good to leave behind. I grabbed a woven bag from a cart and filled it with berries, which Hernandez and I munched as we investigated.

Moving closer to the hills, we found that the Frame was not entirely deserted. The air quivered with birdsong and the grasses rustled with the leisurely passage of meadow creatures, who kept their distance from us but showed no menace or fear.

I'm a city person, but being here felt right, even to me. Now I understood how the natives of this Frame could know that other Frames exist, yet opt to stay home rather than Travel. When you live in paradise, you might have curiosity about unknown worlds, but leaving the sublime to explore the lesser might never quite rise to the top of your _to-do_ list.

The thousands murdered on the other side of the Connector hadn't wanted to leave home. They had been forced out, to their doom. Seeing what they had been forced to leave made their fate all the more tragic.

Most of their neighbors had accepted the deal to relocate for one year to the cul-de-sac Frame that could only be accessed from here. I dreaded bringing the relocated ones news of the slaughter, but I was eager to meet more of the folks who had made Halcyon so special. We headed toward the relocation Connector at the west end of town. As we moved west, Halcyon became less idyllic. The road, previously smooth, was here gashed with deep ruts. The meadow creatures hid in the grass, which was no longer green but gray. Birdsong grew faint and an offshore wind blew the ocean air away. The soil smelled marshy and metallic; the plants closest to the road were twisted with blight. The damage looked like that done to the rooftop garden at the Henrietta.

We stopped midstep and stared at what had been our destination.

Where the second Connector had been, there was a blackened tunnel that emitted drifts of gray foam, clots of wet ash, and an odor like the possum that got trapped in my attic during a heat wave. The Connector was impassable. Anwyl used his powers to determine that the damage extended beyond the Connector into the adjoining Frame. Those who had accepted the offer to relocate were just as dead as those who had refused the offer. For reasons unknown, someone had obliterated the trusting natives of Halcyon, along with tourists who happened to be in this wrong place at the wrong time.

We headed back toward the flooded Connector, taking a path that wound between village and ocean. I was incapable of speech and believe my companions were in similar states of anger and grief. We detoured out to a small marina, where sailboats tapped against the docks in a gentle swell. One boat rocked more broadly on bigger waves, because its back mooring line was untied. Force of tidy habit compelled Hernandez to crouch and retie the line. His back stiffened at the same moment that I heard a sorrowful whisper I could not locate. It might have been inside my head.

Safe passage. We beg you for this mercy.

Hernandez looked over his shoulder at me and I nodded. "Yeah, I heard it too."

_Take us with you._ The whisper came from the boat.

Now the whisper panicked. _Protect us from murder. Beware their tricks. Always face them! Turn now!_

Anwyl loomed behind us and warned, "You know nothing and saw little. Guard your thoughts and think not of this Frame." He shielded us from view until we could stand and join him in watching the approach of three stubby men with a trailing Entourage of a dozen more.

The dock vibrated with their approach. The vibration had two rhythms. The trio undulated and bounced into one another as they enjoyed a seaside stroll - "Look! Is that another dolphin?" The Entourage stepped with discipline and precision, like palace guards under orders to enjoy a day off.

"Oh, look who I see, Anwyl, ", Anwyl of all Frames and none." One of the stubby men waved a flamboyant greeting. The second called our way, "Well met, well met." After they occupied the ramp and blocked our return to land, the third said, "Our favorite adversary. The cycles have been kind to you, Anwyl, son of Rayn."

Two of them bowed to us and said, "We are [ _extended gobbledygook that included a phrase that sounded like]_ Warty Sebaceous Cysts and most interested in learning more about our esteemed foe's companions." Between their words they emitted a persistent mosquito whine like a chop shop in your neighbor's garage.

"These companions are of no import to mighty ones like yourselves," Anwyl told them, which alerted me to keep my mouth shut. As soon as I thought this, Right Cyst eyed me like the next course at a dessert tasting. Middle Cyst advanced until he was toe to toe with Anwyl; Left Cyst nodded at Hernandez, encouraging him to bolt and run. Or rather dive, as our only escape route was into the ocean.

At a distance, the triplets suggested adolescent Napoleons raised on soda - lumpy and gross but not yet menacing. Arrived, they were humanoid Gila Monsters and radiated deadly tenacity. They would never stop pushing and grasping to get their way, and what they wanted would not be good for the rest of us.

Their Entourage became eerily still after they stopped on the ramp. The instant I noticed how still they were, they developed tics and gestures that mimicked those of the Cysts. When Left Cyst tossed his head, the toss replicated through a third of the followers. When Right Cyst cracked knuckles, so did a different few of the Entourage. This was no creepier than a zombie mother-in-law. At least the Entourage seemed oblivious to us \- until I thought that thought, at which all twelve of them swiveled their heads and slid their sunglasses down their noses to get a good view of me.

Could they read my thoughts? I tested with, _I hope those guys don't look back at those hills_ , and as a unit, they all turned to do so. Sometimes I process fear inappropriately: I imagined Pee Wee Herman snorting, "Ha, ha, made you look." I turned away from the Entourage quickly, before I could see their reaction. With the threat that emanated from the visitors, I expected Hernandez to tense and go into his combat mode, but instead he slouched and shuffled, a tourist restless to move on and see more sights.

I had a rat inside my head, gnawing tugging snuffling for tidbits. I'd experienced this once before. That time, I'd also heard the Cobra's voice inside my head. _What does it know?_ Someone in this group wanted inside my mind. To defend myself, I followed Hernandez' example and went vapid. Anwyl had dragged us to this empty, dull place - he was my client so I had to tag along, but now I was bored. I played with my hair, tucked it behind one ear; I tossed in a wordless whisper to Hernandez, who pointed to the dolphins.

"What business have you here?" Anwyl demanded of the Cysts.

"Like any Travelers, our business is our own." The Cyst who was toe-to-toe took a step back, putting air between them.

"Yet we have nothing to hide," said Right Cyst.

"We hurried to this Frame when we heard the cry for help, but, alas, we are too late," Left Cyst sighed. "There was an explosion during exodus to a new Frame, destroying the Connector and all nearby."

"What would cause an explosion?"

"Perhaps, as inexperienced Travelers, they carried combustibles."

"We fear many may be dead and injured, and the rest could be stranded until the Connector can be repaired."

"Theirs is a rudimentary Travel ability and they can only move by way of Connector."

"Yet that Connector is of tertiary importance to the transport system, thus there will be a wait of many months before repairs are scheduled."

"Oh dear, the poor things." Right Cyst burst into sobs. Small wet circles popped into existence, one by one, on the tunic of Left Cyst. The pattern mesmerized, and I continued to stare until I realized what was happening. His skin was erupting in large whiteheads that expanded then burst, leaving dots of pus. Eeuw! As I reacted, all dozen of the Entourage gave me disgusted looks.

"We must find a way to rescue them."

At about the same time, I thought, "Rescue! My ass!" The Entourage stared at me again. The Cysts remained focused on Anwyl.

"Our incarceration has changed us," Middle Cyst said.

"It must have so done," Anwyl said.

"Do you not detect any changes?"

Anwyl played along. "In the past, I have not known you to care about those in trouble, nor to be forthright about plans."

"You are correct, Anwyl, son of Rayn. We understand now that life is precious and allies essential. In our effort to rescue those stranded by the damaged Connector, perhaps you might join our cause?"

"The rescue of innocents is a noble quest."

They fluttered and fawned. "Just so! Tell the Framekeeps this is your view! We need resources only they can grant."

He threw his head back and howled. "I hold no favor there. I will speak for you, if you wish the Framekeeps to deny you."

"Have they not forgiven you? Perhaps a time imprisoned would allow you to start fresh with them, as we have."

The Entourage cackled over the notion of Anwyl, imprisoned.

"Sage advice is always welcome," Anwyl replied.

"Oh, and, by the by, what of Anya?" one of them asked softly.

"What of Anya?" Anwyl repeated, softer still.

Hernandez and I knelt to tease the fish that darted under the dock. We discovered barnacles and anemones on the underside of the planks and focused all our thoughts on them. This was an interesting vacation option. Ick would have liked it here.

"The Framekeeps value Anya's counsel. Might she speak on our behalf in favor of rescuing the stranded? Could you ask her? Or is she beyond contact?"

"I will let her know your request."

"Aren't you cunning!" they laughed and turned away. An instant before the Cysts moved, the Entourage had spun around and stomped up the ramp that connected dock to shore.

At the top of the ramp, the Cysts pirouetted to face us again. "And what is your purpose in this Frame?"

Anwyl needed no time to think. "Nostalgia. My family took its holidays here. I wanted to see the place again and to share it with friends."

"You travel with friends from a Neutral Frame. Would that we had your confidence when it comes to breaking Travel rules."

"Perhaps I sought permission from the Framekeeps."

They stared; the Entourage turned back to join the stare. Then the Entourage chuckled, shook its dozen heads, and turned away. The Cysts waved adieu. "Perhaps you did! Do enjoy your day!" We watched them head west toward the destroyed Connector.

"Anwyl." I spoke too low for them to hear, yet at the sound of my voice, their departing steps skipped a beat. "Do we still have time to take a boat ride?"

Anwyl and Hernandez looked at me with far more pleasure than any boat ride warranted.

"If we depart immediately we may enjoy a brief excursion. Here, let us use this boat, it will serve our purpose as well as another." Anwyl jumped onto the boat at our dock. I copied his jump aboard and he showed me how to unfurl the sail. Meanwhile, Hernandez unhooked the ropes, pushed us away from the dock, and jumped on board.

We sailed east, toward the Connector that would return us to the killing field. The Cysts and Entourage disappeared down a slope to the west.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been holding my breath. "How far away can they read minds?"

"Not so far as this."

"They frightened me," I realized, with surprise. I don't scare easily.

"Me too," Hernandez said.

"You see them as they are," Anwyl said.

### 23. For All The Dead, Vanished So Easily

"You did well," Anwyl smiled at us. Hernandez gave a nod like a salute and went aft to mess with the sail.

At last I felt safe to acknowledge what I had needed to forget throughout the encounter with the Cysts. There were folks hidden on this boat and they needed our help. In the storage area at the bow of the boat, I spotted two Gumby people curled around coils of rope. I kept my eyes on the horizon as I joined Hernandez on the deck above them.

"Friends, remain hidden but let us talk," Anwyl greeted them.

They uncurled from their coils of rope and flattened themselves into accordion pleats to sit in the confined space.

Their names sounded like Zasu and Ziti and they had survived so far thanks to their love and indecision. Whether to relocate for a year, or leave their Frame forever, was a difficult decision for Zasu and Ziti. They were sworn to be married as soon as they came of age next year - and they were long inseparable - so their families allowed them to make the decision as a couple. The lovebirds would miss loved ones whichever way they went. His family opted to take the deal and sell their land, for a great profit and a year of isolation. Her family chose to leave Halcyon in search of a new Frame, as yet unknown to them. His family was warm and inclusive, so maybe they should move west; but her family was spirited and adventurous, so maybe they should move east.

They flip-flopped until the day of relocation. They were the last to enter the western Connector, and were almost through it, _en route_ to the isolated westernmost Frame, when they changed their minds and retreated. They exited the Connector to encounter armed guards, who tried to herd them back inside. Zasu persuaded the guards they were returning home briefly because they forgot something and would be right back. They pretended to head home, then ran through fields and hills to the eastern Connector. They seemed to be alone in their Frame and whispered in the uneasy silence. Nothing they knew about the redevelopment explained the presence of armed guards, whose appearance confirmed their intangible suspicions about the offer and the project.

They hurried through the eastern Connector to catch up with their neighbors who had already passed through the Connector, but something made them stop, mid-tunnel. Perhaps it was a faint high sound that might have been a scream; or maybe it was an unpleasant, unfamiliar smell. They crawled to the far end of the Connector, peeked out, and saw the attack of the books in progress. Someone, gravely injured, crawled their way, but brushed against a glossy magazine, which exploded in a rain of blood.

Zasu and Ziti crept back to their home Frame, and from the hills, watched armed guards, technicians, and the three friendly fellows who had organized the land purchase. All congregated around the western Connector. Two guards tiptoed into the Connector, steering a cart stacked with magazines; after a time, they returned with an empty cart. A technician dragged another, heavy cart up to the Connector. On it was a machine with a thick tube. Technicians shoved the tube into the Connector, then covered the opening of the Connector with a thin cloth that glinted like metal. A technician at the machine did something with his hands and the Connector erupted with green flames, yellow smoke, and orange lightning. The observers applauded then stood chatting, watching a clock. After a time, the technicians donned protective clothing and removed remnants of everything they had placed in the Connector.

Zasu and Ziti had been hiding since then. Come nightfall, they planned to return to the hub through the eastern Connector, in hopes that the books would be gone and they could flee to an unknown Frame.

Our boat sailed over gentle swells. The sun warmed our skin and the breeze kissed us cool. We were in heaven, trying to understand hell. By the time the sky took on the first pastel blush of sunset, we thought we had _why_ figured out. As we talked, sometimes Anwyl paused for an extended silence, from which he would return with fresh perspective. I believe he was in contact with Monk and Miles at those times.

This Frame was important to the Cysts' effort to free Maelstrom and so they tricked the inhabitants into leaving, then attempted to kill all who had witnessed the Cysts' interest in this Frame. They couldn't force everyone to relocate - that might have raised suspicion in other Frames - so those who declined to relocate were "allowed" to emigrate - then eliminated in an ambush of books.

"Is it possible that the western Connector was destroyed, but not those in the Frame behind it?" Ziti tried to hide the yearning in this hope.

"It is possible but unlikely," Anwyl's voice was kindly but the words still cut.

"This I knew," Ziti said, with insight beyond his years. "Sometimes we must voice our hopes to hear their emptiness."

"Are we the last of our kind?" Zasu whispered a sob.

"A few others survived the book attack," Hernandez said. "And hundreds escaped as it began."

"We will help you to unite with them," I assured.

"You are in terrible danger," Anwyl warned. "They want no witnesses. We will help you to leave here and then we will need your aid in exchange. Will you tell your tale to the Framekeeps?"

"Assuredly, if that will bring justice."

"We must get you to safety and we must not tarry longer. When we come ashore, we will run to the Connector," Anwyl instructed.

"If the Cysts return and see us running, won't they wonder why?"

"If Warty Sebaceous Cysts return, run faster. You must maintain distance from them."

At Anwyl's request, Ziti and Zasu folded themselves to the size of smartphones and Anwyl pocketed them in his tunic. The sunset blush deepened and the sky made a realist of Maxfield Parrish. We continued to reflect on danger, murder, and evil until Hernandez spit, "Here it comes _._ "

The boat beached with a spray of sand. Anwyl and Hernandez threw us over the side and I hit the ground running on all fours.

It was a hundred meter dash with a marathon's worth of exposure. My nerve endings jangled, anticipating interruption by the Cysts. Yet I heard no distant shouts, nor footfalls besides our own, as we scrabbled up the dunes and through the fields to the Connector.

I thought that we'd stayed lucky, with no sign of the Cysts, until I cast a glance back to the village. The Cysts lounged at the outermost building. One watched us with binoculars, one shaded eyes to view us against the setting sun, and one gave a friendly wave and moved his mouth. The high-pitched mosquito whine reached my ears before the words did. "Farewell, for the moment!"

They showed no concern about our getting away, which made me feel that we hadn't. It would have been less scary if they had run to catch us.

The Connector was no longer flooded and the path was damp but clear. As we descended toward the killing field, I remembered how quickly the water had risen before, but Anwyl seemed unconcerned about floods. He stopped to extract Zasu and Ziti from his pockets and we waited while they unfolded and bounced a few times to limber up. When we resumed walking, they held hands.

We emerged from the Connector without incident. Miles was on the pier, talking with the merry-go-round; Monk waded in the ocean beside the pier.

"The ocean can't hurt Monk?"

"It could," Anwyl said.

Miles saw Ziti and Zasu, then tilted over the pier railing to say to the ocean, "More farmers? That's who you needed us to see?" He listened a moment, then concluded, "Okay, catch you later." The Towers headed toward shore to intersect with our path.

"Now we're friends with the ocean?" I'm not sure why this pissed me off. Guess I had exceeded my daily limit of _I don't get it._

"This ocean is neither friend nor foe, but can be an ally," Monk said.

"But you warned us to keep away from it."

Anwyl took over the explanation. "That caution still holds. This ocean protects the integrity of the Frames, but it is not bound to protect beings, and may not delay to determine whether an individual being poses a risk before it eliminates a problem."

"Shoot first, hide the body before somebody asks questions," Hernandez said.

"That makes -" I began. Anwyl raised a hand and I clammed obediently. For now.

We climbed onto the Towers. While Anwyl, Monk, and Miles discussed our encounter with the Cysts, Hernandez and I gawked at how Ziti and Zasu climbed. They stretched their arms quadruple their normal length, then wrapped their forearms around a girder, then contracted their arms to draw themselves up. As they resized, their skin rippled smoothed rippled.

As we neared the killing field, I suggested to our rescues, "I'm going to shut my eyes when we move through here." Zasu and Ziti nodded and did the same.

The rolling motion of the Towers was soothing, despite everything, and I extinguished all thoughts for a time. Gradually, I noticed that the air was different now. When we were here before, it smelled like an illegal stockyard. Now it smelled as fresh as the beach at dawn. Hernandez murmured, "The bodies are gone."

Our three pairs of eyes popped open. The streets were wet and empty, as though the ocean had recently washed through. There was no sign of carnage. Hernandez and I turned to look at the ocean, which glinted, glassy and immobile. For the remainder of our journey across the killing field, tears flowed from four sets of eyes, for all the dead, vanished so easily.

We got back to the Henrietta in the middle of a night and it turns out that we had been gone more than 24 hours. Holy frigging petunias. In the Frame where we started our return, my hall was an exterior feature at the top of the Henrietta, as was also true in Miles and Monk's Frame. "Why is my floor- the ninth floor - at the top of the building in other Frames but not in my Frame? Where did the tenth floor and the roof go?"

"The important question is, how came those additions to your Frame?" Monk said.

"And why don't they show up in other Frames?" Miles added.

"In your Frame, Henrietta has been altered. Who wanted the alteration and who made the changes? Those are answers we seek from you, Nica." Anwyl went on to explain that the top of the Henrietta had been altered against her knowledge and will. The alterations exist in my Frame and are absent from many other Frames. Henrietta had not detected the additions until Jay and I made all those trips to the roof garden. She was often not aware of remodeling done in Neutral Frames, when a human contractor did the work. Until now, Neutral remodeling has been trivial. But these rooftop additions allow access to enemies, a danger that compromises the safety that Henrietta otherwise guarantees. Presumably, Neutral workers from my Frame had performed the remodeling, oblivious to its real purpose. As the detective, it was now up to me to detect who did the work and who ordered it.

Somewhere under my exhaustion, I was jazzed. This was my first assignment from Anwyl that felt truly sleuth-like. I would get right on it! After we got our rescues safe \- and, okay, I might need to catch up on some of the sleep I had missed these last couple days.

I was the last one on the Towers and as I gave Miles a farewell hug, everything went dim. The breeze stilled and a fleecy cloud parked overhead, blocking the moon. The air became charged and expectant as it does before a thunderstorm, as it did outside the Largo when another cloud brought a message from Anya. Everyone looked up and when Anya's voice enveloped us, I wimped it and started to cry; I wasn't sure why. Certainly, our recent adventures had left me fragile. Also, I was happy to hear her voice, but worried - now that I had a better sense of the dangers she faced, I wanted her back here, pronto. Or, perhaps I anticipated the content of her message, which would have such profound repercussions.

"Haste and Miles. We need both." Before I could process these words, the wind picked up and carried the cloud away.

_Haste and Miles._ "Shit on a stick," Miles said, and his girders went so cold, I scrambled off in fear that my skin would stick to him.

"I'm sorry, brother," Monk said.

"Sorry? Don't you mean _'_ _get off your bitch ass and take action'_? That's how you said it before."

"Your fear is real but the danger may not be," Anwyl interjected.

Suddenly, I understood. At an earlier meeting, Anwyl, Monk, and others had pushed Miles to go to a lawless Frame where he was well-known. He refused, because it had become too dangerous for him to visit there. In the previous discussion, all except Anwyl acknowledged the danger and backed off, so Miles didn't go. Then. Now, Anya's message made clear that Miles had to go.

Miles and Monk seemed invincible; any dangers that made Miles fearful and Monk reluctant were threats too enormous to imagine. I tugged at a straw. "Is there another interpretation of Anya's message? Maybe 'miles' means distance?"

_Haste and miles. We need both._ Monk and Miles repeated the message a few times, toyed with reinterpretations _._ Anwyl feigned patience and let them work it through to the only conclusion. _Haste and miles. We need both_ could mean _-_

We must hurry and go far.

The answer is far away.

We need to put distance between our foes and us - quickly.

Miles moves slower than Monk which makes Monk 'haste' and Miles, 'miles'.

They chuckled at that. Or tried to.

"It would appear that I am outta here," Miles rapped.

"I would go in your stead," Monk said.

"Tell me what I don't know," Miles replied. "None of you can go. I'm the one has the ghost chance of success."

"Anya wouldn't ask you if it was impossibly dangerous -" I tried to Pollyanna it.

"She would sacrifice any of us for the free Frames, as is right."

"Maybe there's another way, if we think it through. What is so important about going to that Frame?"

"It may hold the key to understanding Maelstrom's escape. We know an escape attempt will come soon. We do not know how the effort will transpire. In that Frame, Miles may learn the _how_."

Miles told Anwyl, "I can't send a cloud from there, that would put my ass in a blender so I can't report back until I am back. You won't hear from me for a while."

"Can you leave now?" Anwyl responded with his customary empathy.

"Here I go," Miles said. Static electricity built fast and thick around me. Miles ruffled my hair overlong in this goodbye. Shit. What would I do without Miles? I couldn't learn how to flirt with machines. I could no longer be baffled by a jumble of mis-matched slang.

When the future terrifies me, I have no choice; I have to joke about it.

"We will see you as soon as we are meant to," Monk intoned.

"Make destiny your bitch," Hernandez said.

"Miles," was all I managed before he translated out of Frame.

### 24. They Won't Know To Look For Her Here

We sat around my office, eating fruit and crackers from my file cabinet. Our guests had never encountered processed food and the crackers dazzled them. Zasu broke the crackers into smaller and smaller pieces, searching for the constituents. Ziti set a cracker on his tongue and called out ingredients. He identified most of them and Zasu got the rest. My crackers were health nut thingies so all the ingredients could be known to a farmer. To stump them, I dug Cheetos from Ben's boxes in my closet. Cheetos on their tongues made them gag and retch like the food testers of an unpopular king. My apologies turned into a soliloquy about American eating and the Twinkie defense. Hernandez was the first to laugh at me, but the other three soon followed. I would have preferred _with_ to _at,_ but - no matter - it was good to hear laughter. Hernandez gave a brief but turbo-charged belly laugh, Zasu and Ziti tittered like silver bells in a breeze, and Anwyl growled contentedly.

Our noise made me wonder how soon the Cysts would come looking for these witnesses. Anwyl addressed this indirectly when he instructed us to move Zasu and Ziti immediately, and to hide them somewhere I had never been with Anya or Anwyl. What chilled me was his insistence that they could not be hidden together.

"You will remain hidden in this Frame for one sunrise," he explained to them. "We will then create a distraction and move you to a safe Frame. There you will stay until you give witness to the Framekeeps."

"We wish to wait together in this Frame."

Anwyl bared his teeth. "Would that I thought it safe for you to do so."

"Will there be books where we are going?" Ziti asked, failing to hide his fear.

I started bawling. Their reactions were fear, surprise, annoyance, and sympathy. I'll let you decide which was whose. "I'm sorry," I blubbered, then got a grip. "I can't believe that books are evil in other Frames."

"They were not always so," Anwyl said. "Perhaps you may help to restore their character."

If this was pandering to stop the tears, it worked. I felt better to know this. "Who ruined them? Maelstrom?"

"It was his mentor Pandemonium who conscripted the souls of books, but that is a tale for another day. There are no books where you are going," he assured Ziti and Zasu.

"Will we Travel far from here?" Zasu had already had her fill of Traveling.

"You cannot Travel far. You have no experience with Frame Travel, thus it will render you weak and ill."

"Hernandez, you feel any bad effects from Frame Travel?" I asked.

He shrugged, "To me it feels like a mild case of the bends."

"Yeah, same here." I tried to copy his shrug. He has a great _fuck you all_ of a shrug that I need to add to my shrug repertoire.

"Travel effects depend on how far you Travel from your home, how long you are away, how many Frames you visit, and how frequently you change Frames. Do not underestimate these effects," Anwyl warned.

"What's the worst that can happen?" Hernandez asked. He sounded as casual as I felt. It was like worrying about the accumulation of dental x-rays.

Anwyl spoke just as casually. "The worst includes obliteration of consciousness. Death."

I lost my shrug. "We don't know nothin' about no Frame Travel, so we rely on you to keep us safe."

"As I have sworn to do," he nodded. "You nonetheless require information for the times when you must make decisions without me." He stood. "We must move our witnesses."

And so we headed out. Ziti would hide with Ben, and Zasu, with Edith. Ziti and Zasu joined Hernandez in the truck cab, Anwyl and I sat in the truck bed. Without shifting position or seeming attentive, Anwyl watched the streets in all directions. I watched him watch everything until my pocket got hot. From my pocket, I extracted my phone, to find it cranking overtime, delivering _beaucoup_ megabytes. Apparently my provider doesn't have good service outside this Frame, and I now received all the texts and messages that should have arrived while I was gone. I skimmed my incomings.

Ben had left two voice and two text messages. For him, that was a lot. The four were identical. _Call me as soon as you get this._ That sounded serious.

Detective Henson had called twice. _Nica, give me a call when you can._ I didn't know her well enough to know whether that sounded urgent or routine.

Jenn had called, but left no message - damn, who knew when she could call again! She had promised to leave messages if anything was wrong, so I assumed she was okay.

One phone message reminded me that it was time for my annual eye exam.

There were messages from my cops, alternating turns, every eight hours on the dot. At each occasion, a cop stated his name and ended the call.

I'd received two calls from the bail bond place.

And then there were the 23 texts and 27 phone messages from Kathleen Kimball. My lawyer. The first of these were terse and professional, but they grew ever shaggier and uptight. What is the opposite of uptight, anyway? Why hadn't _downloose_ ever caught on? Nica, focus! She reminded me that as a condition of my bail, I must not leave the County and I must confirm my whereabouts with three telephone check-ins per day. I had missed the last four check-ins and I had better be in a ditch with amnesia. Even then, I should have remembered to call my attorney, who could only help clients who help themselves.

I would have to deal with my legal status later. With each bump of the truck ride, pain blasted me. While I was away, the Cobra's injury hadn't hurt any worse than a bad sunburn. By the time we piled into Hernandez' truck to leave the Henrietta, it didn't hurt any worse than a cavity filled without Novocain. And by the time we drove through Koreatown, it didn't hurt any worse than amputation without anesthesia.

I shrieked and this earned me Anwyl's attention.

"Nica? What troubles you?" He touched my arm gently and reared back in surprise. "Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?" His fingers touched me again, to explore the hurt area gently. It still showed no outward sign of injury.

"This wasn't how I imagined you touching my chest, actually."

"Nor I," he said, unless by then I was delirious and imagined that part. "How long has your shoulder been like this?"

"Like what?"

He moved my hand to the back of my shoulder. I could barely feel our fingers pressing into my skin, which looked normal yet felt slick and thick, like I'd once had a third degree burn there.

"Oh! Em! Gee! Will all my skin turn like that? Is it permanent?"

"Time will show us those answers - ah, you have protection." His fingers had found Anya's lanyard. I touched it also.

"Anya gave this to me. She put it around my waist and at first it made me more aware of - I don't know, danger, or deception, I was still figuring that out when the Cobra got me. Now it reduces the pain, or it did until lately. Or maybe it's still helping but the pain is that much worse. Don't take it off to find out!" I babbled in lieu of screaming.

Anwyl had tried to interrupt; now he touched a finger to my lips. "Continue to speak if that helps you fight the pain. I will return with haste."

He stood, murmured the way that Anya had done when we jumped off the roof, and disappeared over the side of the truck while we were doing about 35 mph. Through the haze of pain my reactions were slow and by the time I was startled by his departure, he had reappeared next to me, holding a glass jar. By the time he was seated, he had removed the lid and begun to rub salve into my skin. It stung like menthol but smelled like wet fur.

"That feels - slightly better."

"Any lessening bodes well. The purpose of this salve is to slow the damage."

"Slow? The injury could get even worse?"

"It assuredly will get worse, despite Anya's talisman or my salve. But these will protect you sufficiently for another few days. When we deliver our witnesses to safety, you will get a true healing to eradicate the poison."

"Why did it hurt less when we were in the other Frames?"

"The Frame makes no matter. It is the nature of the poison to wax and wane, but each waxing brings greater pain and more damage."

"I didn't realize this would be such a high-risk job."

"The dangers will continue to grow. There is no dishonor in stopping, should they be too grave for you."

"How do you think I'm going to respond to that?"

The salve, the lanyard, and one of Anwyl's endorphinating smiles. I was feeling pretty good right now.

"You were well chosen, Nica."

I felt improved enough to have a lot of questions, but they would have to wait. Hernandez had just parked outside Ben's place.

It was close to dawn, so late that even Ben was asleep. He opened the door after just a minute of discreet knocking.

"Nica?"

"It's important, Ben."

He stepped back to swing the door wide and looked at each of us as we filed inside. He and Hernandez tilted their chins to each other: _what up, bro'_. He offered reassuring smiles to Ziti and Zasu. He matched Anwyl's cool appraising stare. He gave me a twitch of a grin. "More customers?"

"Clients. This is Ziti. We need to leave him with you for a day or two. Nobody can know he's here."

"Okay."

"Keep him safe, Ben."

"Is somebody after him?" He noted Anwyl and Hernandez, who roamed the apartment, checking the latches and adjusting the blinds on doors and windows.

"Yes, and they'll be hunting for him - but they won't know that you have any connection to him."

"Then you better get out of here before they figure it out."

"I owe you."

"Always vice versa, Neeks."

"You left me some messages."

"That can wait until tomorrow. Later today."

"I'll call you later."

"But we won't mention this."

"Good point."

We could only give Ziti and Zasu a few seconds to say their goodbyes, then we were out the door and Ben was asking Ziti if he was hungry, while latching and locking behind us. Say what you will about Ben - and I've said it all - when you can count on him, you can really count on him.

Ben has a flexible sense of reality, so if Ziti did amazing boneless roll-ups around Ben, there would be no serious repercussions. However, I didn't want to try to explain that ability to anybody else, and especially not to Detective Henson. So, as we headed for Edith's, our second hiding place, I sat in the cab with Zasu and laid it out for her. She would stay with Neutrals who knew nothing of the Frames or other beings. They would need to think she was a human, and humans cannot bend much; nor do they change size or shape suddenly. Because Zasu has no experience with humans, it would be understandable to make a mistake. To avoid mistakes, if she hadn't already seen the Neutrals do something, she shouldn't do it herself.

She got it, but didn't, until Anwyl spoke up from the back. "Move as you did before your first molting."

Relief. "Oh! Now I understand."

The sun was up by the time we got to Edith's; fortunately, Henson was heading out for a jog as we pulled up, eliminating several potential complications and delays in getting Zasu safely deposited inside.

When I opened the truck door, Henson's stride froze in a defensive martial arts crouch.

"Patti, I need a favor." Recognizing me, she straightened, stepped closer to meet me on the walkway. "I've got a witness on another case who needs to stay hidden for a day. Inside, away from windows."

"Does your witness put Edith in danger?"

"If they find my witness here, probably. But they won't know to look for her here. I remember you said you were taking off this week to hang with Edith and get her ready for her hearing, so I hoped you could look out for my girl also."

"'They' plural? How many?"

"Three. Maybe more."

She went over to lean in the driver's window, look at Zasu, and say to Hernandez, "Next time you gotta text them when you're gone overnight, they slept like shit."

"No clue it was gonna be an overnighter." It was the first time I'd heard Hernandez sound defensive.

"Need to get better clues, dad."

"With you on that one."

They had an easy familiarity that gave me funny twinges.

Henson looked at Zasu for another second and then looked back to me. "Okay."

She went in first, to let the girls know what was happening and pass on my warning that they must not ask Zasu questions about her past because such questions would upset her. I knew this crew could relate to that. Hernandez brought Zasu inside so he could see his daughters. I joined Anwyl as he evaluated the perimeter. There were windows and doors on every side of the cottage and it felt much more isolated and exposed than Ben's apartment, which was a center unit in an urban complex with no yard.

Detective Henson and Hernandez returned to the front porch as Anwyl and I completed our circuit.

"We should take off," I told her. "You left me messages. When I return your phone call later this morning, say nothing of this."

"I understand," she replied sourly. She was getting her first good look at Anwyl and she didn't like what she saw. In fact, I'd call her reaction downright mistrustful. I squinted at him, trying but failing to see him through her eyes.

As soon as Henson was back inside, Anwyl clapped a hand on each of our shoulders. "We will meet next at Nica's abode, this time on the morrow." Before we could reply, he left us, sprinting down the street and murmuring his way out of Frame.

Hernandez and I didn't talk much on the way back to the Henrietta, except about whether it was better for us to stick together or split up, should the Cysts be on their way. We decided we should proceed as close to normal as we could manage, so Hernandez went home and I went upstairs.

By this point, I needed reminders that the world is full of order and beauty, so I played Bach while I completed the minimum possible bed preps. At last, my dreams came true and it was just me and my futon with the covers over my head. With temperature already too high to keep the covers on. With every hall noise suggesting an Entourage. With a shoulder pain that had mercifully dialed back to a mild ache, except for sporadic sharp pains that were as soothing as a pan dropped on tile. I groped the remote, upped the volume from loud to radioactive, and let Bach handle my woes.

### 25. I Thought Of The Dangers Facing Miles

"You've never turned your phone off for a guy?"

"That would account for one hour. Why didn't you answer your phone during the other 26?"

I slouched in the client chair, in noteworthy contrast to my attorney's posture, which was as yielding as a stop sign. "We got to know each other really well," I shrugged, pretending I was sore for happy reasons.

"I hope he was worth revocation of your freedom." Kathleen Kimball was as playful as an audit.

"He might be, if it comes to that. But I don't think it will. I bet you can convince them to give me another chance."

Kimball just kept staring at me. She was impervious to flattery and I did not please her. Can an attorney fire a client?

"I have arranged another chance for you, but there is a new cost for your freedom." She swiveled her leather and chrome chair, to grab a post-it pad from the leather and chrome post-it pad holder.

"Can I afford the price?"

"You must wear an ankle bracelet with a GPS receiver."

"What? Ridiculous!" I feigned outrage because she expected it. But at most I was annoyed. Once I went out of Frame again, I was screwed anyway. This bought me some time out of jail to keep working the case.

I could tell she had something else to say, so I nudged it out of her. "Are we done for now? I don't want to take any more of your day. Or mine. I've got clients depending on me, too."

"My firm's staff should be able to help if your other cases require investigation outside Los Angeles County. You've never been in jail and we want to keep it that way."

"Thanks, I appreciate all that."

"Nica, the effort to defend a client is rarely successful if she does not confide in her counsel."

"Hand to heart, he was that hot and I lost track of time."

"Alright," she sighed, which let me know it wasn't.

"What have you found out about the case against me? What have they got?"

"Thus far, I have ascertained little, but it has only been a day."

"So a day is a long time for me to have a playmate but a short time for you to do your job."

"Time is every bit as relative as Einstein warned us. If you are unhappy with my performance, we can notify the court that you wish to change counsel." By the time I got the Einstein line, we were long past it. Clever lines, clichés, concerned advice, she delivered all with the same chilly precision.

"Sorry, without sleep I'm not a nice person. I don't understand why we know so little about the case against me. Aren't the cops required to share their evidence with my defense?"

"The prosecutor is, yes, but there are caveats and there can be delays. I don't want to speak precipitously, but so far they seem determined to stall."

"Why would that be? Maybe they have no case?"

"There could be many reasons. That is the least likely." She grabbed a business card, wrote on the back. "To get your ankle observer, report to this address at 1 p.m. Be on time."

"'Ankle observer'? Really?"

"I'll see you at 1 p.m., Nica. Until then, keep your phone functional."

It was turning into a sweaty summer. I already had to wear sleeves to cover the Cobra's injuries, because they felt worse exposed to air. Now I would have to wear long pants to hide the stupid ankle device. All I could do was hope that Anya could come back ASAP and clear me of all charges related to her disappearance.

As I walked back from the train station to the Henrietta, I caught myself finding reasons to shift direction so that I could check who was behind me. Stupid; I knew that. I wasn't going to avoid or improve my next encounter with the Cysts by knowing when they were closing in.

I needed distraction. I unpocketed my phone.

"Henson."

"S.T.A.T.Ic. Returning your calls of yesterday."

"Hey. Good. Just wanted to let you know I dealt with your eviction notice."

"That was fast. How'd you manage it?"

"When I talked to the business manager at the Henrietta, I implied that you might be pretending to live there, because you are deep undercover, working an important case for me. He was excited to be trusted with a police secret and agreed to bend the rules, provided we tell him the details of the case as soon as that won't jeopardize the investigation."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"Patti, will you marry me?"

"Sorry, I never get married during a case. Can't get anyone to dish what they've got on you, though. They are wearing double rubbers on your case and they don't have a version for the media, which means they aren't expecting publicity. You heard anything new?"

I told her about the missed check-in phone calls and the ankle observer.

"I'm surprised your ass isn't in jail. You must have a great lawyer."

"Ho-kay, let's call that the bright side and move on. By the way, how is Edith doing? When is her hearing?" I hoped she realized I was asking about Ziti, too.

"Day after tomorrow. She is doing better than I expected. She has friends staying with her and they are all having a lot of fun. Thanks for suggesting the Wii. Every game ends with them in a heap on the floor, laughing."

"Hearing that makes my day."

"Got to fly. Keep your phone turned on!"

"There's a lot of that advice going around. Thanks for everything, Patti."

Isn't it refreshing when civilians appreciate the police force? An unexpected bonus of Patti's undercover story to the Henrietta's business manager is that he couldn't have been happier to let me see all the records related to the building's renovations.

I can play on a good riff when I hear one, so I let the business manager know that Hernandez - _a decorated war veteran, were you aware? I, too, only found out recently, he is so modest_ \- was also part of the police investigation. It would support Detective Henson and me if Hernandez could change his hours sometimes, such as this afternoon.

Which is how Hernandez and I came to be sitting in his truck across the street from a construction site in Hancock Park, an enclave of discreet old money in the Hollywood flatlands. Hancock Park primarily consists of Spanish mansions - but on the small side, with yards, not grounds, which gives the feel of a neighborhood with homes, not estates. Inside every house is a success story. Powerful people live here - household names, politicos, trend dictators - dotted among block after block of garden-variety rich folks. There is so much money in Los Angeles that here _small mansion_ is not an oxymoron, but rather an expression of wealth gradations.

"Thanks for getting me my new flexible shift," Hernandez said.

"Thanks for continuing to work 'the adventures', as you call them. This would be much less fun without you."

"We can both thank my girls. They saw that this matters to me and offered to do overnights with friends whenever I'm gone." He released the steering wheel like he'd just noticed he wasn't driving. "This work takes skills I like to use. I'm a good custodian but I'm not a custodian."

"This gig is important to me, too. Anya and Anwyl must succeed. The alternatives are ridiculous. You sure you're ready to do this thing?"

"I am."

"Then I reckon I am too."

We stared at our reason to be in Hancock Park, a Spanish revival gem behind chain link fence with a ten-foot sign. _Digby Construction. Specialists in historic restorations. Since 1952._ I thought I recognized the house as the home of a former governor - or maybe the actor who played him in a movie.

Digby Construction had also built the Henrietta's penthouse floor, and the extra stairs that access the roof. The work was done a decade ago and if there had been other bids for the job, no record of them had been saved. I learned that by nosing through files in the Henrietta's office. Some of them, I even had permission to read.

We stared at the site, or what we could see of it. Green cloth covered the fencing and blocked our view, except where the gate was open and a quartet of workers unloaded oak plank flooring from a flatbed and carried it inside. Just inside the gate was a one-room trailer that had to be the construction office. For the last half hour, we had tossed around excuses - pardon _moi_ , _reasons_ \- for us to walk into that office. They were as convincing as a second-hand toupee.

"Let's just do it. I'll think of something when I have to." I grabbed the door handle, but before I could let myself out, Hernandez yanked me into his lap. My smartass reaction got buried in his thigh. My memory of what I said got lost in whiteout fear when he whispered, "The Cobra."

I didn't collapse on the floor. I slid to the floor, the better to turn and ever so slowly peek over the bottom of the window. The Cobra stood at the door of the trailer with a clipboard, then walked to the truck and climbed into the driver's seat.

The truck would go right by us and rode higher than us. We had nowhere to hide from his view.

Hernandez started his pickup and drove away from the gate, then turned on the first, narrow cross street. A truck as wide as the flatbed could not turn until it got to the street with the signal, two blocks up.

It was a _what if_ scene I couldn't chase out of my head. Had we headed for the construction office a few seconds earlier, we would have walked right into him. I got the shivering and babbling under control and pulled myself onto my seat. "Follow his truck."

Hernandez looked at me. "We need back-up."

"No way will we engage, but let's get the license plate number and see where he's going."

Hernandez kept far back. We followed the flatbed southeast to University of Southern California, where it pulled into a gate off Vermont and disappeared on campus. Near the gate was a construction site. "Looks like the Cobra is remodeling those dorms."

We had been near the Cobra about as much as I could handle. Hernandez must have felt similarly, because without discussion he headed us back to Hancock Park.

While the flatbed had waited its turn to enter the gate at USC, we got close enough to snare all but the last number of the license plate. _En route_ to Hancock Park, through the magic of mobile banking and internet databasing, I used my favorite disreputable enterprise to query Department of Motor Vehicle records ten times, for each of the last digit options. It was skill I'd learned during my short career as the brains of a repo team.

"There is only one truck among the candidate license plates. The last digit is a seven and the truck belongs to Digby Construction."

We parked across and down the street, then walked onto the construction site together. I headed up the ramp to the trailer that served as office; Hernandez hung around outside, seemingly engrossed in texting while he watched for flatbed trucks and other dangers.

Hernandez was nervous about who or what we would encounter at the construction site. I wasn't nervous. I was terrified. Halfway up the ramp, I froze. Every time I turned my head, just outside my periphery I saw the Cobra. The Cysts. Jackhammers inside the garage mimicked the lockstep march of the Entourage. To unfreeze, I thought of the dangers facing Miles and strode forward to open the door to the trailer.

File cabinets, copier, water cooler, fridge. None of them leaped out to grab me. At the far end of the trailer, two hardhats leaned on a table, discussing an unrolled blueprint and a laptop screen. They looked up when the door opened, returned to their blueprint when they didn't recognize me. At the desk just inside the door, a woman wore a TMI summer frock that showcased the articulated hams she used as arms. She stopped punching a number into her desk phone and a sausage finger hovered over the number pad. "Help you?" Her voice was gruff yet not unfriendly.

"Hi, yes, I just happened to drive by and noticed you specialize in historic renovations. I wanted to get your number for my condo association."

She hung up the phone, reluctantly but not resentfully.

"And if you have any kind of brochure, or reference list of satisfied customers - anything to reassure my Association. The work is overdue, but they are so afraid of a botched job. How long have you been in the business, by the way?"

Outside, Hernandez was right where I'd left him, seemingly absorbed in an exchange of texts. Which meant that he watched every corner of the site and the street.

"And?" he greeted me. We strolled to the truck at a quicker pace than we had entered. The door locks engaged with clicks louder than gunshots.

"I haven't been in many construction offices but that one seemed normal."

"I saw two guys who felt out of Frame, but not on the crew. They walked through the site and down the street." As Hernandez jammed the truck into gear, he handed me his phone, queued to blurry photos of the two guys.

I couldn't decide whether I detected Other Framedness. "Maybe there's a Connector nearby."

"Could be. We aren't looking for it without backup."

"Agreed."

Back at the Henrietta, we snooped on-line and came up with eleven addresses of renovations by Digby Construction. The USC dorm was not among them. The company had a web site that hadn't been altered since it was launched three years before, but that wasn't unusual for a small business. The web pages boasted that Digby had decades of experience, but all the work we could find had been done in the last three years. The Henrietta was the earliest renovation we knew about, and it wasn't listed on line. So we had found some info, of uncertain value and unclear point.

We drove to the renovation addresses and we made it to five of the eleven before it got too dark to see the buildings. The sites were all over the damned place. Apparently Digby worked all over Los Angeles County.

"I see nothing untoward," I said, after we scrutinized each building.

"You like that word, don't you?" Hernandez said at the fifth _untoward_.

"Who could not?"

"I'm ready to call it a night. How about you?"

I nodded needlessly; the truck was already headed back to the Henrietta. "Yeah, visits to the other six will have to wait until we get back." Tomorrow morning was when we would transport Ziti and Zasu to safety.

I put my feet up on the dash, which exposed my new bangle, the _ankle observer_. A bike lock for my body. "When I get back from our next trip, as soon as they revoke my bail, I want you to visit me in jail."

Hernandez studied the steel cable and electronics encased in flexible clear plastic. "That's got to be the antenna. We can cut it right here to terminate the signal."

"Can we adjust it to pick up Sirius?"

"You don't like my music?"

"I love your music," I said, heartfelt, which interfered with our banter. Hernandez continued to examine the ankle bracelet or my ankle.

"Tell me again what was funky when they locked this thing on you."

"I met my lawyer at one of the government buildings downtown, but the office was plainwrap, no visible affiliations. No logos, no acronyms. No cops there, either, just me and my lawyer. Some faceless bureaucrat straps this on and answers 'I don't know' to every question I ask, then interrupts me with 'Next!' and I'm outta there and they're pulling the next anklet from a big box of anklets. The next person is strapped and I'm hearing another 'Next!' by the time we walk back to the hall. With that size box, half the residents in L.A. County must be wearing these things."

"That works in your favor. They won't have the staff to monitor that many people. With so many signals, they might not notice when yours shuts off. And remember, we don't know what the ankle GPS will do when you leave this Frame."

"Do you think it will function out of this Frame?"

"No. But there's no point worrying about what we can't control."

"Words to live by." I got out and shut the door, leaned in the window. We studied each other's faces for a time. "See you at dawn."

### 26. The Future I'd Dreaded For Years

Anwyl and Hernandez arrived the next morning on the same elevator. I was ready to go. "Beautiful day," I greeted them, pointing to my patch of sunrise through the skylight.

"All days are beautiful." Anwyl did not look up. He was in a hurry and swept us out of my office, down to the garage, and into the truck. He pulled a densely packed knapsack from under his tunic and set it in the truck bed. Supplies, I reckoned.

He paused his forward momentum and waited until I met his gaze. "Your body will suffer today, Nica, as we must traverse many Frames. I can hold you just shy of permanent damage but can do no better. It is yours to decide whether that is sufficient. I need you with me to retrieve our witnesses, but thereafter, I see no shame, should you decide to remain here."

"Are you kidding?"

"I do not kid."

"That was a rhetorical - never mind. No. I'm not staying home. I'm in all the way. It's too late to stop now."

He nodded and grimaced a smile. A solemn silence filled the truck as we headed out. I was surprised that Hernandez hadn't chimed an agreement.

On the way to Edith's hideout to fetch Zasu, Anwyl asked about our efforts related to Digby Construction. He wanted to know more - lots more than we knew.

"I've done construction," Hernandez volunteered. "They need masons and I've done masonry. I talked with a guy yesterday who said to stop by tomorrow. I can get on the crew there."

Anwyl nodded. "A valuable contribution. Watch carefully when there and take no unnecessary risks."

"But we might not be back by tomorrow." Why did it feel like they were having a different conversation than the one I was in?

Hernandez replied, "Of that I am aware. We do not know how long you will be out of Frame, so I cannot participate in this part of the adventure."

"You aren't coming." I was the only one surprised, which meant Hernandez must have discussed this with Anwyl before they got to my office. Of all the times for petty kneejerk, I felt jealous that Hernandez had talked to Anwyl without me. But I got myself over it. Jealousy is one of the most worthless forms of worry.

"As you know, I regret when I cannot participate. I will still help on this end, by putting eyes on Digby."

"But what if the Cobra recognizes you?"

"I must not let that happen. Anwyl, can the Cobra read thoughts? Is that why Nica heard him inside her head?"

"I do not know. It is always safest to keep a blank mind."

A few miles elapsed as I thought that one over. On other days, it would have conjured jokes aplenty, but Anwyl's mood cast solemnity over this day. I searched for a topic everyday enough to lighten the sense of import.

"Hey Anwyl, we've started but never finished discussing this. In my Frame, people need something called money in order to live."

"I am familiar with the concept of money."

"If Hernandez is snooping at Digby, he'll lose hours at the Henrietta. He needs to be paid. We don't know that he'll ever see money from Digby."

I think this embarrassed Hernandez, because he tweaked the subject away from himself. "Do other Frames have money?"

"Everything exists somewhere," Anwyl replied. "As to your compensation, Anya has already paid two installments of ten thousand to each of you."

Holy shit. Those were the same amounts as the two mystery deposits that the cops held against me. "She did not give me any money."

"No, she arranged for _deposits_ to your _banks_." He recited the words as though they were terms from another language, which I suppose they were. Well, that explained that. At some point it might be worthwhile to try to explain how much grief the deposits had caused me.

Hernandez looked like he needed time to finish his reaction to the news that he had earned an unexpected $20k, so I joked, "A deposit from Anya comes from a very offshore account."

On another morning this might have earned a laugh, but there were no laughs in any of us. The closer Zasu and Ziti got to safety, the tenser I became. If the Cysts were going to show up, they would have to do it soon, which meant each moment could be my last without them. The cruel menace underlying our last encounter had become more evident upon reflection. While I was with them, I had been so focused on having no thoughts worth reading that I was oblivious to their malice until later. I hated to succumb to fear but there it was. The Cysts made me afraid.

I had texted Detective Patti Henson before breakfast, and when we arrived, Zasu was ready to leave. She and Edith sat on the couch, sharing a blanket and watching Grey's Anatomy. They had the tousled, droop-eyed look of girls on the far end of a slumber party. Their good-byes included extensive hugs, whispers, and giggles.

"Thanks again for taking her in," I said.

"She's a sweetie," Henson replied. "I hear you might buy her a cell phone. Edith will want the number."

"Okay," I smiled, with a fantasy flash image of Edith and Zasu Skyping across Frames.

"Court hearing's tomorrow," Henson said to Hernandez. "Okay for Karina to stay here tonight?"

"I'll drop her by after school."

"Thanks. See you later."

"Okay. Catch you then."

There was no mistaking the chemistry between them. Before I'd come on the scene, they'd been working toward deciding whether to give it a go. Unawares, I'd started my own dabbling with the Hernandez concept. I needed to take a knee and let them play through. I wasn't looking for the real thing; maybe they could find it if I didn't get in the way.

"Zasu, we need to go," I terminated my musings and the hugs when Anwyl loomed at the door. I couldn't meet his eye. His gaze was skittish today and I wondered what was new that he hadn't shared.

Henson still didn't like Anwyl. She watched him with a cop's suspicion and flinched when he touched Zasu's shoulder to guide the girl out the door.

He had all four of us get in the truck cab. I hoped Henson wouldn't report us for seat belt infraction. As soon as we were out of sight around a corner, Anwyl said, "Zasu, this Neutral Frame limits my ability to protect you, and when you can be seen with me it draws attention that we do not desire. We will transport you from this Frame as quickly as possible. Until then, you must become small." He showed her that his boots had a flapped compartment at the top that might hold a matchbook. Or Zasu.

She studied the pouch then nodded, then inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. With each breath, she halved her volume. Finally she rolled and folded herself, feet first, and there she was in the seat, the dimensions of matchbook. With grave gentleness, Anwyl slipped her inside the flap on his right boot. "Well done, Zasu."

"Dude, you ran a red light," I advised Hernandez, without recrimination. Who could drive well while that was happening beside you?

My own wonder was tempered by the edginess coming from Anwyl. "Something troubles you," I observed. "Have you seen the Cysts?"

"Not as yet, but my arrival today was oddly watched," he said. "We must away."

Situations that tensed Anwyl were situations I wished to avoid.

I gave Benny another call, which made the total two voice mails and three texts, sent and ignored, last night and this morning. He did that regularly, and it was always annoying. _Just because you're ready to talk doesn't mean I am,_ he justified it. Today it guaranteed that when we arrived, he would not have Ziti ready to walk out the door.

The sun peeked above the San Gabriel Mountains and the temperature shot up 15 degrees. Today would be a scorcher. It was still early enough that traffic was light, so we reached Ben's Hollywood neighborhood within 20 minutes. Hernandez slowed, searching a parking place. No parking was open the whole length of Ben's block.

I did a triple take at a late model silver sedan, parked near the corner. As Hernandez made a quasi-legal U-turn, I looked through the sedan's windshield. Inside, Aurelio and Norma Garcia sat stiff, wide-eyed, and staring. They looked horrified, confused, and dead.

Before I could point them out, Anwyl tensed and his head jerked toward Ben's complex. He growled and bolted from the truck. I ran after him. Hernandez double-parked and kept the engine idling.

The courtyard was empty at this time of day. The fountain had malfunctioned and the courtyard echoed with the water's erratic burble, like gas released from a tar pit.

Ben's door was closed but not locked. Inside his apartment, the only light came from the open oven, which cast long thick shadows into the living room.

Inside was the future I'd dreaded for years. Ben slumped on the floor in his living room, his legs splayed and tangled with those of the coffee table, which was on its side. His eyes not entirely closed, his mouth open, his head too heavy for his neck to hold upright.

I ran to him, pushed him, shook him, yelled his name. His head lolled forth and back with a different rhythm than his shoulders as I snapped them. I jammed my fingers on his throat, shoved my ear against his nose. Maybe a pulse. Maybe an exhale. Skin cold and sticky. This had to be an OD.

Did he have a landline phone? I needed to call 911. I stumbled over to the wall switch, and even before I flipped the light switch I became aware. That Anwyl ran from one spot to another, searching. That there was no sign of Ziti. That there were signs of struggle in a chair overturned, a painting tilted, a shelf of LPs and CDs collapsed and scattered, a computer monitor on its back. At each struggle point were brown smears.

The room was splashed with blood. Streaks on the walls, splatter on the ceiling, stains on the furniture. And on Ben. His face hair clothes hands.

I found the phone, punched 911, left the receiver dangling. "Nine-One-One-what's-your-emergency."

I went back to Ben, returned fingers to throat and wrist to convince myself he had a pulse. His eyes popped open and I yelled, "Aak!"

"Nine-One-One-what's-your-emergency."

"Ben, what did you take? Where is your kit?" He grinned like a _Dia del Muerto_ mask. "Ben, I'm not angry. Please. Tell me what you used so I can help you."

Then I saw the drug buffet scattered on the floor behind the overturned coffee table. A syringe. A bag of white powder. A razor blade. A pipe. A bag of weed. A bong. A near-empty fifth of Jack Daniels. No way! Yes, he had used all at one time or another, but not all together. He was an addict, not an idiot.

"Neeks," he grimaced or smiled. "Neeks, you -" He struggled to get sound out, couldn't, but wouldn't give up.

"What, Ben? What?" I leaned in closer so he could whisper.

"Run," he exhaled, and grimaced again.

"This is Nine One One. Is anyone on this line?"

Anwyl returned from the bedroom. From what I could see, the blood and the struggle continued down the hall into the bedroom and bathroom. He shook his head, while a thin anguished wail spread through the room, coming from the pouch on his boot. Zasu, keening for her beloved.

"I've dispatched a car, it will arrive within 7 minutes," advised the dangling voice.

Anwyl sprinted outside. I stopped at the doorway. "Ben," was all I could say.

Hernandez and I met in the doorway. He took a look over my shoulder into the living room to assess the situation, while putting his arms around me to steer me toward the truck and give him room to enter the apartment. "I've got Ben, you take Zasu." He touched my cheek and disappeared inside.

"North," Anwyl ordered when I reached the truck. "You will drive and I will steer." I floored it to the Hollywood Freeway north.

We passed the Garcia car and I pointed to them. "They must have followed me here some time, then returned to try to catch Edith here. What happened to them?" I already guessed the answer.

"Warty Sebaceous Cysts emptied them. That is how they take thoughts in haste."

I nodded and felt a couple twinges of sympathy. It didn't look like that had been a good way to go. And if evil has gradations, Norma and Aurelio Garcia were not as high up the totem pole as their son or the Cysts. To the extent that they were misguided parents protecting their child, I felt sorry for them. Too bad it wasn't their son who had been in the car.

I felt peculiarly responsible. If I had taken them more seriously, I would have watched more closely to guard against being followed. If they hadn't followed me here, they would still be alive to protect the family pedophile. Fate and irony are cousins.

Zasu's grief went to a new level and she let out a rockslide of a wail. In Hollywood, human melodramas are too common to snag attention, but Zasu's noise turned the heads of a couple commuters.

We had just passed the exit for the Hollywood Bowl when Hernandez texted me twice. The first reassured. _Paramedics here._

The second text read _C_ _ops from Largo here._ Mathead and Scabman had found Ben, and at a time when Ben was defenseless - except for Hernandez. Fortunately, Hernandez was a major exception.

### 27. Queen Latifah On Nitrous Oxide

By the time we were through the Cahuenga Pass, headed north, Zasu had unfolded and sat between us, with Anwyl's arm across her shoulder to give strength and comfort.

There were two plausible sources of violence. Ben had a drug deal that went bad - in which case Ziti had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and I had put him there - or the Cysts had arrived - in which case Ben had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and I had put him there.

"Might Ziti yet live?" Zasu asked.

"That hope is unlikely," Anwyl said gently. "In other circumstances, Warty Sebaceous Cysts might keep him alive to toy with us, but in this circumstance they seek to destroy witnesses."

"They can't expect to destroy all witnesses to the book attack. Hundreds escaped."

"Hundreds will give them no pause."

Which took us several miles in silence. It was morning rush hour but we made good time, because we were outbound and most of the commuters were inbound to jobs in the city. I kept our speed at 74 mph, because I once dated a highway patrol guy who told me he ignored speeders who stayed within 10 miles per hour of a speed limit.

Despite the many and terrible implications, I had to hope the violence was a drug deal gone bad.

I thought I'd handled the merge of the Hollywood Freeway with the Golden State, but now I didn't recognize where we were. "Shit, I need to pull over."

"Do not stop under any circumstance."

"I took a wrong turn - I need to figure out where we are."

"This is unfamiliar because this is not your Frame."

"Oh. Wow. Okay. Humans aren't the only ones with rush hour."

"Will Warty Sebaceous Cysts follow our path?" Zasu asked.

"They are beings with great power, thus they can detect Frame Travel outside Connectors. However, I will shield our journey from their scrutiny by changing Frames subtly and often."

"You, too, are a being of great power," Zasu said.

"I am."

"Did you just change Frames again? Everything looks more familiar here."

"I returned to your Frame briefly and now we have departed again. We will move in and out all day."

"To keep the Cysts off our trail?"

"In part. In your Frame we face greater risk of capture, but we await the next message from Anya, and her messengers only know to seek us in your Frame."

"Won't you let her know what has happened?"

"She has her ways of learning. I will not make contact, that would increase the risk of her detection."

"You don't think the Cysts have figured out what she's doing? They've been awfully interested in her whereabouts."

"They likely know why but not where."

If Anya fulfilled her mission, she would be a witness. Could the Cysts hurt Anya?

More silent miles.

"In my Frame, these mountains mark a great wilderness," Zasu regarded the San Gabriel mountains with reverence.

"Have you ever visited your other cities?" Maybe after she testified to the Framekeeps and we returned the Cysts to prison, she could return to some other part of her Frame, a part of Halcyon without daily reminders of her losses. Going somewhere new has always helped me.

"The next village is - was - five million strides distant. Our Frame has - had - few inhabitants." Her silent tears broke my heart.

"When you unite with other refugees, I know you'll settle somewhere beautiful," I said lamely.

"I would see that day," Zasu said. "Are survivors from the other villages hunted, as well?"

"Those that still live," Anwyl replied. "Warty Sebaceous Cysts intend to steal your Frame and leave no one alive who could tell of the deed."

More silent miles.

I noticed the differences that told me we were in other Frames now, whenever I didn't look for the change directly. There were always new housing developments on the hillsides of Santa Clarita, so I expected to see unfamiliar structures - but my Frame didn't have buildings like that, with a texture more like fabric than stucco. As on any summer day, there were boaters on Castaic Lake - but these watercraft moved like dragonflies and mosquitoes, not speedboats. As I steered down the steep gradient of the Grapevine, I glanced into the cars to my left and nearly lost control of Hernandez' truck.

"Now would be a good time for you to sleep," was Anwyl's reaction.

"I'm still okay to drive. I didn't nod off, I reacted. Those cars have no people in them. Empty cars pacing us at 70 mph startles me."

"Your vehicles are sentient in many Frames, they have no need of occupants."

Sentient! That could be handy. "Can we get one of those?"

"You have one of those," an unfamiliar voice came through the dashboard, rich, warm and high-pitched - Queen Latifah on nitrous oxide. "Take a nap, I'll get us there."

"Maybe when we get to the valley floor. I'm not capable of removing my hands from the wheel in these mountains."

"In that case, please accelerate sooner when we pull out of a turn. Sorry to bring it up, but your driving makes my tires sore."

"Uh," I replied.

"I'll need a stop at that rest area in Grapevine, I need you to check a rattle."

"It is not yet safe for us to stop," Anwyl advised. "Can you wait until the sun reaches its zenith?"

A long-suffering sigh. "Okay. But do we have to shift Frames so much?"

"Yes." Anwyl left no room for debate. "Travel to a nearly identical Frame is more difficult to detect than Travel to a Frame several degrees distant, and travel to many Frames is more difficult to detect than Travel to one other Frame. Thus, today we will journey through a hundred similar Frames."

"Every shift to a new Frame affects my oil pressure, you know, I thought I was having a valve breakdown back there."

A noise escaped Zasu before she clamped her hand over her mouth. Her bleakness was less prominent as she squinted with the effort to hold laughter inside. I suffered the same problem. You could tell that laughter would not be well received. I couldn't wait to tell Hernandez that his truck is a prissy hypochondriac.

Talking kept me from snickering. "By the way, I'm Nica, next to me is Zasu, and over there is Anwyl. Do you have a name?"

"How thoughtful to ask. To so many riders I'm just a truck. Please call me Tee."

"You got it, Tee," but I totaled our new camaraderie when I hit the next pothole.

"Ouch! You must let me drive or we will be delayed for repairs that take much longer than curing a rattle."

Anwyl demonstrated what I should do. Let go of the wheel. It was so simple, yet we went several more turns on the steep grade before I managed it. I'd release one hand - or the other - but couldn't bring myself to release both. Finally, Zasu held one hand and whispered encouragement for me to release the other.

I let go and we didn't crash. In fact, Tee handled herself with such smooth dignity that I soon had my feet tucked under me, cross-legged on the seat. I didn't think I could fall asleep until I woke up, or _came to_ is more like it. Beside me, Zasu slept with her head on my shoulder and Anwyl stared at things only he saw.

We were in the long flat expanse of the great central valley. To our west, the air shimmered like a Beverly Hills lawn, as agribusiness irrigated crops in the midday heat and wasted most of the water to evaporation. To our east angry signs flashed by, criticizing government cuts to irrigation water budgets.

"Wait, what Frame is this?"

"We have returned to your Frame for the nonce."

"Okay, good." I preferred to believe that water idiocy might be confined to one Frame.

"Nica must drive in this Frame," Anwyl instructed.

"What's wrong? Did I make a mistake?" Tee was touchy.

"You have done well, and will again," Anwyl's voice smiled although his face stayed somber. "But in this Frame, vehicles do not conduct themselves, and doing so expends energy that will draw attention to us."

"In a Neutral Frame, who could be watching?"

Anwyl left that a rhetorical question. "Take the wheel again," Anwyl told me, so I did. As soon as I resumed driving, Zasu awakened - even on these endless flatlands, Tee gave us a smoother ride.

_Who would be watching._ Now that Tee had raised the issue, traffic became ominous. With every tailgater, I checked the mirrors to see the driver. Whenever a car passed us, I expected a swerve to knock us off the highway. I knew I was being silly. The Cysts wouldn't use techniques as ordinary as road rage to get us.

Thinking about the Cysts made me feel worse and I felt plenty bad already, like my soul had a hangover. I feared pain from the Cobra's injury might ramp up again soon.

"I need more salve," I decided.

Zasu had peered out the windshield at the distant hint of the Sierra Nevada mountains along the eastern horizon. Now she swiveled her head 120 degrees to look at me when I spoke, then kept going and swiveled another 240 degrees to Anwyl for his reply.

"Zasu, please obtain that satchel behind us." Anwyl rolled down his window and Zasu elongated an arm until she could grab the backpack in the truck bed. She only needed to stretch an arm about ten feet, then snap it back while holding a twenty pound weight between two fingers. After her other feats, this seemed tame. I hoped I wasn't wearing out my sense of wonder.

I peeled clothing away from my injury and Zasu gasped. I glanced away from the highway and saw that the injury was finally visible. The skin on my shoulder and across my chest looked like microwaved plastic wrap and although the area was not swollen, the skin was stretched so tight I feared it might burst when touched. Zasu applied salve gingerly, but at the moment the injured areas didn't hurt. Apparently the injury looked even worse on my other arm and wrist, but I was passing 16-wheelers in a crosswind, so couldn't look away long enough to see what distressed Zasu about those areas.

"Suddenly, I'm much worse." I wished Anwyl would contradict me.

"You will continue to worsen, as you know."

"Would that lotion help me? My shocks are so worn out," Tee asked. Air pushed through her vents in a mechanical sigh when Anwyl replied,

"No."

I wanted to focus on how funny Tee could be, not on the sudden worsening. Had the salve lost oomph or had I stopped believing it could help? I needed to redirect my attention.

Now that the wind had picked up, there were clouds on the horizon. "I know we're staying in my Frame in hopes of a message from Anya - but if her cloud can find us, won't the Cysts find us too?"

"Anya can guess our path and thus find us quickly. Our pursuers must look in all directions, which takes more time. If we linger, they will find us, but we shall not linger."

The wind picked up and the clouds closed in, but passed without messages. The wind slackened. Time and distance elapsed.

In this stretch of Interstate 5, usually my only break from monotony is to get het up about the stockyards. Today, in anticipation of passing the first stockyard, I held my breath and renewed my vows against meat, but the stockyard wasn't there. Instead, there was a warehouse and junkyard complex with huge billboards that proclaimed

Animal Parts New and Refurbished!

Pick your own from our massive inventory.

Over 100 species of dogs.

Over 200 species of birds.

Exotics our specialty.

"I take it we shifted Frames."

"For a time, yes."

The stench of the next stockyard told me when we had returned to my Frame. Zasu peered, wide-eyed, with no comprehension of the foul smell. Fortunately, the wind had picked up again. The truck cab grew dark and sure enough, a cloud paced us overhead.

Anya's voice surrounded me like a lullaby for an insomniac and I wanted a lot more of it than I got. Damn, I missed her. "They watch me no longer."

Anwyl grunted.

Oh, good, is she no longer in danger? Oh, wait, is she no longer a threat to them? I grunted too.

The cloud paced us. "I bring woeful news. Only she remains."

Anwyl looked grimmer than a fire at a daycare.

_Only she remains. Only she_ -

We nearly crashed, I jumped and swerved so badly when Zasu let out a jabberwock of a wail. Tee corrected my swerve. Only Tee seemed aware of my driving. The reactions of Zasu and Anwyl clued me to what Anya meant: the other Halcyon refugees were dead. Hundreds of murders across multiple Frames in less than two days.

Wails filled the truck cab, continuous except when Zasu gasped an inhale. During the gasps, I could hear Anwyl curse in a language I didn't know, but the intent was universal. If Anya had final words for us, we didn't hear them. The cloud continued past us and Anwyl shifted Frame. We passed a field where crop-duster planes chased each other around a water silo like hummingbirds guarding a feeder. At another time, this would have charmed me.

"Tee drives now," Anwyl said.

Miles elapsed and eventually Zasu succumbed to exhaustion. With her head on my shoulder, she stared at the odometer. I held her hand and stroked her hair; we watched the odometer numbers advance. I gave off calm, but I was about as calm as a dog on a freeway. I throbbed with anger to mask the feelings I didn't want. Fear. Inadequacy. The Cobra's injuries ached and the Frame shifts gave me a woozy vertigo, as though I had simultaneous plunges in blood pressure, blood sugar, and elevation.

In times of trouble, nothing grounds me better than the mundane. "Please shift us to a Frame with a rest area. My bladder only has a range of 400 miles," I said.

In the rest area bathroom, astonishment tempered Zasu's grief and each feature fascinated her more than the last: the rotating latch on the stall door, the flushing toilet, the running faucet, the air dryer. Then Zasu encountered her first mirror. She recognized my reflection, did a doubletake as she realized who that other person must be. To confirm, she watched the reflection elongate its neck then snap it back, just as she did.

"You must have seen your reflection before," I said. "In a pond or a window?"

"Yes, but I never saw these sharp edges," she rubbed a finger along her jaw, her nose.

As we climbed back in the truck, her elation returned to misery. "Ziti would like this place," she said.

"Your grief is ours," Anwyl told her.

Tee had us out of the rest area and headed for the highway when I interfered. I shoved my foot hard on the brakes and switched off the ignition. "There it is again. That noise. Like a baby in a dumpster. I heard it before we stopped but -" I opened my door.

"We tarry too long!" Anwyl had kept his impatience in check during our pit stop, but his exhale now warned of imminent explosion. Then he heard it too.

It came from the truck bed. I beat Anwyl out of the cab, but he vaulted over the side into the bed faster than I could move to join him. There it was again. Crying and scratching came from inside the built-in steel toolbox. Anwyl lifted the lid and we yelled simultaneously.

"Dizzy! Were you trapped in there the whole trip?"

"No, cat, begone!"

### 28. Toto Was Not In Kansas Anymore

Once free, Dizzy ignored us. She hopped out to sit on the pavement and wash her face. I reached for her but Anwyl grabbed my arm. "The cat remains here."

If the choice were his, he would drop-kick Dizzy back to the rest stop and speed away, but I would never let him. True, the cat's behavior through Frames was unnerving, and we might not be confident we knew whose side she was on. But we weren't going to strand her hundreds of miles and who knew how many Frames from her home at the Henrietta.

"We will look for her here on our return," Anwyl suggested, then realized he was outnumbered when Zasu looked out the window. Spotting Dizzy made her more elated than an escaped balloon.

"I know this creature!" she enthused.

"You had cats back home, I take it."

"No - yes, but I know this cat. Desdemona visits Halcyon. She will ride in my lap," Zasu said.

And so she did. For most of the journey, Dizzy purred in a tight ball on Zasu's lap - and Zasu did no more wailing. Whenever Anwyl glowered at the cat, she cleaned her private parts, but I'm sure that was a coincidence.

"This creature is known to me," I reminded him.

"So you believe," he replied.

More miles elapsed. By now we were well past Sacramento and still heading north. When Zasu next slept, I took the opportunity to discuss topics that might have added to her distress. "Are we leaving California?"

"We have done so many times, as you know," Anwyl replied, puzzled, then, "Do you inquire as to our destination?"

"Bingo. That means yes. I want to know where we are headed. Are we taking Zasu to the Framekeeps?"

"Not at this time, they first must grant audience. We take her to a being who is powerful enough to protect her until we bear witness to the Framekeeps."

"Where is this being?"

"In your Frame, it is called Shastina."

"The little volcano next to Mount Shasta? Hey, I've been on both those mountains! Well, I never hiked them for long. Those are scary slopes. Where is your being exactly? Near that town - I used to know its name - near Weed?"

"Our destination is the mountain."

"Your being lives on the mountain itself?"

"It is Shastina we seek."

Wow. The mountain is a being. "Does the mountain talk?"

"In most Frames."

"And will we get to see it move around?" This just might surpass meeting the Watts Towers.

"No. It is sentient in all Frames, but animate in none."

"It doesn't move but it can protect Zasu from the Cysts? Those are some mad powers."

"Indeed."

"Is Shastina more powerful than Maelstrom?"

"You ask me to compare ice and fire. In different circumstances, each may prevail. Shastina helped to capture Maelstrom, but that success involved luck as well as cunning and power."

"Is Maelstrom anything like the Cysts?"

"Where Warty Sebaceous Cysts are a breeze, Maelstrom is a hurricane."

"Maelstrom is an extreme version of the Cysts?"

"No. They do not appear alike. Warty Sebaceous Cysts crave power, and ally with the most powerful negative force they have found. Maelstrom uses power, but his need is to feed on the misery of others."

"Now that he is cut off from others and can't feed, has he grown weaker?"

"That is our hope, but we dare not enter his Frame to confirm."

"So Maelstrom is a guy?"

"That is unknown and of no import. Call him _he_ , _she, they,_ or _it._ "

"How did the Cysts and Maelstrom get together?"

"Warty Sebaceous Cysts are not his only minions. Power attracts in all Frames."

"Have there been other efforts to free him?"

"None that have been detected."

"The Cysts get released and immediately go to work to free Maelstrom. Isn't that kind of obvious? Wouldn't they be more discreet?"

"Their boldness is a grave concern."

"Has anyone ever escaped collapse before?"

"In all the free Frames, a collapse has never been undone."

"Everybody says 'in the free Frames'. Are there non-free Frames?"

"There were when Maelstrom was unfettered."

"Is my Frame the only one with a death penalty? If he's such a bad guy, why let him live? Why take the risk of his escape?"

"That explanation I cannot give. I was not one who chose to spare him. But many within the Framekeeps - as within the Frames - hold all life as sacred," he said with scorn.

"Anya is one of those," I said.

"She is," he sighed.

"I keep going back to the fact that Maelstrom once controlled Framekeeps."

"Do not let that past concern you. Safeguards are in place and such control cannot happen again."

"It must be nice to have your level of certainty about things."

"Looking at matters from many perspectives impedes progress. I rely on reflex and certainty to remain alive and protect the Frames."

"Are you a cop?"

His laugh refreshed us both. "Rather, a warrior."

"Maelstrom and the Cysts - are they warriors?"

"They are strategists, primarily, but I do not wish to meet them in battle."

"Do we have a lot of allies? Who else knows that this escape plot is brewing, besides the few I've met?"

"The side of right is always strong," Anwyl hedged, and made a point of looking at Dizzy. I got the message. This wasn't a topic he would discuss around the cat.

What had the Towers told me? _Cats have only their own side_. Self-serving didn't equate with evil, though. Maybe there were cats that would side with the Cysts, but I couldn't believe Dizzy would be one of them. I sure the hell hoped I was right about her.

Miles elapsed and the day aged. Based on the sun's arc from right to left, we continued to head north. Anwyl's Frame changes remained subtle, until we found ourselves plowing through acrid purple smoke charged with yellow sparks.

Some minutes later, we finished coughing and got the upholstery to stop smoldering.

"What was that, the home Frame for fireworks?" I asked. Which would have been witty except only I knew what fireworks were.

Tee waxed philosophical. "On a long trip, it's always something. My dream is a hand wax after a thorough detailing. That was a hint."

I was warming up to Tee. She didn't let the situation darken her mood. I promised her, "I'll make sure Hernandez takes you to the truck spa."

Tee revved her engine.

The fireworks Frame was the first but not the only wonky Frame we moved through. In fact, we encountered them with growing regularity.

From Chico to Redding, we enjoyed rolling hills covered with blonde grass that shimmered like cornsilk in the breeze. As we got closer to Shasta, we encountered several menacing permutations. In one Frame, fire blazed through the grass and conflicting wind gusts blew embers at us from both sides of the road. In the next Frame, the wind picked up long black thorns from the grass and speared these into the truck.

"My tires!" Tee screeched, as Anwyl got us out of there, pronto, and into a Frame with no grass. There, wind swirled dust devils of gravel around us.

We snapped back to my home Frame so rapidly I got mental whiplash. From there, Anwyl shifted us to a highway made of mirror glass. More slippery than ice, it reflected blinding sunlight and hurtling objects that promised imminent collisions, even after I figured out that the objects were illusory. Suddenly, the forested hills denuded themselves, sending enormous pines rolling to crush us.

We returned to my home Frame and Anwyl grunted, "They know our destination. Zasu, it is time to hide."

"How may I hide if they can reach my thoughts?"

"You must extinguish your thoughts when they are nearby. They are not yet close enough to read your thoughts. If they were close enough, you would see them."

"My thoughts follow me everywhere, how can I separate from them?"

"I shall make you sleep," Anwyl offered, and Zasu looked relieved. First, she turned herself into a yardstick, narrow, long and flat; next, Anwyl laid his hands on her, muttering; then he nodded and we tucked her into the wire frame under the seat. Through all this, Dizzy watched closely and - in my interpretation - protectively.

"Is there a Frame where I could talk with Dizzy?"

"I have never sought such a Frame." From Anwyl, disdain could be a weapon.

When all this was over, I resolved to find such a Frame. I would love to have convo with the cat. I'm pretty sure.

When Anwyl next shifted Frames, Tee had to swerve and floor it. We just missed getting trampled by a stampeding herd of late model sedans. Another herd crested the hill ahead of us and Anwyl returned us to my home Frame.

"Seems like they want us to stay in this Frame." Home sweet home felt mighty treacherous if that's where they wanted us to be.

"They know our every move!" Anwyl sounded frustrated and baffled. "Their ability to track us is uncanny."

"There must be Frames they won't expect you to visit."

"Those are Frames so alien that the journey would render you ill."

"Will Zasu get sick if she's asleep?"

"Eventually, but not as readily as one who is awake."

"Then let's do it. Get us out of here. I can take it." Probably. We were so close to the mountain, we had to be talking minutes, not hours, of gnarly Travel.

The steep brown slopes of Mount Shasta loomed outside, blocking Shastina from view. Shastina was a much smaller mountain than Shasta, funny that it was our main event. Funny that these were the only mountains I knew well. I had dated a guy who turned out to be one of those newfangled New Age crazoids. We spent a lot of time hiking around Shasta, until I learned that his religion worshipped the mountain and his intent was to impregnate me on sacred ground. My bad. Our sex had been so good, I had done inadequate background checking.

Negative memories aside, Shasta symbolized excitement for me. Nothing rooted on Shasta's slopes because they were too steep and unstable. A rubble of rock blanketed the mountain, rock that was never stuck in the same place for long. From here, the rock looked like gravel, but many chunks were larger than mausoleums. Landslides were guaranteed, and any one of them could escalate into an avalanche. By now, landslides should have stripped Shasta to dirt, but somehow there was always more rock to shed.

Someone who was no friend to interstate transport had chosen to wind Interstate Highway 5 around the base of this mountain. Every time I drive this highway, I duck and accelerate, to sneak by between landslides.

The road curved us around and from our new angle, I realized that this was the mountain I had seen on my laptop the day that Anwyl used my computer.

I opened my phone's map app and Anwyl showed me exactly where we needed to go: the top third of the mountain around the back side of Shastina. "Here no one can oppose Shastina's power without long effort and battle. Zasu will be safe here."

"Even in my Frame?"

"Temporarily in your Frame. When we reach this area, other Frames will be clear of interference and we can transport Zasu to a safe Frame."

I looked out the window. "Wait, aren't we moving through my Frame, shouldn't I be driving instead of Tee?"

"That precaution is no longer necessary. They have detected our journey."

"Anwyl, I mean it. Take us to a Frame they won't expect. We are only a few miles from safety; we won't be in distant Frames for long. I'll survive. Go to whatever Frame you need to in order to deliver Zasu to Shastina."

"You say that because you do not understand how it will affect you."

"I promise to tell you if it gets too bad."

"You could not hide it."

"Do the Cysts mean to kill us all?"

"Not today. They are not in a position of desperation. Our deaths would be indiscreet. They need to obtain Zasu so that they can dispose of her privately."

"Somebody didn't get the memo about being discreet. Those ten wheelers are gaining on us and I don't think they intend to slow down." I showed him in the mirror. Another five seconds and they would run us over.

Anwyl muttered and we shot from a cosmic slingshot. It was my first journey to a far Frame and it started similar to my Travels with the Guide - like an elevator plunging sideways - but now, my head stayed put while my feet plunged. My head was nailed in place and the weight of the world pulled against the nails. The strain exploded me and catapulted every molecule in a unique direction. Regrettably, the molecules reconstituted, glued together by pain. A searing white supernova bleached my vision, dissolved my spine, and fried every nerve in my body.

I was astonished to find myself sitting next to Anwyl in the truck cab, with Dizzy still between us, grooming a paw. "Are we there yet?" I gasped. There was no need for him to answer - Elvis had left the building, Toto was not in Kansas anymore, and although I was delirious, I could tell we were far from my home Frame.

The sky was a mottled green and purple bruise and the highway asphalt flowed uphill, taking us past a magnificent city that teemed with creatures who appeared like tiny humans except for their clawed wings. Their buildings were transparent skyscrapers and inside, the creatures flowed like platelets in blood streams.

Amazingly, Shasta and Shastina looked exactly the same as they did in all the other Frames we had visited, and were the only recognizable features of the landscape.

Tee shuddered and backfired, the dash lights flashed, and the engine kept hiccupping but did not fail. "Thanks for a smooth transition, that could have been so much worse," she told Anwyl.

I felt too awful to figure out whether she meant to be ironic, but regardless, she made me laugh. In a way. My laugh came out as uncontrollable dry heaves. Dizzy jumped to the floor to increase her distance from me. Anwyl squeezed my hand and said to Tee, "Prepare to accelerate when we return to Nica's Frame."

The return trip seemed faster - or I was too disoriented to register details of the journey. It replaced my bone marrow with sizzling lard, but was otherwise uneventful.

Back in my Frame, I couldn't catch my breath. Between gasps I noted, "Nice! The ten wheelers are gone!" Tee rounded the next curve at 80 mph and swerved to avoid cop cars with red lights pulsing. The cars blocked all but one lane and that lane glittered with nail strips designed to blow out tires. Armed police shouldered rifles and took aim at us.

"Continue to accelerate," Anwyl commanded. Once again, a searing supernova bleached my vision, the world dissolved, my ---

I must have passed out. Gradually, I became aware that we were back under the bruised sky, as Tee hauled ass around the mountain. My leg felt wet and I stared at a red pattern on my thigh. A red drop hit my leg. Oh. My nose was bleeding.

Shastina was close enough to dominate our view. Anwyl directed Tee off the highway and then off the paved roads. This slowed our progress, but at least the dirt roads didn't flow like the asphalt roads did in this Frame. Tee's tires slipped and popped on loose rock as we advanced a few hundred feet uphill on Shastina.

On the horizon, birds appeared, flying atop a black rain, headed our way. Those weren't birds and they were raining text. "I see books," I whimpered.

Anwyl cursed and shifted Frames, making brief hops through a dozen Frames along the way. The sense of being watched was strong in most of the Frames, but we had no encounters. There were so many dirt trails up and across the mountain, maybe they wouldn't find ours right away.

Every trail was steep and treacherous. Tee's back tires slipped so hard, her front bumper smashed into the ground. Her engine revved in the red range and loose rock cascaded downslope behind us. If the Cysts were airborne, they should spot us quickly.

I could tell when we were back in my Frame - my headache pulsed differently there. Back in my Frame, for now we still had the trails to ourselves. I saw no sign of threat or impediment until we lurched past a trio of dirt bikes, parked askew. I braced for ambush, instead spotted the teenagers who belonged to the vehicles. A girl, a boy, and one I wasn't sure about. They were shooting at cans.

"Hey! Decoys! Tee, stop. Pull over! I have a plan," I announced.

Tee braked in a jerky screeching curve that spit rocks from her tires and engulfed all in dust. I rolled down the window and called to the trio, who were frozen, trying to decide whether they should run for their vehicles and take off. "Hi kids, want to earn a hundred bucks?"

### 29. I Have A Toy Duck

Fifty feet up the slope, we parked Tee in a turnout, then Anwyl, Dizzy, and I continued on foot. We left Zasu in Tee, which was incredibly difficult but essential for the success of my plan, such as it was.

The plan was that we would split up and proceed separately, through different Frames, to the summit of Shastina. The Cysts wouldn't know who had Zasu. They'd have to hunt each of us, stop each of us. No matter whom they followed, we would lead them away from the truck with its precious hidden cargo. _We had to hope Anwyl was right, that they weren't desperate enough to kill us all._

Meanwhile, back in my Frame, I had paid the teenagers to drive the truck higher up Shastina. The teens would deliver Zasu to the area where Shastina had protective power in all Frames. _We had to hope the teens wouldn't steal the truck instead._

Actually, if the kids went the wrong way, or split with the hundred bucks, Tee would drive like hell to the protection of the summit.

It might work in our favor that ours was a weak excuse for a plan. No one could see it coming, right? _We had to hope I could keep the truth out of my head when the Cysts got close enough to read my mind._

Another encounter with the Cysts looked inevitable. They had put considerable resources into delaying and diverting our arrival on Shastina. We hadn't given up and they wouldn't either.

Somewhere in the back of my addled brain, I realized I might have put three teenage bystanders in terrible harm's way, much as I had done when I took Ziti to Ben's apartment. _We had to hope my slow learning would not have disastrous consequences._

We walked straight uphill, in a hurry to put distance between the teenagers and us. First, Dizzy, Anwyl, and I would Travel to a new Frame together - to draw attention away from the truck ASAP. Then we would split up. Dizzy and Anwyl would Travel wherever they saw fit, using their powers. I would Travel with my Guide and advance one notch at a time. Each notch on the Guide was farther from my home Frame, and thus a more difficult journey. If none of us made it to Shastina's summit, Tee would make sure that Shastina knew about the truck's hidden witness.

Anwyl showed contempt for Dizzy's ability to help us. I pretended certainty that the cat could be counted on. Dizzy did nothing to indicate whether she even knew there was a plan. Still, she sauntered uphill more or less alongside me.

"Shift Frames now," Anwyl said.

"On my way." I reached for my Guide, but as soon as Anwyl and then Dizzy vanished, I stopped pretending I was okay to stand. My injury and the Frame shifts had left me weaker than a poisoned sparrow. I'm usually a great hiker, but here I climbed using all fours, dragging myself from boulder to boulder. Suddenly, I remembered that I should have shifted Frames to rejoin Anywl and Dizzy. I searched futilely for my Guide and finally found it in my hand; then it took three attempts for me to inhale strongly enough to activate it.

As I shifted Frames, I slipped and skinned both knees on the rubble of rock. Anwyl appeared beside me and Dizzy materialized on my other side. So far, so good. Anwyl took my elbow to help me stand. I leaned over to brush rock from my knee wounds and waved him away. "Get out of this Frame, I'm fine, we need to split up right away or -"

A scuffle of leather on the path above us avalanched shards of rock that buried my toes. I felt a stab of _presence_ in my head and I bit back a whimper, then focused on the killing field, a memory so potent it obliterated other thought.

"How charming to have friends!" Middle Cyst greeted us. He wore a caftan the color of dried spit. In the breeze it clung to his body appallingly. Left Cyst wore velour training gear with T J Maxx sales tags attached. Right Cyst wore a kelly green, sequined bolero with a kilt. The Entourage was larger today, and its members spread over the slope beside and below us. They were dressed like United States Secret Service on duty, complete with eyeshades and earbuds.

The attitude was unmistakable. They had won this engagement and they mocked us.

Tinny growls and barks made me look around. Bounding toward us from all directions were packs of clockwork dogs, reject mechanical beasts that were part flesh and part metal, with dangling wires and ill-fit parts, forced together with rusty bolts and mismatched gears. Steampunk? So last week, and yet the dogs were no less terrifying for being passé. The closest and angriest of the dogs had Doberman features and poodle curls, so maybe his anger was warranted. Instead of teeth, overlapping circular saw blades whirred in his jaws.

Above the dogs buzzed flying chain saws, filling the air with a diesel stench. The chain saws dived over our heads, splattering us with blood and gore from recent kills. Dizzy took to cleaning herself furiously. Apparently, the Cysts liked their victims in tiny pieces.

"You understand us so well, Neeks," the trio called to me in unison.

Their use of Ben's private nickname undermined my lock on my thoughts. Unbidden came an image of Ben as I had last seen him, barely conscious on the floor of his apartment.

"So difficult to walk away from a loved one in danger," Left Cyst cooed.

"In this case, the fear was well justified," Middle Cyst told Right Cyst.

I thought about the killing field, the killing field, the killing field.

"You block our way. Step aside." Anwyl had had enough.

"This way is treacherous. Let us guide you to a safer path."

"We know our path and you have soiled it."

The Cysts and the Entourage chuckled, the same noise and cadence coming from a score of separate mouths. The dogs whirred like their teeth ground iron.

"You have tried so hard, Anwyl, son of Rayn, and all for naught. Betrayed by your own," Middle Cyst said.

"She meant well. He should never have brought Neutrals into his affairs," Left Cyst gossiped to Right Cyst.

The Cysts and the Entourage turned to me. "You cannot outrun us, you will only harm your weak body in the attempt. We know your direction the moment you turn to it, and we reach your destination before you do." Every left hand in the Entourage produced a handheld device. They touched the screens and I screamed.

My ankle burned and throbbed. I yanked my pants leg up, expecting to find a swarm of fire ants. Instead, the GPS tracker glowed the same sickly yellow that emanated from the Entourage's devices. They tapped their screens. The screens glowed magenta and my ankle tracker burned magenta.

Dizzy paused grooming to watch the color pulse.

I had never seen Anwyl go pale before. "What treachery is this?"

"It's a GPS tracker - because of my arrest in my Frame. The Court made me wear it. Hernandez and I figured it would get me locked up for leaving Frame." Stunned and babbling, I couldn't hold my thoughts to the killing field, so I fixated on Hernandez touching my ankle.

"It worked perfectly," Right Cyst gloated.

"Beautiful reception in every Frame," Left Cyst told Middle Cyst.

Anwyl had pity for the depth of my idiocy. I resumed thinking about the killing field, mostly, but began to fantasize about shoving Anwyl into the dogs and running as fast as I could downhill.

Because any situation can always get worse, up the hill flew a squadron of books, shedding a black rain of text. The rain lessened to drizzle as the books circled us, imprisoning us with slow flaps of their covers. Dizzy and I were in one circle, Anwyl in another. Every few seconds, a book released a drizzle of text that whizzed past to slice a stone in two, a compelling reminder to stay in the circle.

"For safety, come with us, Neeks." All the Cysts and Entourage stared at me. I pictured the look on Anwyl's face if I agreed.

"To help Ben, come with us."

"To protect Jenn, come with us."

Threatening me hadn't worked, so now they threatened my loved ones. Did they think I was that stupid to trust them after what they had done to Halcyon, after what they had done to Ziti, after what -

They became very still while my thoughts exploded.

"Nica!" Anwyl hissed as he regarded them. "Nica realizes that you delay us here in hopes her memories will serve you. But she cannot reveal what she does not know."

I thought about the killing field.

Their giggles echoed and reverberated. The Entourage stamped its feet like soccer fans on a rampage. The chain saws went berserk and swarmed one of the mechanical dogs, which sprayed hot oil as they chopped it to bits. This put the other dogs in such a frenzy that I came to feel protected, rather than confined, by the circling books. Loose rock had been sliding around me and now it skittered and slammed. Dizzy looked up from her grooming when a piece thwacked her leg.

I have a toy duck. Wind it up and it spins, flapping its wings and quacking like its tail is on fire. I had never felt so much kinship with that duck. But I didn't flap or quack. I held still and looked to Anwyl for guidance. He watched the destructive show like these were children who needed to settle down before he would talk to them further.

I returned my thoughts to the killing field, but it was losing potency. I thought of Ick's coma.

The commotion ceased. In my eyes, our lack of reaction had just won an emotional victory, but the longer we stayed here, the greater the risk that I would have the wrong thought. I soothed myself with a vision of running down to the access road, changing Frames in the sprint, jumping the fence to the highway, flagging the first car.

"Warty Sebaceous Cysts. Have you taken prisoners? Would you start a war?"

That was Anya's voice! I saw no clouds - the sky was a uniform, yellowish gray from horizon to horizon. Instead, I spotted Anya as she followed her voice down from Shastina's summit toward us. The chain saws swarmed the air above her. She removed gloves and tossed them over a shoulder. The chain saws went wild hacking apart the gloves. Two saws hit the ground, partially dismembered by their peers.

"Such senseless destruction," Middle Cyst criticized her.

"Home, lads." Left Cyst clapped twice and the surviving chainsaws flew away. The clockwork dogs feasted on the dismembered chainsaws.

"The eyes of the free Frames watch closely, and question whether your freedom remains warranted," Anya told the Cysts as she pulled level with them.

"We take no prisoners but instead offer protection."

"We decline that protection," Anwyl said.

"You decline. But your companion may think more wisely of all the dangers to herself and her beloveds."

They were trying to bait me again and damned if it didn't work when they added, "What happened to Ick was sadly unnecessary. If only you had taken the right action when you first saw those bruises."

"Fuck you. And get your damn books out of here!" I yelled, with strength I no longer possessed. Three Cysts nodded and text ceased to fall. Three Cysts shrugged and the books stopped circling us then flew to hover behind them.

Anya strode downhill to stand beside us, while she reminded the Cysts of the terms of their release from prison. She recited what sounded like legalese from an official pronouncement. Her lovely soothing voice was just what I needed to calm down, except I wasn't calming down. I was seething that I had let them take and exploit my last memories of Ick. No way would I let them see any bit of the plan to -

Then everything happened at once.

### 30. The Last Thing I Remember

Each member of the Entourage whipped off his shades and stared at me as though I had shouted.

Dizzy leaped at my shin and clawed her way up my leg and torso. I was already in a thick blanket of pain, but every place her claws took purchase created a shocking hotspot. She launched from my good shoulder - the one not trashed by the Cobra - and ran faster than a thought down the hill and away.

I howled in agony and relief. Whatever I had been about to think was obliterated. At the same moment, I realized this was our chance. Anwyl had the same realization. We yelled at each other "Now!" as I whipped out my Guide.

Some of the dogs took off after Dizzy, prompting Anya to yell, in a voice harder than rubies, "Warty Sebaceous Cysts, if that cat is not your prisoner and chooses to depart, why then do you pursue her?"

I missed their reply - I had Traveled to the next notch on my Guide's dial. Immediately, I turned the dial another notch. I had limited time before they came after me, so I started to run uphill while still inhaling.

Well. _Run_ was my intent. _Collapse_ and _crawl_ were the reality. This time, when the elevator plunged sideways, it hit a cement wall. I had exceeded my physical limit for Frame Travel. When I stopped falling sideways, I stood weaving in place, a sapling in a cyclone - although there was no wind. I took two steps, fell, got myself standing again, took a step, fell, got myself standing again, took three steps, fell, decided standing was overrated.

Around me the rock sizzled, hit incessantly by dry lightning strikes. In this Frame, behind Shastina's summit the sky was the red of raw salmon and the clouds resembled blood-soaked cotton. Part of me thought I should hide from the clouds, but there were no hiding places on this exposed hillside.

One of my greatest feats of personal endurance was to drag myself thirty feet up that slope, which smelled like last night's campfire. Then lightning hit close enough to singe my eyebrow. I unfortunately still had enough energy to startle, which caused me to slip and initiate a small rock avalanche that jumbled me twenty feet downslope.

I no longer remembered why the summit was my destination, but I still knew it was important to get there. I resumed my upward drag, then remembered that I had more Frames to Travel. Anwyl had showed me that I needed to Travel to the penultimate notch on my Guide - I had two more Frames to go. And I was supposed to go home in between. Or I wasn't supposed to go home in between. One of those.

Look, ma, I'm standing. Using my hands and my teeth, I managed to advance the dial to the next notch. I couldn't muster an inhale. I dropped to my knees, then found myself on my back, where I watched the sky go dark with each lightning burst. The sky didn't actually change, the brightness of the lightning just made it seem that way. I wondered what it felt like to be hit by lightning. If I stayed here, I would find out. I was certainly grounded - get it? - with all this rock everywhere.

I held my breath until I ached for air, and when I gasped my next breath, that activated my Guide. One notch away from my goal.

I knew this Frame. Its bruised sky looked familiar. If I reached the Summit, maybe I would see something else that I recognized. I rolled off my back and resumed my upward crawl. The hillside teemed with tiny critters, miniature prairie dogs with delicate clawed wings. The rock shimmered with the critters as they stood on their haunches to watch me. Some unfurled their wings to hop one cautious step closer or to leap away. The closer I got to the summit, the bolder and closer the creatures got. They were _adorbs_ , except when their sharp little teeth glinted.

This was as far from my Frame as I had ever been, and my usual curiosity had not made the trip. I had no interest in getting to know this Frame or seeing the next one.

I wasn't sure I had the energy to shift Frames again, so my intent was to crawl to the top before I used the Guide again. As I climbed, each movement leached ambition from me. I rolled on my side to look before me. The summit seemed no closer. I rolled on my other side to look behind me and saw a meandering path scraped in the rock. I had dragged myself about three times as far as I needed to move strictly uphill. Critters behind me sniffed the edges of my trail.

I rolled over on my back to hold my Guide in my mouth, but then couldn't sit up or roll over again. I watched bruised sky change like a slo' mo' kaleidoscope and wondered whether the sky was purple with green and yellow accents, or green with purple and yellow accents. Inside me, a sense grew stronger that I was a disappointment. I was letting Anwyl down. I didn't want to let him down, but I couldn't remember what I was supposed to be doing or how to do anything complicated like sit up.

The last thing I remember, a critter landed on my nose. Going cross-eyed to look at it made me laugh, which made it fly off again, chittering. I thought for a while and remembered the word for that. Cute. The critter was cute.

"There she is," three voices called in unison. "Over here, lads." Mechanical whirring and diesel smoke filled the air and chain saws buzzed around me. My body shook and I identified the feeling. Terror.

Some of the Entourage propped me up against their legs and Middle Cyst leaned in close. His breath was as fresh as last year's sushi. "Neeks, we found you!"

"Where in the Frames were you headed? Tisk tisk." Right Cyst pronounced _tsk_ like someone who had only seen it in books.

"Oh, look, they customized a Guide for her. May I?" I had enough grip to resist briefly, then Left Cyst twisted the Guide from my hand. He examined the symbols next to the notches on the dial. "We've been to most of these, only three more to visit."

"Help us help you, Neeks. Where are you headed? Let us take you there."

I felt pressure inside my head, then the Entourage stepped away and I collapsed, backwards, hitting a thousand sharp rocks. A natural bed of nails.

I heard them say as they walked away, "She no longer knows, if she ever did. Fetch her, lads, she's yours."

The chain saws revved, the clockwork dogs whirred.

They were loud but something blocked their noise, a voice that wasn't loud but permeated everything. "Warty Sebaceous Cysts. Leave her. Leave me."

The voice vibrated with the complex tones of a pipe organ and spoke with the intonation of a choir delivering Gregorian chants.

"Shastina! Well met, well met! We must engage more frequently than once an epoch," a Cyst replied.

"Remove your abominations from my slopes."

"Always your harsh judgments, Shastina. We assert our right to wander the free Frames as -"

A fissure cracked open and steam erupted. The chain saws vaporized. The clockwork dogs howled.

"To that we call foul!" one Cyst yelled, but the other two exchanged nonplussed looks and the Entourage broke formation and milled around, for the first time seeming like separate beings.

"You have five seconds," Shastina replied.

I counted for them, but got confused after _three_. No matter, by then the Cysts and their cohorts had headed downhill and out of Frame.

"Thank you," I croaked.

"Help will find you. Do not move," Shastina told me.

Move. Now, that was hysterical.

"Laughter will weaken you."

"Too late."

And then I was no longer alone. Silhouettes appeared against the bruised sky and knelt beside me. Anwyl checked me for broken bones, Anya touched my cheek to give me hope, then Anwyl scooped me into his arms and Anya kept my hand in both of hers as Anwyl carried me to the summit.

"Zasu?" I managed to emit.

"Your plan succeeded," Anwyl said. "We found the truck at the summit in your Frame, and had only to transport Zasu to Shastina's Frame."

"We go there now," Anya said, "Maintain your courage."

No worries. I was too sick to feel fear. Or anything else.

Shastina's home Frame looked just like mine, with one startling difference. In my Frame, this is an unpopulated part of California. In Shastina's Frame, the mountain was the only natural ground visible. As far as I could see in all directions rose high rises and cityscape. I later learned that, in this Frame, the entire west coast of the U.S. is one unbroken stretch of urban landscape.

They had Zasu in Tee's truck bed, lying on a thick layer of soil. Her eyes were closed and her face was frozen in a peaceful smile.

"She can't be -" I croaked.

"She is healing," Anya said, "and now you will join her. The healers are here and it is safe for you to succumb to your weakness."

Anwyl laid me out next to Zasu. The dirt was better than sharp rocks, was my initial reaction, but before long I was so glad to be there. I could feel the toxins flowing from my body, everywhere it touched the soil. Gradually, I shifted to burrow deeper, so that the soil touched me in more places. The dirt felt cool when I got too hot, and warm when a breeze chilled me. In the dirt I felt nourished and protected.

First, I shed my Frame Travel sickness. While I lay there, I learned that this degree of sickness was a one-time malady. I could still become ill Traveling to new Frames, but not as quickly; and return Travel to today's Frames would more mildly affect me.

I learned this from a tiny shaman with a burbling high-pitched voice like a toddler speaking through a kazoo. Shamans, plural. They inhabit many organisms, although they share births and deaths, joys and sorrows, knowledge and experience as though they are one organism. Each newborn shaman inherits the wisdom and memory of all who came before. The shamans in the soil were the creatures we call earthworms. They are the greatest healers in all the Frames. This was my first introduction to their powers and someday I hope to visit them when no life is at stake, simply to learn from them. I could feel them undulating through the soil beneath me. They never touched me, rather their passage generated gentle electrical currents that massaged and revitalized me.

The colors in this sky moved from aqua to cornflower to cobalt to aqua. Every once in a while, Anwyl or Anya would appear at the side of the truck, consider Zasu and me for a time, then step away. At other times, I heard the murmurs of their voices, surrounding Shastina's sharp blasts of opinion.

"Obvious is not proof."

"Their words versus yours."

"They have no honor but many allies."

"Life is a privilege. Death is a right."

At one point, the ground rumbled and cracked, releasing puffs of steam all around. _Earthquake_ , I thought, then revised to _Shastina laughing_ when I heard Anwyl's amused bark and Anya's chime of a laugh.

I don't know how long we went on like that. Minutes spread into hours, perhaps hours stretched to days. Then Zasu sat up with a sleepy grin and the moment she did, Dizzy jumped into the truck and onto Zasu's lap. Dizzy purred, Zasu cooed loving nothings; I enjoyed their happy reunion.

Zasu looked at me and screamed, "Nica! No!" She reached out to touch me then pulled back, uncertain.

I thought I watched Zasu and Dizzy fondly, with a faint smile playing across my lips. Zasu later explained that my eyes were open and rolled back in my head, my skin was gray, and my lips twitched as with seizure.

Anwyl and Anya appeared and whispered to Zasu that she was recovered from her excess of Frame Travel, while I had injuries still to heal. Anya held Dizzy as Anwyl helped Zasu climb out of the truck, then they all slipped from my view.

### 31. I Never Met A Volcano Before

I felt much better than I had and yet, whenever I thought about sitting up, it didn't happen. So I lay there watching the sky. Eventually, a kazoo voice instructed me, "It is time to remove your shield. Only you may do this."

"Okay," I said, and lay there watching the sky. The activity underneath me changed and I got a mental image of Anya's lanyard. "Oh," I said, and now I did manage to sit up. The lanyard was so stretchy and flexible, I could slide it out from under my clothes without removing any of them. Sitting up, the parts of my body that no longer touched the dirt felt deprived. I flopped down again and now the real pain hit, from my shoulder across my torso to the opposite hip. I hadn't realized how much the lanyard had shielded me. Rushes of pain washed in wave after wave, blasting, burning. I imagined I had a sink and held my hand in the garbage disposal, because imagining lesser pain helped to take my mind off the Cobra's actual pain.

My healers undulated more slowly than they had before, chanting syllables that were mostly vowels. I must have fainted, but when I came to, I felt less terrible. Now I got dizzy, which led to another blackout. When I came to, the dizziness was gone but I had the chills. I went through several more cycles of blackout and restoration, each time regaining consciousness with new symptoms but feeling better overall.

At last, I felt good and sat up; looked around and gasped. The sky was the cobalt that was night here. The heavens shone above and all around us, blazing bright stars outshining the glittering lights of the city that stretched from the base of the mountain to the horizon. Fucking beautiful. I started to cry. I rubbed my shoulder, which was a mass of thick scar tissue.

"Is my shoulder healed now?"

"Your pain is set aside, but it is not concluded," my healers informed me. They taught me how to concentrate on a flow of energy through my body that mimicked the flow they had created. "This will help you from day to day. The pain again may grow. If it overpowers you, return to us. Over time it may lessen, and one day it may be gone. Time as always reveals all."

Now _that_ was a silver lining. If the pain returns, I get to see the healers again! I thanked them for helping me, then I fixated on one small unpleasant fact. How could I return to the healers? "The Cysts took my Guide."

They didn't understand my concern. "That is their way," the Healers said.

Anya and Anwyl appeared. "The Cysts took my Guide," I greeted them.

"I will make you another," she smiled.

"They studied it to see what Frames you gave me access to."

"The Guide will tell them nothing of value, but _this_ near destroyed us." Anwyl grabbed my ankle with one millionth of the anger he felt. Ow. "This device drew Warty Sebaceous Cysts to us."

"I should have told you about it. I didn't think it mattered and with everything else that was going on. Hernandez and I figured it would be like my cell phone and have no signal in other Frames. We thought it only mattered to me." I described in detail how I had acquired the GPS anklet. I could not explain how the Cysts knew about it or used it.

"For the final stage of healing you must remove the manacle from your ankle," the healers said.

I usually make snap decisions and let the consequences worry about themselves, but my brain was mighty foggy. I couldn't decide whether to remove the anklet. I hemmed. I hawed. I waffled. I shuffled. On the one hand, to remove the GPS device, I would have to cut it and for that I would go to jail. On the other hand, when I got home I could bring my missing person to meet the cops, and surely Anya's reappearance would get my case dismissed. On yet another hand, unlawful removal of the GPS device might earn me additional charges. But the anklet gave the Cysts knowledge of my whereabouts - although I was no longer in hiding, so ... I came up with an octopus' worth of conflicting response before I agreed with the healers. It had to come off.

Making the decision proved easy compared to the removal. In fact, it wouldn't remove. Anwyl, Anya, and the healers all tried, with tools and powers. Finally, the healers decreed that we must stop trying, because each attempt to remove it injected me with poisonous energy.

Anwyl frowned and stalked back to the summit peak, where he debated the anklet's implications with Shastina. After a time, Anya joined them. I could tell by their tones of voice that they reached no conclusions.

The healers did some refresher healing to counteract the effects of efforts to remove the device, then I was decreed ready to leave the healing site. Anya helped me climb out of the truck bed and walk the ten feet up the slope to the summit. We joined Anwyl and Zasu, perched on rocks overlooking the city that extended to all horizons.

Zasu jumped up to hug me. Anwyl handed me a water flask. Anya shared blackberries that were plump and warm, overripe yet delicious. She pulled them from a bag I recognized. These were the berries I had gathered in Halcyon, then forgotten in Hernandez' truck.

They resumed discussing Zasu's stay on the summit.

"We have audience with the Framekeeps within one fortnight," Anya said.

"That's a long time to sit here!" I said.

Zasu did not share my concern. She was inherently so positive that negatives touched her fleetingly, if at all. "Here, I am safe and I will learn healing arts, the healers have agreed to instruct me. Also, I have many thoughts to think."

"My point exactly! Nobody needs that much time to think." Me, I kept as busy as possible to avoid such opportunities.

"Also, I must develop my plans. I intend to search for other survivors of my people."

"That is a worthy goal," Anya said gently, after our long silence.

Zasu nodded sagely. "That all have perished is not a certainty. The Gumby people are resilient."

"Wait, did you just say 'the Gumby people'?"

"Yes, that is how we are known."

"Ha. I called you that when I first saw you, because in my Frame there is a toy named Gumby that can bend in all directions. That is the weirdest coincidence. Ever."

Anwyl snorted, "Coincidence is a name for ignorance."

"Rather and more likely, the one who named that toy was a Traveler of Frames." Anya explained.

"Wow." My mind boggled over that one for quite some time.

It was time for me to go home. On the journey south, Anya would ride in Tee with Dizzy and me. Anwyl would leave us for urgent business elsewhere.

"Wait, I want to talk with Shastina before we go."

"For what purpose?"

"To - talk. I never met a volcano before."

Anwyl and Anya exchanged an indecipherable look. "Very well."

"Shastina. Are you there?"

"I am always here." At the summit peak, the organ pipes of Shastina's voice had a higher pitch than they did downslope.

"Thank you for saving my life."

"The intentions of Warty Sebaceous Cysts toward your continued existence remain unknown."

"May I ask you some questions?"

"I control my answers, not your questions."

"If I wanted to talk with you in my own Frame, could I?"

"I do not speak in Neutral Frames."

"Is there really not a single Frame in which you can move around?"

"No. These answers are well-known."

Anwyl took my arm to get me moving. Anya restrained him with a finger. She understood: I didn't care what got discussed, I just wanted to talk with Shastina. Sheepish but undaunted, "Can you see everywhere?"

"Define everywhere."

"All Frames?"

"Yes, with effort in some."

"Can you see all places in every Frame? Even the parts of the Frame that are far from you? Could you see me down in Los Angeles?"

"If there were need."

"Why did you want me to define 'everywhere'? Is there somewhere you cannot see?"

The ground emitted puffs of steam that I decided to call a chuckle. "I cannot see above the sky or through the ocean." I felt petty vindication when Anwyl and Anya looked surprised to learn this. Ha! So my conversation wasn't completely pointless. Maybe.

"Can you see inside the ground?"

"Yes."

"Thank you for answering my questions."

"You squander my time."

"That was not my intention. It has been a privilege to talk with you. I will remember this day forever."

"I will not."

I could accept that.

Leaving Zasu was momentarily difficult, but it helped to know she was indisputably safe and unswervingly optimistic. Her mood darkened when she asked me to carry Edith a message, because she could find nothing to say that did not involve unhappy events. She brightened again when I suggested that, in similar situations, it helped me to take the long view. With this advice, she composed her message easily. "Tell Edith that I miss her and the next time I see her will be most enjoyable because we will be permitted to go out the doors together."

I had thought the scares were over, but on the ride down Shastina's slope, Tee's tires repeatedly lost purchase and skidded on the loose rock that littered the steep dirt road. We started a few landslides that swept us along with them. The slides were brief, but the whole experience was way too much like a roller coaster, thanks.

All of which gave credence to Tee's melodramatic insistence that the drive up to the summit had been dangerous and she had nearly flipped over twice. She had nothing but praise, however, for the lovely youngsters I had engaged to drive her up there. They washed her windshield, they never swerved, and before they left, they set her parking brake.

By the time we reached the highway, we were in a Frame very much like mine, but not mine, so that Tee could drive legally. The return to Los Angeles was uneventful although disappointing in one way. Anya liked Dizzy no more than Anwyl did. Whenever the cat changed position on the seat between us, Anya tensed and drew away.

The first time this happened, I thanked Dizzy for saving my ass and reminded Anya how Dizzy had clawed me when I was at risk of thinking thoughts that could have revealed our plans to the Cysts. I credited Dizzy with causing the confusion that allowed Anwyl and I to flee. Anya would only credit Dizzy with getting herself away from the clockwork dogs. Unlike Anwyl, Anya talked freely in front of the cat - and that made me uncomfortable, which meant I didn't fully trust Dizzy, either.

The hours went by quickly as Anya and I shared what had transpired during our separation. She lamented the reality that the Cysts' inconceivable cruelty gave them an advantage. On her mission, she and her allies had discovered Warty Sebaceous Cysts' interest in Halcyon. Alas, neither she nor her allies anticipated that genocide would result, else they would have taken action to prevent it.

Our evidence for the Framekeeps was circumstantial but persuasive, and implicated the Cysts in the genocide. The bigger question remained. Why did the Cysts want Zasu's Frame? The answer had to involve an effort to free Maelstrom. Anya had visited other Frames that adjoin Maelstrom's collapsed Frame, and in these Frames had also found indications of unusual interest by the Cysts or other outsiders.

An effort to free Maelstrom would be an unfathomably heinous crime. Anya and Anwyl were still undecided about whether to mention these suspicions to the Framekeeps. Unfounded accusations would damage their credibility. Such a terrible accusation needed more than hints and rumors for substantiation.

Anwyl and Anya hoped that Hernandez had succeeded in his snooping and could tie the Cysts to Digby Construction. That Digby had added the Henrietta's dangerous roof a decade earlier indicated long-term plotting, as well as disregard for important laws that govern actions in Neutral Frames.

If our presentation to the Framekeeps did not mention Maelstrom, would we have done enough to fight his escape? That was the other half of the dilemma. Proving the Cysts were behind the genocide would get them locked up again and that should lessen the threat of Maelstrom's escape. But it might not eliminate it. Anya had heard whispers that Maelstrom enlisted other allies, nearly as powerful as the Cysts. Anya would not speak those names, lest that compromise Miles' safety. It had fallen to Miles to confirm or deny those whispers. Anya shared my fear for Miles' wellbeing. When he first went on his mission, she received occasional word from allies who had sighted him, alive and well; but those reports had ceased.

At the start of our drive home, I felt accomplishment and completion. We had protected our witness; we would get the bad guys locked up again. After talking with Anya, I realized we were in no way done.

### 32. Visions Of A New World

"I grabbed the drugs, threw Ben over my shoulder, and carried him out right before the ambulance and the cops arrived. In the carport off the alley, I found a minivan with its doors unlocked and we hid inside that for a couple hours, until the cops went away. Three squad cars parked in the alley and I could hear their radios. I heard when they stopped the search for _vics_ and _perps_ because the lab guys discovered that none of the blood inside was human blood. The cops we saw at the Largo were the first inside, but they only stayed a few minutes."

"They wanted Ben. You got him out of there just in time."

"I think that, too. A few seconds later and we'd have a different story."

Hernandez and I sprawled in his truck, catching up while we waited for Anwyl to prowl a construction site around the corner. I was glad Anwyl wanted us to park here, a block away. Here, had working street lights. At the construction site it was as dark as the Entourage's shades.

While Anwyl and I had been out of Frame, Hernandez got nothing but runaround in his efforts to get hired by \- and snoop at - Digby Construction Company. He did finally get a call-back interview, scheduled for tomorrow. Meanwhile, he did internet research and Digby stakeouts, which led to his following the Cobra on four occasions and identifying four construction sites where the Cobra delivered materials. Anwyl thought it important to investigate all four sites tonight. This was the fourth.

Hernandez had a habit of pounding beats on his steering wheel and dashboard. Tonight, he would start to pound, then freeze and apologetically pat the wheel. Learning about Tee had non-plussed him. Turns out he is cute when he is non-plussed. He is cute other times, too, in a Rottweiler-in-a-bonnet kind of way.

I had so wanted to introduce Hernandez to Tee, but Frame law prohibits her from revealing herself in a Neutral Frame without the permission of a higher being. Anwyl said permission was necessary on our road trip but was unjustified now. Always the killjoy. Someday, I will teach that guy how to have fun. Meantime, I will wait for him to leave and ask Anya for permission, instead. Anya and Anwyl were taking turns going in and out of Frame, so it was unlikely they would compare notes.

The trip to Shastina had taken four days in this Frame's time. Hernandez saw Ben repeatedly during the first two days, then Ben vanished.

"But when you last saw Ben he was fine. You're sure?"

"His vitals were great and he could swear and crack jokes."

I had to agree that sounded _back to normal._

"I don't think the Cysts got him. I think he's hiding from cops."

"What makes you think that though?" My voice had a plea in it.

"My gut."

"Yeah. See. As much as I like your gut, evidence would be reassuring."

"I get that."

"Especially since, conversely, your gut tells you it was the Cysts, not a drugstore, that had him so blazed when we got to his apartment."

"That's common sense. Nobody uses every drug at once."

"Anyway, Ben never has," I agreed. "So they blasted his mind - somehow - then planted all that shit to - what? \- get him arrested? There's something here we're not seeing, the pieces don't add up."

"I know."

"When I got there, he told me to run. That doesn't seem like he was high." We shared a sigh. "And Ben had no clue about what happened to Ziti in his apartment?"

"He remembered nothing, but he did say one thing I keep going back to. When I asked him could he remember anything, anything at all, like how long he'd been sitting on the floor? He said he couldn't remember and if he did remember he'd die. Then he gave a little laugh like he wanted to be kidding."

"Gotta be the Cysts," I whispered.

We stared out the window and my attention went to a neon sign at the tavern across the street. The light wavered before it came on, the way that neon does. _CLOSED_. Which confirmed that it was way past my bedtime, especially after today's ten-hour drive and the previous days' adventures.

Hernandez continued. "Something unrelated to this case that Ben told me. Those cops who knew you at the Largo -"

"Mathead and Scabman. Not their real names."

"Suitable monikers. Those cops have pressured Ben to inform on his dealers."

Aha. That explained some things.

"Ben has outstanding charges that will go away if he helps these two cops."

"As will his ability to breathe."

"He sees that, but he agreed to help because he thought he could -"

"Wait, I know how this one goes. He figures he can get the cops off his back, then finesse them and weasel out of the deal." Thassa my Benny. "Let me guess. His finesse didn't work and now he is avoiding the cops."

"Something along those lines."

"The nasty reality is that he needs to eat the charges and move on."

"He sees that now, but he doesn't trust those two cops so won't turn himself in. And I don't blame him, I asked Patti what she recommends and -"

"Patti? Oh you mean Detective Henson." Was that a blush? My, my. You go away for four days and life steamrolls forward without you. It was time for a change of subject. "Tell me about Edith's hearing."

"Edith and Karina did very well at the hearing and everyone was very respectful of them. With their testimony, the case is going to trial."

"A great step forward. Patti won't let the trial hurt them." He could only nod, not entirely convinced she had the power to protect the girls in court. "Maybe we can ship Garcia to the Cysts and unburden the courts. I wonder if that shit realizes his parents died trying to help him."

"Do you hear that?" He rolled down his window, cocked his head out, then twisted the ignition and shot us toward the Digby Construction site. Now I could hear the growling and barking.

By the time we swerved up to the site, Anwyl had scaled the ten-foot fence. Below him, inside, a trio of slavering guard dogs leaped at him and bit the chain link, shaking the fence with their jaws. Anwyl vaulted over the razor wire into the bed of the truck, cradling his left arm in his right. Hernandez peeled out, which made Anwyl fall over. He did not sit up again. I undid my seatbelt to turn and get a better look at him. A pool of blood shimmered around him on the truck bed. "He's hurt!"

Hernandez was pulled over and in back, demanding to see Anwyl's arm, before I had my door open. While Hernandez examined one wound, Anwyl extracted something from another deep cut on his forearm. He held up a broken piece of a circular saw with the roots of a tooth.

"Those were _clockwork_ dogs?"

"In the Frame where they began their attack, they were."

Hernandez yanked his t-shirt off and ripped it into strips. "The wound is shallow and it barely nicked an artery. You will be fine after I shut down the bleeding." We watched silently as Hernandez staunched the wounds. When both wounds were doctored, Anwyl joined us in the truck cab. I sat in the middle and could feel the heat from Hernandez' shirtless skin.

Focus, Nica. I examined the saw-piece tooth. "Here is our proof that the Cysts are involved with Digby Construction."

"Perhaps. Theirs are not the only clockwork dogs. The Framekeeps would call this a suggestive coincidence, nothing more." He sniffed the tooth. "My blood overpowers their scent."

"How many suggestive coincidences have we assembled, now?" I asked. Nobody answered, but that was okay, the question was rhetorical.

Anwyl sniffed the clockwork tooth again, and worried it between his teeth. "These are likely beasts of Warty Sebaceous Cysts. If the dogs recognized me, then Warty Sebaceous Cysts know we study the construction sites, and the game changes."

"What did you see at that site? More of the same?" Hernandez asked as he got us onto the 10 freeway, west, to return to the Henrietta.

Anwyl nodded. At each of the sites, he had explored the remodel in this Frame, then Traveled to examine the building in other Frames. Each of the buildings, like the Henrietta, was a sentient structure that persisted in many Frames. The add-ons in this Frame did not persist, but that was to be expected. Changes made by Neutrals typically only show up in the same Neutral Frame. However, in other Frames, Anwyl found each of the changed buildings heavily guarded, or isolated with high walls and fences.

Anwyl gave Hernandez an assignment. "It is important that you determine how many of these projects exist in Los Angeles."

"I'm on it," Hernandez nodded.

"What about construction like this in other Neutral Frames?" I mused.

"Or other cities in this Frame?" Hernandez added.

"All these, too, may exist." Anwyl looked more serious than I had ever seen him.

We dropped Hernandez at home, where his daughters slept. His house was a tidy bungalow on a street in east LA that was so family oriented it made me want to go have kids. But Anwyl had more for me to do. Because I had slept as recently as last week, I could not complain.

Anwyl and I took Hernandez' truck to Watts, hopped the fence surrounding the Towers, and Travelled to Miles and Monk's Frame. There, even at this late hour, skateboards frolicked in one neighboring yard. It was good to be back but it dug a hole in my heart, knowing that Miles would not be here.

We spotted Monk down the block, surrounded by others: a meeting was underway. As we approached, I had the impression that Monk sagged a little. He didn't look any different and yet he had that vibe. He was sad. He was worried. Miles and more.

Three of the attendees I had seen previously, and had privately nicknamed Vince, Ruby, and Slam: the Vincent Thomas bridge, the red car with her shawl of track, and the Hammerhead roller coaster. In addition, tonight the Capitol Records building was here; its tall stacked disks of floors spun slowly, or faster when the conversation grew heated. What may have been a Sunset Strip billboard was fringed on all sides with floppy strips of peeling paper that here and there looked familiar - images from old ads for music or movies. One of the billboard's eyes and cheeks looked a lot like Justin Timberlake, while the other may have been the Little Mermaid. There were also three attendees from out of Frame: a ten-foot sword covered with thick bark and a hilt that teemed with ladybugs; a small grove of palm trees, topped not with fronds but with single perfect white roses whose fragrance perfumed us; a sand dune that cascaded and reformed several times during the conversation and steepened whenever disagreement broke out.

There was a guy standing in the middle with Monk. He looked human, although his mannerisms during the conversation suggested that a goldfish inhabited a humanoid body. Actually, it wasn't a conversation they were having; it was more like a lecture and occasionally an interrogation.

The lecture topic was whether Maelstrom's Frame collapse could be reversed. Goldfish man explained the technical details and helped the others sort out propaganda from folklore from technology. I came in on the middle of the discussion and understood about as much as when I read income tax instructions in Tagalog, but I got the gist: the official answer was _nyet -_ reversal was impossible. The actual answer was _possiblemente_ \- reversal might be accomplished with the right knowledge and opportunity.

Most of the architects of Frame collapse were dead. Only a very few existed who understood the entire procedure. The knowledge was passed down and along to ensure that somebody knew how to do a collapse when another bad guy like Maelstrom came along. The identities of the living architects was always closely guarded.

From the handful of current architects, one architect had gone missing, along with her entire family. The worst-case speculation was that the Cysts had abducted the family to force the architect to help them. The ladybugs on the sword hilt swarmed and the Capitol Records discs whizzed.

"What word of Miles?" somebody asked.

"Of and from the same. Nothing," Monk's words were weighted; they sank fast.

"That mission was an error," Vince rattled his bridge struts. "That is the reason he did not want to go."

"You shouldn't 'a forced him and now -" the Capitol Records building agreed, and its disks spun to a blur, when Ruby interrupted.

"All the free Frames face worse dangers under Maelstrom. What choice did we have but to send Miles?" Ruby shrilled.

"All choices exist," Monk brooded.

Anwyl interjected, "Miles did not wish to go, but he accepted the burden. He is but two days tardy in his return. That concerns us, but not yet mightily - and we have much else to decide."

"The Cysts aren't arguing about their next steps," I had to pipe up.

The record tower stopped spinning, Vince stopped rattling. They and the others turned to study this mouthy Neutral. Then somebody muttered agreement and they buckled down to nuts and bolts decisions about where to best deploy spies in order to detect whatever the Cysts were up to, and to delay them until enough power and knowledge could be wielded to stop them.

A beloved voice hailed us and Anya strode toward us, with a haughty redtail hawk on one shoulder. "I bring Pent-Up Angst, a librarian of the free Frame Wherewithal, whose witness you must hear," she announced. Or that's what the names all sounded like to me.

The group gave Pent-Up Angst immediate attention. Outside the Neutral Frames, a librarian is essentially an army recruiter, enlisting unattached books for causes - some just, some nefarious, and some shockingly well-paid.

"One cycle ago," the librarian began, "Warty Sebaceous Cysts visited me."

"Don't you mean their Entourage?" someone asked.

"No, I mean as I say. The three themselves. They wanted all the books I could enlist for them. They offered generous compensation, including shelf ownership in a choice of Frames when conquest was accomplished."

"'Conquest'? They used that word?"

"They did. They enflamed their converts with visions of a new world, ruled by force and might. They promised text conversions to permanent ink for standing armies."

This evoked shouts of distress. The Capitol disks spun to a blur.

"Their boldness frightens me as much as their claims," someone said.

I had to agree. I prefer my bad guys _cautious_ and _skulking_ to _audacious_ and _arrogant_.

Pent-Up Angst proclaimed, "Warty Sebaceous Cysts spoke as though they face no opposition of consequence."

"Warty Sebaceous Cysts are reckless. Do not take this attitude as proof that they will prevail. That is what they wish for us to conclude," Anya counseled. This helped to restore some confidence.

Full confidence returned when the meeting adjourned with one of Anywl the commander's inspirational leave-takings. "Always have our foes expected victory. Always shall we disappoint them."

Now, when I looked at the allies, I saw not conspirators but generals.

### 33. Good Luck Restoring Your Honor

"And how do you spell that?"

"Same way we spelled it in the three previous messages you took from me."

"And your phone number?"

"I renewed my annual service while you had me on hold, so that is unchanged also."

"And your message?"

"Care to make a wager about what that would be?"

Her keyboard ceased to clatter. "I'll put 'see previous message'."

"An economical solution. Is Kimball in court today, is that why her phone is turned off?"

"Our policy has not changed since we discussed this earlier."

"Good one. Got me back!"

The law office receptionist tittered. From what I could tell - and I had gotten to know her well during my repeated attempts to reach my attorney today - she wasn't a power monger or an asshole, as was typical in such gatekeeper positions. It was her job to prevent riff raff from wasting the attorney's billable hours. That's where our basic misunderstanding set in.

"Look, I understand your reluctance to put my call through when you can't find my name in Kimball's client list, but I am Kathleen's client -"

"You have so stated."

"Pull up her schedule for last week. Let me give you dates and approximate times I've seen her this week, you'll see that -"

"I cannot confirm or deny any appointment, including those in the past. Our clients deserve that discretion."

"Oh! Em! Eff! Gee!"

"Please refrain from cursing."

After that call, I gave up and fled my office. I had to get outside or I would combust. Anya and Anwyl had brought me home close to dawn. I slept a scant few hours then launched efforts to get my case dropped, but couldn't get to square one, contact with my attorney. My frustration rose faster than today's temperatures. I had missed the chance for my morning jog so I stormed around the block a few times, instead. It was hot and smoggy and dirty, yet afterwards I felt better. The tall buildings that lined the streets did block some sky but lacked the oppressiveness of four walls and a ceiling. I had Zappa and Waits in my earbuds to remind me of the pleasure of absurdity or vice versa. When I was done stomping, I went to the gym to take out more of my morning on a punching bag, then enjoyed a short cool shower surrounded by strangers. Sometimes I could see disadvantages to living in my office.

During all this, Anya and Anwyl explored the Henrietta's roof, looking through the Frames for clues to the purpose of the construction. As soon as they finished, I would take Anya to Parker Center to prove I was innocent of kidnapping or harming her. If we had to go without my attorney, so be it.

I got back to my office just as they came downstairs from the roof. Per their expressions, they had not learned the purpose of the addition. "We don't need to know everything by tomorrow, though. You've told me that." I said this to reassure myself, but all I did was tense myself up.

"You are correct. At tomorrow's audience, we do not need to understand the purpose of the construction projects," Anya agreed.

I remained unsoothed. "I still think it means something bad that they moved up the petition to tomorrow. Earlier trials never help the prosecution."

"We need to stop Warty Sebaceous Cysts quickly, so we must welcome the change."

I didn't want to spend the afternoon anxious, so I let it go.

Anwyl went off on his own while I took Anya to Parker Center. It was only a three-block walk but we collected a lot of doubletakes during it. I'm not the only one drawn to Anya. She wore her usual shapeless shift tunic caftan thing - and she has no noteworthy curves - yet she turned heads, because she radiates such vitality and enigma. Those not coming on to her tried to categorize her and were left with pleased but puzzled frowns. You can't look at her style or body language to guess her career or life path, social standing or success, interests or personality. Neither Anya nor Anwyl give off the usual subliminal cues. Walking down a crowded street with Anya, I was reminded how much we humans rely on our accumulated experience to read those cues. Interestingly, when I was out with Anwyl, people ignored him.

I was so glad to be headed for Parker Center. I had feared a run-in with cops before I got myself cleared. There had to be a warrant out for me by now, thanks to my four days out of contact, out of Frame. Also, I had removed the GPS device without permission. As soon as I returned, Hernandez cut it off with bolt cutters. I carried the pieces in a Ziploc bag.

Hark and behold, as we headed up the steps to enter police headquarters, the cops who had arrested me were headed downstairs, laughing as though sharing a dirty joke.

"Hey, guys. Remember me? Nica S.T.A.T.Ic."

Recognizing me ruined the joke. One of them shoved a hand into a pocket and I winced, expecting him to extract handcuffs. Instead, he pulled out an electronic cigarette and started puffing. The other one - the one with OCD - adjusted his shades. They were going to let me carry the conversation.

"Standing next to me is the woman you've accused me of kidnapping and killing. As you can see, she is alive, well, and unrestrained, which proves the charges were wrong."

"Is that right?" one of them replied.

The other said to Anya, "Excuse us. Police business," and tried to move around her.

Hell, no. I kept Anya in front of one and repositioned myself to block the other's path downstairs. They were not going to walk past us!

"How do I get the charges dropped?"

The one with the water vapor cigarette squinted like he had smoke in his eyes or didn't remember the case. "Your lawyer will know."

"Ah-I-am representing myself now." If Kathleen Kimball wouldn't take my calls I would fire her ass.

They stepped back like I was a turd and they were barefoot. But they still couldn't get around us. We exchanged stares until Anya spoke up.

"How will Nica restore honor to her name, if not with your aid?"

The one with the cigarette substituted an exhale for a sigh and said to his partner, "I'll catch up to you. Get me a number seven with extra sauce."

It turned out I would need a court hearing. Today, we did the paperwork to get me to that hearing. The process was low on drama, slow on resolution. Forms, procedures, signatures, approvals. The cop would leave with one set of paperwork, return with another set.

Finally we were done with all we could do and the cop stood to walk us outside. He glanced at number seven, cold and congealed on his desk.

"Thanks for helping me right away. Can I buy you a newer lunch?" This turned him human.

He shot a fond glance at number seven and shook his head. "Good luck restoring your honor." He cast a lingering smile over Anya and advised me, "Don't get stopped for nothing before your hearing," giving confirmation that my concern wasn't paranoia.

"One more thing," I said. "What do you recommend I do with this anklet? Long story but I couldn't wait until my tracking device could be officially removed." I dumped the pieces of my GPS anklet on his desk. Hernandez being Hernandez, it was perfectly cut into five pieces of equal size.

"What is that shit?" the cop sneered.

"It's the GPS tracker your department installed when I missed a few phone calls. I had to take it off, it caused unhealthy reactions."

"Huh. I never knew us to use those."

"What does my file say about it?"

He paged through the folder. "Not a thing."

"I got it at your office on North Fig."

"Since when do we have an office on Figueroa?"

And on that weird note, he walked us out to make sure we left. He kept staring at Anya as though to memorize her for later.

On the walk back to the Henrietta, I got fixated on being careful to cross streets within the crosswalk lines, and struggled to ignore the _Arrest Me!_ graffiti I imagined on my back. Getting my case dropped felt weird and inconclusive. It didn't seem like a normal police procedure but I lacked the experience to prove it. I tried calling Patti for her input, but my calls went straight to voicemail.

It was significant that the cop knew nothing about the GPS anklet. I had assumed the Cysts had co-opted a police technology to track my movement between Frames. What if, instead, the Cysts were so embedded in affairs of this Neutral Frame that they could co-opt the court procedure and trick me into donning their tracking device? Damn, I needed to talk with my attorney. If they had tricked me, they had tricked her, too. Or else she -

My phone chirped with a text from Hernandez.

:: Help. Get truck drive Glendale Blv to Atwater Av east drive slow to

:: On my way. What hap?!

I got no reply.

Anya and I ran the block to the Henrietta's garage. I grabbed the truck's hide-a-key and we were on our way to Atwater Village, where Hernandez was supposed to be finishing his masonry job interview at a Digby construction site.

We made it from downtown LA to Atwater Village in record time, then got trapped in traffic mere blocks from our turn onto Atwater Avenue. This was a neighborhood in the early states of gentrification, with bail bonds flanking the new art co-op. Other days, I would have enjoyed a stroll. Now, I considered mowing the truck through those sidewalk cafe tables.

Traffic was stymied because a farmers' market blocked the route. We could not turn east onto Atwater Av, the way Hernandez instructed. We had to circle back and around and take Atwater Avenue _from_ the east. This route took us past the Digby construction site, which was not engaged in business as usual. Hardhats wandered the fence that marked the site's perimeter, as though searching for something. Or someone. Standing at the entrance was the Cobra, watching everywhere at once.

Mercifully, a shout from inside the site diverted his attention as we passed.

"He's the one who hurt me," I told Anya.

"Yes, I recognize his energy."

Two blocks farther, we reached the last block of Atwater, where Hernandez had said to drive slowly. The block was now a dead end due to the farmers' market. I drove to the market barricade. No Hernandez. I backed, turned, eased east. A white streak shot out from a bush. Hernandez - in white overalls, limping mightily yet at top speed - vaulted into the back of the truck and flattened against the bed.

No way would we drive past the Digby site again. "There," Anya pointed at an alley that could take us south. I took the turn as fast as I dared.

The windshield shattered and a face loomed. I screamed at the creature embedded in the broken glass. Its eyes were misshapen like the bellies of black widows; the pupils were black, with red hourglass irises. The creature's three fingers ended in talons. It grabbed the steering wheel and I pounded to break its grip.

I was dimly aware of other sensations. Anya muttered behind me. More of these creatures swarmed the truck. Hernandez kicked several of them off the back with some rad martial arts moves.

When we shifted Frames, only the one at the steering wheel remained. It pulled itself deeper into the cab and reached for my throat.

"I think not," Tee yelled and the truck began to buck and swerve. The creature lost its one-handed grip on the steering wheel and fell to the road. Tee braked and went into reverse, intending to back over the creature. Anya stopped the truck with a word.

"No. Its threat has ended. We must go forward," Anya said.

Tee took us very forward. She was doing eighty by the time we were back in my allegedly Neutral Frame. Tee dodged incoming traffic, then I got us back on the correct side of the street. I didn't brake until we were across the Los Angeles River into the Silverlake district. At that time I pulled over briefly, intending for Hernandez to climb into the cab. When he didn't move, I got out.

"Give me a sec," he said, and knocked his head back, squeezed his eyes shut.

"Reassure me you're okay," I said.

"Been better been worse. You must be Anya. It's an honor to meet you."

"We share that honor." Anya's smile was the sun on wildflowers. She touched his wrist, stilled to read sensations, and nodded to me. We helped him into the cab. He favored his left side.

I headed south at safer speeds than before. "So much for Frame Neutrality," I said. Neutrality might be boring but it wasn't all bad, if it prevented such creatures from roaming my Frame.

"We brought the creatures into this Frame. They awaited us just beyond it." Anya spoke like it was an everyday occurrence.

"How often do those kinds of thing lurk outside my Frame?"

"They are not rare," she replied.

Hernandez groaned and clutched his side. I was uncertain that he was conscious. I pulled into a subterranean parking structure on Figueroa. The light was dim enough to give us plenty of privacy but too dim to see his wound. I shone my phone on him, pulled his shirt up. At his waist was a nasty stain that looked like a rug burn on top of a bruise.

"It wasn't a job interview, it was an ambush," he said through clenched teeth. "I should have seen that coming. I've been civilian too long, I'm losing my sense." I knew what he meant because he had talked about it plenty. His battle sense, a tightness at the base of his neck when bad shit was about to come down.

"Somewhere under the seat is a jar of Anwyl's salve," I said.

Anya found it and applied it as I navigated us out of the garage speedily. In fact, we made it out within the five-minute, no-pay grace period.

Hernandez groaned again, perhaps at my inappropriate penny-pinching.

"He needs the healers!" My enthusiasm puzzled then unnerved me. Sometimes my capacity for shallowness does that. Life and death stakes, fate of the free Frames in the balance, and I got excited because I wanted to share my new spa with my girlfriend.

"I do not believe that to be the case. Even should you be correct, the salve will suffice until after our petition."

And that grounded me again. Tomorrow morning was show time.

Hernandez let us help him out of the truck, but he got himself up to my office and into the chair behind my waiting room door. He let me fetch him a set of juicepacks and a quart jug of water, then he waved me into my office, where Anya waited. "You need to rehearse, don't you? I'll be right here." And he kept his grimace of pain contorted into a supportive smile until I shut my office door.

### 34. When Pieces Began To Fall

Our discussion was more pep rally than rehearsal. "There are so many details, you'll need to prompt me," I warned Anya.

"You will tell the story that needs to be told, and the Framekeeps will heed it because they recognize truth," Anya replied.

"That all sounds easy but I know it won't be."

Anya took my hands in hers. "Nica. Tomorrow we take the next step we must take to defeat Maelstrom. I say _we_ because you belong in that step." Anya released my hands just as Anwyl shoved through the door.

"Come now," he greeted her, and took her back to the roof with him.

I joined Hernandez in my waiting room, where he pretended that he was seated, not collapsed.

"They say we don't need to understand the construction scheme in time for the Framekeeps, then they put every waking minute into trying to understand."

"Never micromanage the beings from the otherworld," Hernandez advised.

I laughed but continued to grumble. "I'm kind of an asshole today. Guess I'm nervous."

"Today."

"Speaking of assholes." He pulled out a smile. "You seem a little better," I noted, and felt enormously better when he nodded. I looked around for additional repartee material and noticed an envelope that had been shoved under the door and mostly disappeared under the rug.

"How long has this been here, did you notice?"

"Notice what?" Hernandez felt better but he didn't feel like opening his eyes yet.

_Neeks!!_ yelled the envelope in Ben's blocky scrawl. Seeing it gave me two kicks to the stomach. A, this reminded me I didn't know where the hell he was and B, he needed to find another nickname. The Cysts had ruined this one - when I read the word on the envelope I heard their curdled voices saying it.

I'm gone. Farewell, Neeks, my 1st and best. I won't mess with your life any more. All we've been through. You deserve an exp. so here.

Day you left. The scene at my apt. I saw a lot of things. Getting high is who I am. That won't change. Don't want it to. Even though. Every time I get high I hurt somebody. Actions. Promises I don't deliver. This time maybe somebody died. Wish I could rem. Glad I can't.

Two cops after me. Won't stop. Day they hooked into me I died. They guarantee it. Now I'm making it official.

Don't look for a body you won't want to be the one.

You always loved me. Thick, thin. That means everything to me. You're the one I'll miss.

Benny

P.S. You know me. I don't apologize. Not the jerk way. But I am sorry I went back to sleep. I let you down about the lawyer. Should have got my ass out of bed. Hope you weren't locked up mega hours.

"No fucking way!" I yelled, startling Hernandez into consciousness. I shoved the paper at him.

He read it twice, turned the page looking for more. "Suicide note. Is this supposed to be from Ben?"

"That is from Ben. It's his handwriting, his way of writing. But. If I made a list of all the people in the world in order of how likely they are to off themselves, I would run out of trees to make paper or my word processor would run out of memory before - uh -" I was lost in my own metaphor, or was that a simile, I can never keep -

"Ben isn't the suicide type," Hernandez made my long story short.

"So he leaves me a bogus suicide note when he knows I know he won't. That means it's for somebody else. So who am I supposed to show this to? The cops?"

"That would be my guess."

"Crap. I'll have to wait until after the Framekeeps. If I get in Mathead's face, she'll make sure to bust me."

"What does the P.S. mean? He did find you a lawyer."

"I thought he did. I thought he made the call then forgot about it." And if he didn't, then who put Kathleen Kimball in my life?

"Does he forget like that?"

"Not often since he stopped using. If he stopped. Man, I need a drink." Benny's sobriety does that to me.

"Me too."

"You're fighting to stay conscious. How are you going to drink? How does your side feel, anyway? And what happened? Did the Cobra get you?"

"Naw, a hardhat used a 2 by 4 on me. As I walked into the construction office, I knew it was a trap and I turned and ran. I almost got away. A guy at the driveway entrance whacked me in the driveway. They must have poor day vision. They sniffed around the entrance for me when I was a block away, watching. We could go to that place with the naked sculpture at the end of Flower Street. They have a long happy hour."

"I shouldn't go out in public tonight, I can't risk getting arrested."

"There's a big manhunt for you, you figure?"

"Something spooked me about the way the cop warned me to avoid arrest before my hearing. Anyway, you should go home."

"You're right. I've got beverages at home."

"That works for me! Let's do it."

Headed down to the garage, limping put a wince on his face. Then I mentioned the Framekeeps petition, which added misery to it. He so wanted to see the Framekeeps, but Anwyl and Anya were not supposed to involve Neutrals in free Frames affairs, so bringing two Neutrals with them would look worse than twice as bad. I had much witness to bear, so had to be there. Hernandez had to stay home.

Stopped at a long traffic light, I left more messages for my former attorney, one on her cell phone and one at her office exchange. There was no reason to think that these, messages number 22 and 23, would have special impact and compel her to return my calls. But persistence is how Frank Elder solves cases so I decided to keep trying. I needed to understand how she fit with the ankle GPS.

We proceeded in silence until we crossed the bridge into east LA.

"Are you ready for tomorrow?"

"I think so. I have to be careful not to use words like _obviously_ and _clearly_. Nobody tells the Framekeeps what to think, Anwyl says. We just state our evidence and they decide whether it adds up and what to do about it. The Framekeeps like their witnesses meek so I can't act too confident. But we've got so much to tell them! Anya and Anwyl are cautious about predicting the outcome, but I can tell they agree. We've got a lot of evidence that the Cysts are back to their old bad ways." I reopened what I considered an unfinished debate, "I know that two Neutrals would piss the Framekeeps off more than twice as much as one Neutral would. But I still think you should be at the hearing, too."

"I can't be away from home indefinitely. Anwyl says you could be there days, or weeks, waiting for the verdict."

"I know. Just sayin'."

"I know." A warm silence followed us up his driveway, across his porch, and into his kitchen. We took Jack Daniels to the kitchen table in the alcove off the front room, where Karina was curled into a corner of the couch. TV blared while she texted and pretended to do homework. She was in remedial summer school because she never did homework without TV and texting - never mind. She texted with one hand, channel surfed with the other, and consulted her homework during commercials. We exchanged the deep tired smiles of the old friends we had fast become.

Hernandez clicked his glass against mine. "You'll convince them."

"I've been told I'm persuasive," I clicked back.

He doubled over, first with a belly laugh and then with laugh-induced pain. "The Framekeeps will wonder what hit them," he gasped.

I darted a look to see if Karina was listening, and resisted the urge to shush him - as if she'd know what _Framekeeps_ meant; as if she thought her dad was worth an eavesdrop. The TV screen caught my eye. "Sss! Look!" I dug my fingers into his arm.

The news had started and the top news item was a horror story. Video of Miles and Monk filled the screen. There was something wrong with the way Miles looked - he was missing his top encircling girders.

The video came with voiceover. "The Watts Towers closed unexpectedly this afternoon for unscheduled maintenance, when pieces began to fall from one of the Towers." The camera zoomed into a section of Miles with dangling snapped girders, raining cement and decoration.

"Tell us about your tour of the Watts Towers this afternoon." The first interview was with a trio of high school students, at the Towers for a class tour.

"All of a sudden, pieces of glass and cement were smashing everywhere on the ground."

"A piece hit me on the head, just a little piece but it fell from so high! It really stung."

"I looked up and saw the top of the tower was crumbling apart." A close-up of Miles' top girders, broken and awry.

Cut to an engineer who expressed surprise at the sudden damage. The Towers had passed so many stress tests over the years, plus their recent annual inspection. Whatever the cause of the sudden distress, he was confident they'd have the Towers open for public visits again soon. However, for now the facility must remain closed because it wasn't safe to be under that Tower as it continued to shed material. Tomorrow morning, a crane would allow close inspection.

Cut to the reporter, positioned in front of the fence. Two signs alternated and repeated around the perimeter. _Closed until further notice_. _Danger: hardhats required._ "There you have it, Dale and Katy, they don't know the extent of the damage, or the cause, but they are working hard to get this beloved attraction back in service to southern California and the world. Last year, the number of tourists who visited the Towers -"

Hernandez grabbed the remote and flipped channels until we had seen four flavors of the same news on the local channels.

Eventually, Karina looked up from a heavy texting session and noticed we had taken control of the TV. "Da-ad! I was watching something!" He tossed the remote back to Karina and grabbed my hand. I clutched back and poured us tall stiff ones.

After those, we were in no condition to drive, so we sat on his porch step for another hour, trying to understand what this might mean and to convince ourselves that what we wanted was true. Miles had disappeared into his dangerous Frame assignment and now he was damaged. Damage to Miles in this Frame didn't have to mean Miles was dead, we insisted. It certainly suggested he was injured. But how badly? We made up a rule that if the damage kept getting worse, that would be a bad sign.

On the eleven o'clock news, the broadcasts were all rehashed soundbites from earlier in the day. We moved to the family computer but found nothing newer. Apparently, no one else shared our need to know how the Watts Towers fared right this instant.

We went out to the truck and we didn't have to discuss where we were going. We were in Watts by midnight. Miles looked worse than he had in the news, missing more of his topmost struts and girders. Bottle pieces had fallen and shattered, leaving bald spots in the cement near his base. But we saw nothing fall while we watched, so maybe the damage rate had slowed.

There was still activity outside the Towers enclosure, as emergency repair folks delivered, then secured, equipment to be used come morning. A security guard watched us as we circled the fence. On our third circuit, he began to follow us.

There was nothing we could do, anyway, except go home.

Call it intuition, call it a hangover, I woke up with a bad feeling about Miles, our petition, life as we know it. The internet had no updates about conditions at the Watts Towers. I had missed the morning news, so there was no point going to the coffeehouse that had television.

Hernandez was at my door soon after I came to. He had his custodian cart with him. "Is something else wrong?" I greeted him. "You've never been here so early before."

"I'm working extra hours to make up for some of my time off lately. On my drive here, the radio repeated last night's stories. Any new news on Miles?"

I shook my head.

"Take 'em out today, Nica. The Cysts need to go away and you're the one to send them."

"Thanks," I said for his effort to lighten my mood. "Next time take the bottle away after my second glass."

He pulled me in for a hug, sheer comfort and brotherly love, precisely what I needed.

"Text me as soon as you're done," he replied, and trundled his cart down the hall.

My head had a malfunctioning drum machine in it today. I sat down gently and nursed my coffee like I had no refill. Which was the case.

When Anya and Anwyl arrived, they swept inside with all their usual conviction. I greeted them with one word. "Miles."

"His location is not known," Anwyl said.

"What about his condition?"

"Nor that."

"You don't sound at all concerned! I guess you haven't seen him! I have!"

"We must set aside our love and concern and give our energy to the task at hand," Anya said gently.

"Miles has his fate, as do we all," Anwyl added. It was hard to hear catechism from someone who preferred to burn down churches.

"Could he be dead?"

"Yes. As he may live." That was as close to optimism as I was going to get today. I took it.

### 35. He Shouldn't Look Smug

I was born to Travel the Frames. I became convinced of this when I learned that the Connector to the Framekeep Council meeting led through another of my favorite locations.

The Griffith Observatory is a Deco masterpiece perched on a hill in the midst of a wilderness park. When I stand where the rebel without a cause had his knife fight, I can see the Hollywood sign over one shoulder and over the other, the highrises that surround the Henrietta. These are two ends of a vista that spans from ocean south to ocean west to mountains north to mountains east, with millions of people in the flatlands between. I often come here to watch that teeming vista and feel connected to those millions.

I experienced none of this today - keeping pace with Anya and Anwyl's all-terrain strides had me moving too fast to notice anything. They led me up the exterior stairs that flanked the Observatory and took us around back.

An arched walkway traverses the back side of the Observatory and over the years I've studied its view from all available angles. Today, I learned the walkway is also a Connector and leads to one of thirteen Framekeep Council chambers. There are thirteen Framekeeps and they take turns hosting the Council.

We walked through the Connector and in the Frame on the other end, the Observatory looked about the same. Anya led us around front to the lawn and there stood Monk, tall and stiff yet droopy. Around Monk, the air throbbed with sorrow. I wanted to stop for word of Miles, but Anya was in a hurry and expected me to keep pace. Beyond Monk was a wheeled platform, shaded by potted trees that lined the edges. The trees arched to create a bower; from the branches hung a woven chair and in the chair lounged Zasu, slumped yet restless. She had been there a long time. The platform so resembled a Rose Parade Float that I expected her to greet us with a swivel-wrist parade wave.

Surrounding the float was no marching band, however. Instead, there were muscular bipods that had to be guards. Some were humanoid, most were not. Each wore a knee-length saffron tunic and boots that looked made out of tar. The emblems on their chests depicted a colorful faceted geometry like an exploded, wire mesh Rubik's Cube. Above the guards and surrounding them hovered books with saffron covers and glistening black pages. Perched on the spine of each book was a squat fleshy creature in saffron swaddling clothes. The creatures' bodies and attire suggested babies or cupids, but their watchfulness implied SWAT team. Their heads swiveled so their eyes could observe every inch of air and land.

Zasu jumped up with a teenage shriek, "Nica!"

I stepped toward her but slammed my face against an icy invisible barrier. A cold voice filled my head and made my teeth ache. "Do not approach the witness." I stepped back, blew Zasu a kiss, and jogged to catch up with my leaders.

As Anya headed into the building, I lagged behind again to gawk. It was shaped like my Observatory, but taller, and carved from a single block of brilliant white marble that gave an evanescent glow and glittered with veins of red garnets. Each door was a hundred feet high, a single slab of translucent marble which moved without hinges or hardware. The doors slid up and out, over my head, as I approached.

Inside was a space not at all like my Observatory's. There were neither exhibits nor planetarium. Instead, there was an enormous echoing chamber. Lining the sides were small open rooms where workers scurried about unknown tasks.

On a dais was a table made from a lattice of woven glass. It defined an arc and held thirteen chairs, tall, wide, and plush, upholstered in saffron cloth. Engraved in the marble walls were phrases in numerous languages, none of which I recognized. Above these flickered holographic screens with unfamiliar scenes.

_Power. Authority. Knowledge. Wisdom._ I get the messages, Framekeeps.

The ceiling was remote, which was a shame, because I wanted to study its revolving version of the 4D Connector map I had seen near the killing field.

One of the screens dissolved to the summit of Shastina, where Dizzy sunned herself on a rock. How did the cat get back there so quickly? That explained why I hadn't seen her around the Henrietta! And to think that I had been concerned about stranding her when Anwyl wanted to ditch her at that rest stop.

Facing the woven glass table were two sections of low, less plush chairs, arrayed in curved rows to flank a central aisle. Anya led us to chairs in the front row of the left section. Although the chairs were otherwise empty, guards lined the center aisle as Zasu's platform rolled in. She stepped down from the platform into a roomy but enclosed cubicle with three walls and ceiling made of the latticed glass. As soon as she entered, the edges of the open side glowed an icy blue. Protected or imprisoned; maybe both. She was smaller than she had been outside and I suspected that shrinking herself was a stress reaction.

Another platform rolled in, delivering to a second glass cubicle the librarian hawk who had recruited books for the Gumby genocide at the behest of the Cysts. He made our case so much stronger; I was thrilled to see him.

The lights shifted, darkening the perimeter of the room and accenting a smaller table parallel to the big one. The small table had three chairs, with glass and metal equipment at each. Three officials shuffled into these seats and did stuff with the equipment.

The lights shifted to the aisle between the spectator seats. I looked around and discovered that the room had filled up. Monk stood at the wall behind Anya. Beside him was Ruby. Behind me were mostly beings that appeared human, interspersed with creatures I had never before imagined. I wanted to sit in back so I could ogle them.

Across the aisle, the seats remained empty except for the front row, where sat the three Cysts. No Entourage today, huh? One Cyst was dressed like a dude ranch cowboy, complete with ten-gallon hat; one wore tennis whites; one sported a spandex bodysuit. They looked stupid and absurd, which gave me a chill. Had I never met them, I might think them incapable of criminally masterminding anything. Surely the Framekeeps could see through such a transparent ruse.

The lights shifted to accent the woven glass table and its thirteen chairs. The three officials rose and in unison shouted something that I didn't understand; immediately in my head I heard translation in a golf tournament whisper, "All rise for the Keepers of the Frames."

It was like seeing the Supreme Court on acid. Note that I haven't specified which side took the acid.

There were thirteen of them, six of those humanoid. One of the humanoids was a female version of the Cobra; she had long red hair that waved continuously, hypnotically, and against gravity, like kelp in surf. Another of the non-humanoids looked like the small winged creatures on the flanks of Shastina. One was a dolphin, suspended in a wheeled water tank pushed by two attending gorillas. One was rotund and hairless and covered with rubbery skin protuberances, stubby cylindrical pyramids like miniature versions of Lara Croft's boobs. One was multi-legged and sleekly furred, a cross between a panther and a garden spider. One resembled a ten-foot-high construction crane and sporadically emitted yellow smoke. One appeared to be a cactus, abloom with fragrant orange flowers. The last, I couldn't make out: it flickered and wavered and periodically erupted into form and color which then receded to gray flickering - like a 3D TV with a bad connection.

Ten of them wore magenta robes, and the three in the center wore cobalt, pearl gray, cobalt. The flowering cactus wore the pearl gray robe, which had special flaps and suspension to prevent its thorns from impaling the fabric. Each Framekeep had an electronic tablet and the cactus read from his in a language full of pops and hisses, akin to butter in a hot skillet. Inside my head, the whispered translation was instantaneous.

"Friends and adversaries, be seated. The Framekeeps convene out of cycle as urgency requires. We hold this special meeting at the request of two claimants and Travelers, Anwyl, son of Rayn, a framewalker, and Anya, daughter of Niav of the first lands, an exalted seer of the true Frames. Our purpose here today is to listen to all sides, identify truth, and rule accordingly. We will hear first from the claimants and then from the accused, Warty Sebaceous Cysts, children of Skim Milk born in the free Frame Consternation, as yet unsettled after release from Southernmost prison. Anya, begin."

"Keepers of the Frames, I thank you for permission to make this petition and for your commitment and dedication, which so often come at grave cost to your lives, families, and health. All the free Frames look to you to regulate safety and justice in matters which extend through more than one Frame, or may affect more than one Frame. This we all learn as schoolchildren, then remember too seldom, thenceforth.

"Today we seek justice for the Gumby people, a modest and peaceable race of crafts folk, artists, and farmers, renowned for woodwork and sculpture that extoll the untainted beauty of their Frame, Halcyon, situated in the western quadrant of the free Frames. The Gumby people were tricked into leaving their Frame and were annihilated when they did so. Scant few survived and these few, because they were witnesses, were hunted down and murdered. Only one remains."

"But why?" The Framekeeps had followed along with their tablets, comparing Anya's words with a written statement. One of the humanoids slapped her tablet to the table in frustration. "What could be the motive for this genocide? Your account of the slaughter compels, and yet remains implausible because you provide mere hints of motivation."

I winced. That sounded like a vote for the Cysts. As Anya spoke, I futilely studied the thirteen faces for clues to their incoming mindsets. Note to self: never play poker with Framekeeps.

"I share your frustration," Anya said. "The destruction of this people defies reasonable thought. I have suspicions and fears about the motive, but little evidence. Our petition includes only those claims for which clear evidence exists. Foremost among that evidence is the witness born by Pent-Up Angst, a librarian of the free Frame Wherewithal. He recruited the unallied books who participated in the Gumby genocide, and when Warty Sebaceous Cysts hired him for this recruitment, their words hint chillingly at possible motivation."

Some of the Framekeeps frowned at their tablets and one of the humanoids interjected, "You do not mention Pent-Up Angst in your prepared statement."

"We have only just learned that this librarian has important insight into this affair. As you know, by clause seven nine Q dash 23 of the Charter, we are permitted witnesses not listed in our statement, provided we substantiate the lateness of our contact, and that we have done in the addendum, which follows your appendices." The Framekeeps scrolled their tablets; the humanoid questioner grunted.

Middle Cyst stood and carped, "We protest. Of course we cannot defend ourselves against tricks and phantoms."

The cactus recited the entire clause 79Q-23, which took several minutes. "Framekeeps, you have read the addendum. What say ye, does this exception apply?" The Framekeeps used their tablets to vote. The cactus read the results. "Thirteen ayes. The new witness may testify. Proceed, Anya."

I enjoyed a second of smugness, then I caught Middle Cyst's expression as he sat down. _He_ looked smug. He shouldn't look smug. The instant I thought this, Left Cyst turned to wink at me. I squeezed my eyes shut and let Anya's voice flood my consciousness.

"...and for this we will gather the memories of four eyewitnesses, Monk of Next Vast, Zasu of Halcyon, Anwyl, son of Rayn, a framewalker, and Nica of Los Angeles, a Neutral." This last caused murmurs around the room. "Your petition lists required biographical information about each and Appendix B contains copies of their permissions to transmit and display their memories."

Anwyl said with contempt, "However, Warty Sebaceous Cysts refuse to allow their memories gathered." This provoked murmurs through the audience, but the Framekeeps remained impassive.

"We did not refuse, we declined," Middle Cyst corrected him.

Anya quickly overrode Anwyl's response. "We do not, of course, offer refusal as indication of guilt. Each of us has the right to refuse a memory gather, and that in itself must never be taken as a sign of misdeeds."

She was so good. They both were. Like everyone else in the room, I was convinced that Anwyl had blurted and she had corrected his reaction. Rather, I would have been convinced, if I had not witnessed them practice this spontaneous moment.

At a gesture from the cactus, four tiny women in saffron jumpsuits approached from behind the Framekeeps. One came to me and held my hand, rested fingers on my temple, then closed her eyes. I felt a cool tingling in my forehead. She released me and walked back behind the Framekeeps, at the same time that the other three did so.

Anya waved her hand across the screen at her podium and all around the room, screens flickered to life, showing the same scene from four perspectives. Four times, we saw books rain death on the fleeing Gumby people.

"Nica of Los Angeles remembers the genocide thusly," Anya said, and my memory played. I was amazed at how disjointed it seemed. What I envision as a continuous scene, a continuous awareness, was here a series of brutal snapshots. Books, text, carnage. After I saw anything especially horrible, my view would hold on Monk and Hernandez. During my memory, the world had a misty softness and I could smell the ocean.

"Anwyl, son of Rayn, remembers thusly." Anwyl's point of view was a warrior's laser beam, illuminating each worst atrocity, cognizant of the books' attack patterns. He would look to the next group of victims before they became victims. Anwyl saw or at least remembered the world in colors so saturated they took on the contrast of black and white. As his memory played, I could smell the blood.

"Zasu of Halcyon remembers thusly," Anya said. Zasu's memory missed most of what happened. It replayed the deaths of certain Gumbys who shared her long thin nose and auburn hair - family members? We saw, again and again, every detail of the severed limbs, flayed skin, hopeless cries. The scene displayed the rich pastels of a winter sunset, and I could smell the fear.

"Monk of Next Vast remembers thusly." Monk saw intent and emotion, and viewed with a kind of x-ray vision. People's bones shone faintly through their skin and clothing; each skeleton radiated an aura of unique color. Miles' was a pulsating orange. Mine was the brightest cheeriest yellow I'd ever seen. Anwyl's was a green so dark it looked black. Zasu's was a shimmering lime. Most of the Gumbys were pastels that surged explosively during attacks, wavered as they tried to hide, dimmed when they stopped running and turned to meet their attackers. The books' spines flared red with each attack, muted to brown as they cruised between victims.

The screens went dark and the room went silent, except for muttering from Monk. The Framekeeps made notes on their tablets.

"If I may have a word," Middle Cyst requested.

"Do you have a directly pertinent question?" the cactus sounded skeptical.

"We do. We have a question about the memories."

"Proceed."

As polite as an Eagle Scout, Middle Cyst turned to Monk and Anwyl. "Your memories omit a participant. If we may hold on second seventeen of Nica's memory." The screen showed Hernandez clinging to Monk, pointing to something while speaking to Anwyl. Middle Cyst used a laser pointer to circle the head of Hernandez in my memories. "Why is this one omitted from all other memories?"

"He was not in my scope of view," Monk called out.

"My memories show no one in my party," Anwyl pointed out.

"Well said, well said, we thought you omitted him so as not to emphasize that you Traveled with a second Neutral." This generated whispered discussion among some pairs of Framekeeps.

"Do you accuse us of memory tampering?" Anwyl angry was at his most dangerous.

"Should we, Anwyl, son of Rayn?"

"No. Memory tampering is outside my ken and desire. Had I made the attempt, forgery would be apparent. I lack your facility with memory manipulation."

Anya took over. "If I may address this seeming concern regarding a second Neutral?"

"Proceed," the cactus said.

"The Neutral called Nica works with the Neutral you have seen in our memories. It should be clear that we have made no effort to hide his existence. He is called Hernandez. He is a father of two young offspring. Because these proceedings extend for an unpredictable length of days, he refused to attend, lest he leave his offspring too long alone. We could not insist that he attend this hearing."

"Such a noble and convenient excuse," sniffed a Cyst.

"Keepers of the Frames, have Warty Sebaceous Cysts received answer to their question?" Anya asked.

"They have," replied the cactus. "Continue, Anya, with petitioners' case."

### 36. A Plot Cunningly Executed

The petition process fascinated me. In many ways it resembled a U.S. courtroom, but sometimes it was more like a debate, other times like arbitration, and occasionally like a stage show. I wondered if those who developed my legal system had been Travelers - and added that to my list of questions to ask when all this was dealt with and we had time to shoot a breeze or two.

Now the proceedings moved from recorded memories to verbal testimony. It was Zasu's turn first. The blue electric wall dissolved and she stepped from her protective cubicle. The cherub guards, riding books, surrounded her for escort to the witness box. There, Zasu sat so still and brave and hope-filled, she broke my heart. I had to blink a lot to watch Framekeep reactions, because my eyes kept filling with tears.

Zasu elicited smiles around the room as she described her last normal morning with Ziti. The air grew still and sober as she spoke of their delay in leaving. When she got to events in the killing field, she lost the ability to speak.

"Do you need a pause in your testimony?" the construction crane asked gently.

"No, please, let me finish now."

"As you wish - and we grant that wish may change," the female cobra said, even more gently.

Zasu stared at her hands and breathed, emitting a few words with each exhale. In this manner she described returning to Halcyon, heading for the Connector to the relocation Frame, hiding to watch the operation of the pump and tubes - an operation overseen by Warty Sebaceous Cysts.

"How can you be certain the supervisors were Warty Sebaceous Cysts and no others?" Anya prompted.

"Although I only saw their backs, that was enough because I saw them walk and stand. Central Warty Sebaceous Cyst stands taller than the others and the others lean toward him, which makes their outer shoulders rise higher. When they walk, their paths are not parallel, they collide with their center. I observed these behaviors when they visited my Frame before the day of death and I saw identical behaviors on that day."

"Tell us about those earlier visits."

"I saw them five - no, my pardons, four times. They invited us to meetings with generous food and drink, because they wanted to persuade us to leave our Frame. They wanted to help us, they said, to give us a Frame with a tourist economy to support us in lean cycles. They wanted to make our waterfront more useful to boaters and fisherfolk. They wanted this, they wanted that. Always, they wanted so little for themselves. Yet when we spoke to them, they would not listen and never met our gazes. I could never believe they cared about the Gumby people."

"That concludes my questions. Thank you for sharing your courage, Zasu," Anya said.

"Warty Sebaceous Cysts, have you questions for this witness?" the cactus intoned.

"Oh yes, most assuredly. Zasu, did you ever like us or trust us?"

"No, not from the first time I heard you speak at the first town meeting."

"What provoked this harsh and immediate reaction?"

"The way that you looked at us, the feelings behind your words."

"Did you know from that first meeting that we had been long in prison?"

"I learned that later and it confirmed my suspicions."

"Zasu, after all you have suffered, we understand how your memories could become flawed. We announced our imprisonment at the beginning of our first meeting."

"No - that is not how I remember it --- it was later."

"Honored Keepers of the Frames, may we submit our memories to resolve this dispute?"

Anya interjected. "Warty Sebaceous Cysts alter memories, this is well-known."

The Framekeeps exchanged messages on their tablets. Eventually the cactus said, "If we view your memories, we will be left with opposing memories, those of Zasu versus Warty Sebaceous Cysts. We have that now. Continue, if you have other questions."

"Zasu, could you ever trust anyone who had been to prison?"

"I do not know. I have never met another. I only know that I do not trust you."

"On the day of the relocations, did you expect to see us?"

"I suppose I did."

"When you saw those backs that reminded you of us, what were we wearing?"

"I do not remember."

"Were our heads covered or bare?"

"I do not remember."

"Why do you give testimony about this? Why do you not simply share your memory, as was done for book attack?"

"I - do not know."

"Perhaps your memory would tell a different story?"

"No! How could it?"

Anya stood. "Warty Sebaceous Cysts, these questions should be asked of me, not my witness. As you well know, memories are sufficient evidence only for facts not in dispute. Zasu bears witness that you are responsible for the Gumby genocide, an act you do dispute."

"Memories are sufficient for facts in dispute, but may also be shared for other points of contention. I wish to see Zasu's memory of three backs at the far Connector," the dolphin said.

"A memory just discussed may become corrupted for a time," Anya said.

"Thank you for the lesson in memory reconstruction," the dolphin said.

The cactus looked from Cysts to Anya to dolphin to Zasu. "Zasu, do you give permission for all present to view this memory?"

"Yes of course. Take what memories you will, to learn the truth of Warty Sebaceous Cysts."

"Let us proceed," the cactus nodded to a clerk, who fiddled on a tablet. Anya stiffened and sat. I didn't like the tightness across her shoulders.

A tiny woman in a saffron jumpsuit approached Zasu. The cherub guards buzzed nearby until the memory was gathered.

The screens flickered. Zasu's memory of events with the tubes was fuzzy and unstable regarding the trio that may have been the Cysts. Their clothes kept changing, they wore hats then hoods then were bareheaded. It was as though she flipped through different possibilities to find a version that seemed right.

Anwyl exploded, "Warty Sebaceous Cysts have confused her!"

"Rather, we have exposed confusion," Middle Cyst replied.

The cactus hissed and spit, "Let there be no additional outbursts."

Anwyl snapped his jaw shut on his reply.

"Zasu, let us reflect on this activity at the Connector. What was in those tubes?"

"I do not know. Surely a poison."

"No poison has been found. Are you aware of a more ordinary purpose for tubes and pumps at Connectors?"

"I have heard you say that you intended to seal the Connector to protect the Frame from construction dust," she snorted.

"If we showed you written records of just such a plan, developed in advance of that day, what would you say?"

"I would say that you made a pretend plan to hide your true plan."

"Zasu, is there anything we could say or do that would make you hate us less or believe us more?"

"No. You are evil."

"Thank you for expressing your opinion, Zasu." The Cysts bowed in unison and sat.

The guards buzzed around Zasu until she was back in the glass cubicle with the blue electric shield in place. She had shrunk more. Anya waited until Zasu was safe, then resumed. "Keepers, next to speak is my co-petitioner, the framewalker Anwyl, son of Rayn."

As Anwyl approached the stand, many of the guards turned to face him. At first I thought they meant to protect the witnesses, then I realized they were showing respect to a commander. Conversely, five of the Framekeeps did not look at the witness seat while Anwyl occupied it. All thirteen Framekeeps had watched Zasu throughout her testimony.

Anya started his testimony at the docks of Zasu's Frame. He described our encounter with Cysts and Entourage, which placed them in the Frame immediately after the time Zasu had testified to seeing them. The Cysts' past crimes and imprisonment were off-limits for mention, but Anwyl managed to work them in. As he described the encounter on the dock, with each detail he made a comparison to some earlier interaction with the Cysts, which always involved his stopping them from doing wrong. He got away with the first few comparisons.

"We must protest," Left Cyst jumped to his feet during the next incident. "We have paid all debts for past errors."

"Our youthful indiscretions are not on trial today," Right Cyst interjected.

The cactus was stern. "Anwyl, son of Rayn, speak only from knowledge of the present cycle."

Anwyl waited silently until Anya prompted, "Why did you disbelieve Warty Sebaceous Cysts when they said they had reformed?"

"I have heard this from them before. Those were their last words when we captured them with Maelstrom and separated them from their master."

"Ex-master," Right Cyst squawked.

"As you also said then," Anwyl replied.

"He's doing it again, bringing up the past!" Middle Cyst stomped his feet.

"Let us move on to new topics," Anya said quickly, then took Anwyl through a long, technical discussion that I mostly didn't understand, about the alterations of Digby Construction buildings when seen in other Frames. From what I could tell, the Framekeeps struggled with this also, and many retained the sour, brooding frowns that blossomed at mention of Maelstrom. I hoped they were still thinking about the Cyst-Maelstrom connection. Next, Anwyl described our journey to Shastina, and his difficulty changing Frames on the drive.

"Only beings of great power could follow me so closely, or interfere with my Frame shifts. Similarly, only beings of great power could create building materials for Neutrals to install in Neutral Frames; materials that, once installed, can exert control in the free Frames. The alterations of these buildings demonstrate a plot to exert secret control in numerous Frames, a plot cunningly executed with great patience. The intent of this plot I do not yet understand, but all my years and experience as a Walker warn me that there is grave danger here, and tell me Warty Sebaceous Cysts are the beings of great power in this plot, as they are the beings who interfered with my Travel to Shastina. Moreover, the Frames where I have detected secret and illegal construction are the same Frames where we met dangers during our drive. Warty Sebaceous Cysts exercise untoward powers in these Frames."

"The construction is fascinating, mayhaps important, and perhaps worthy of another petition if you learn more." This was the first comment from the rotund Framekeep with the protuberances. "But I do not see the relevance to this petition, and your effort to implicate Warty Sebaceous Cysts is weak indeed."

"The implications grow stronger with each day's discoveries. Just before this hearing, I followed the construction of several buildings from Neutral Frame to the far Frames. In the Frames where Warty Sebaceous Cysts have untoward powers, the altered buildings are heavily guarded. The guards include clockwork dogs of Warty Sebaceous Cysts, some of whom attacked me. One tooth stuck in my arm. Tests confirm it is a tooth of their dogs." Anya withdrew the circular saw piece from her tunic, held it aloft, waited for the assistants to scurry over to grab it.

"Dogs are stolen, dogs run away," Middle Cyst sounded bored. Two of the humanoid Framekeeps nodded.

"But of what crime do you accuse those who have altered the buildings?" I couldn't figure out which Framekeep had spoken, but it was probably the Dolphin, given the air bubbles in its tank.

"I cannot yet say."

"Then speak no more of this until you can."

"As you command," Anwyl replied in a whisper, which rose rapidly in volume as he added, "The significance could be high, thus I report on facts I cannot interpret. Their exclusion I deem irresponsible."

"And their inclusion we deem inscrutable," a humanoid Framekeep quipped, to which the others applauded.

Anwyl said nothing more. He had made exactly the points he had set out to make. Anya let the chuckle play out, then mopped up a few details with scattershot Q 'n' A; and then it was the Cysts' turn.

"We have no questions for this one," said the Cysts.

"You won't ask when and why I came to mistrust you?" Anwyl sneered.

"It is not your place to propose questions," the cactus said.

"My comment was ill-chosen," Anwyl agreed.

When he left the stand, about half the guards gave identical side-leaning head bows, which he returned; the guards had saluted him. At this, the Dolphin went ballistic.

"Guards! By privilege of the Framekeeps, your illustrious role is to protect these chambers and all who occupy them. This framewalker has no dominion here, nor shall those who show fealty to him!" Of all the Framekeeps, this was the one who consistently spoke against us. It grieved me to count a dolphin among my enemies.

"We continue with witness born by Pent-Up Angst, of the free Frame Wherewithal, a librarian of unallied books in the western Frames."

The blue electric shield dissolved from the front of the redtail hawk's cubicle. As Pent-Up Angst headed for the witness stand, the guards surrounded the hawk so closely that I could not see him until he was in the stand, perched on the back of the chair. All four sides and the top of the stand glowed with blue electric shields.

What a fantastic development that Anya had found him, I realized, as I recalled his nighttime briefing at the meeting of the allies. This librarian could associate the Cysts with the books in the killing field and give evidence of a larger plot, based on the promises that the Cysts gave to the recruited books.

Anya began with "Did you participate in recruitment of books to murder the Gumby people?"

"I did, although I knew not the outcome at the time of recruitment. They hired me to recruit soldiers for what they avowed would be fair battle, in the Frame that serves as locus for the western Connectors."

"What was the motive for this battle?"

"As a librarian, I do not need to know motivations, I need only know that the fight will be fairly engaged by both sides."

"You said 'they' hired you. Who hired you to conduct this recruitment?"

"Three men who paid in cash and shared not their names."

"Do you see these men in this room today?"

"I do not."

Huh? Suddenly, Anwyl sat at full attention. Anya took an involuntary step back. "You do not see the three men?"

"I am sorry," the hawk whispered. His beady, jet eyes caught Anya's gaze for an instant, then for the rest of his testimony he stared at a point above her head.

"Pent-Up Angst, you previously told me that Warty Sebaceous Cysts were the three men."

"Those are not the men I saw. I was mistaken." He shouted this last, over hubbub in the room.

"Silence, or prison," the cactus offered a choice. The room quieted but the energy level remained fissionable.

"What threats have you or your loved ones received of late?" Anya resumed.

"I was mistaken. I do not see the men. I seek not to mislead you."

Anwyl's voice was even calmer than Anya's had been. "When Warty Sebaceous Cysts promise safety in exchange for certain words, expect death instead."

"I was mistaken. I do not see the men."

"Should they prevail, cruel death will come to more than you and your family." Anwyl's even tones made his point that much more chilling.

"We will shield you from the repercussions of your truth," Anya said.

At last the hawk looked at her again, blinking slowly. "I was mistaken. I do not see the men."

Anya returned the hawk's stare with enormous sadness. "My questions are done. Be safe, my friend."

The Cysts leaped to their feet before the cactus had completed the short phrase that made it their turn to talk.

"Pent-Up Angst of Wherewithal, could you recognize the men if you see them again?"

"Yes, I could."

"Will you join us in our quest to bring the perpetrators to justice, a quest that will resume as soon as these proceedings conclude?"

"Yes, I could."

"Thank you for your honesty." They retook their seats like their team just won in overtime.

While the guards returned the hawk to his cubicle, Zasu wailed and spectators whispered. I could hear Ruby, indignant, muttering to Monk, but heard nothing from Monk. Anya and Anwyl were silent and still; I assumed they and Monk discussed this on some mind channel the Cysts could not monitor. The cactus let us get it out of our systems, then restored order again.

Anya rose as though nothing unexpected had occurred. "To our petition we now add one new clause, that Pent-Up Angst of Wherewithal continue under full protection until the three perpetrators are imprisoned."

"So granted," the cactus agreed.

"Well done, well done," Middle Cyst cooed.

The cactus spoke over him. "Anya, continue your petition."

"Let Nica of Los Angeles now bear witness." Anya said.

Three down, one to go. Last, but not least. The one you've all been waiting for. Until recently, I had been eager to take the stand. I didn't like the smile I got from the Cysts when I moved to the questioner's seat. My mind was mush after what had just transpired with the hawk, but this was no time to be frustrated or distracted, so I gave myself a mondo pep talk as the guards escorted me to the witness stand. I took time settling in, vapid Neutral smile in place while I built a defensive berm around my confidence and conviction.

### 37. I'm A Neutral, Not A Child

I thought it would freak me to have all the Framekeeps stare at me, but it wasn't bad. They were serious, interested, concerned - but sent no negative vibes.

My contribution to the petition was to convey menace and meddling from the Cysts. I described the times they had probed my thoughts, and I detailed my capture on Shastina, when they realized I could not tell them Zasu's whereabouts, so offered me to the clockwork dogs and chainsaws. I did well with my testimony. Anya didn't need to prompt me and the Framekeeps seemed friendlier as we went on.

When it was the Cysts' turn to ask questions, all three jumped up like the ice cream truck had reached their block.

"Nica, what makes you believe we invaded your thoughts?"

"I get this weird pressure feeling behind my temples."

"How did you come to associate a 'weird feeling' with thought invasion?"

"An -" I stopped. "I heard questions in my head in a voice not my own."

" _Someone,_ " they swiveled to glare at Anwyl, "told you to expect mind invasion from us."

"You stole from my thoughts. Like when you called me Neeks and mentioned my ex-husband, Ick."

"What if we told you we learned that information when we spoke with another of your ex-husbands?"

I paused to run through the timeline, to consider if it was possible they had talked with Ben. It was the same mistake Zasu made: I went silent to reflect, but silence equated to uncertainty; or acknowledgement of error. "No, that's not possible," I replied, but too late. Several Framekeeps made no effort to hide skepticism.

"When we found you on Shastina, you lay in the dirt, feet up, head down the slope. Why did you choose that position?"

"I fell that way."

"You fell. Dear, dear. Did you slip on a rock?"

"Probably. I don't remember."

"You seemed terribly ill to us. Were you?"

"I've felt better. Yes. I was ill."

"You became ill because of Travel through Frames, isn't that correct?"

"Yes. Also, I was injured."

"How did you become injured?"

"Long story. Where to begin?"

"Here is a more simple question. Did you receive the injury by taking actions that Anwyl had told you to take?"

"I was working for Anwyl, yes."

"Had he prepared you for the possibility of that injury?"

"I knew there were dangers."

"Your work for them held dangers, you say?"

"Detective work always has dangers."

"Please describe your training in Frame Travel before you began Traveling."

"They. Took me on short close trips at first. I got used to those, then we went farther."

"No training, then, is that your answer?"

"Not per se."

"Thank you, Nica. We wish you safe return to your Frame."

"I'm a Neutral, not a child," I threw at them.

"Could you repeat that?"

"I am a Neutral, I am not a child."

"Thank you, that you are a Neutral is such an important point."

After the cactus dismissed me, Anya beamed at me like I'd saved the day, but at that moment the day felt anything but saved.

"Do you have more testimony for us to hear, Anya?" the cactus inquired.

She stood. "At this time, Framekeeps, the petitioners have no other testimony." She took her seat as she accomplished everything, with infinite grace and dignity.

"Warty Sebaceous Cysts, let us hear your side now."

They blustered and fussed with papers, then they all turned and smiled at Anya. "We must need speak with Anya."

"An unusual request," the cactus said, displeased.

Anya said, "If questioning this petitioner will help reach the truth, I gladly submit to questions."

As she headed for the witness box, the tiny winged Framekeep from Shastina spoke for the first time, to warn, "Be this a trick, regrets will swiftly follow." Its voice was sandpaper on a Barbie's skin.

The Cysts watched Anya like pedophiles beneath the kiddie slide. When she was settled, Middle Cyst approached. I was grateful he had not approached when I was a witness.

"What is Nica to you?"

"She is a detective, a private investigator."

"What is the work that she performs?"

"Your thirst for that information will here remain unslaked."

"They can require you to answer."

"When they do, then shall I."

Left and Right Cysts gestured to the Framekeeps as if to say, _are you going to take this?_

The cactus terminated the topic. "If you have another question, ask it now."

"Why is it necessary for you to engage a Neutral?"

"Is that not a rewording of the last question?"

"So it seems to me," the female cobra said.

"Is it because you are a seer that you are privileged to ignore laws, such as the law that forbids us to involve Neutrals in the business of the Frames?"

"That is a policy, not a law. As a seer, it is my duty to judge the soundness of policy and of law."

"Doesn't this policy exist to protect the Neutrals?"

"At times it can serve thus."

"Among the seers, isn't there a prophecy?"

"As you know, there are many prophecies."

"The prophecy I strive to recall speaks of a seer, a framewalker and - now what was the last, oh yes! - a Neutral. Are you familiar with that prophecy?" As he spoke, the other Cysts gestured and grimaced to emphasize that Anya is a seer, Anwyl, a framewalker, and I, a Neutral.

"That prophecy is known to me, as it is to all."

"How does that one go? Please recite it."

"'In the blackest of days, a seer, a walker and a Neutral will lead the foes of darkness.'"

A snort from a Framekeep caught my attention. Apparently prophecies were not hip. The majority of the Keepers had reactions that ranged from dismissal to disbelief.

"Dear, dear! That sounds terrifying! Do our heroes succeed?" The Cyst goaded her.

"It is a prophecy. It has no conclusion." Anya is not goadable.

"Can you tell us any prophecy that has come to pass?"

"That has no bearing on this petition."

"I don't know of any, either. Are not the prophecies of the seers used in religion?"

"Some use them so, most others do not. Again, that has no bearing."

"What does the law of the free Frames say about bringing religion to Neutrals?"

"Keepers!" This was not an outburst Anywl had rehearsed.

Simultaneously, the cactus snapped, "Warty Sebaceous Cysts, should you ask another question that does not pertain to this petition, you will forfeit your right to speak again."

"Thank you for your insights, Anya." The Cyst dismissed her as though she had just wasted our time. She returned to her seat serenely, and as she sat she touched Anwyl's arm, to stop him from something, perhaps before it occurred to him.

All three Cysts bowed to the cactus, "We will now explain what truly happened."

### 38. I Am A Warrior, Not A Liar

The Cysts crowded together in front of the witness stand and took turns speaking, often finishing one another's sentences - a three-headed monster that just happened to occupy three separate bodies.

"It is true that Zasu saw us often in her Frame. We have interest in Halcyon as a business venture. We do not wish to return to prison, so must need develop new occupations. Our plan is to transform Halcyon into 'a fresh and unspoilt tourist destination, with refreshing beauty, simple outdoor recreation, comfortable hotels, and delightful natives.'" They read this last from brochures they had produced from somewhere. "Do you hear? We needed the Gumbys alive." One of the Cysts ripped a brochure; another crumpled and tossed one. All thirteen Framekeeps watched the Cyst show impassively.

"We did not trick the Gumbys, we paid them to share in the transformation of Halcyon. We did not inject poison through the Connector. Rather, we sealed the passage so that construction dust and noise would not plague their new temporary home. We did not enlist books to kill anyone.

"Since that terrible day of unexpected death, we have searched the Frames to find and catch the real killers. We have changed our plans because of the deaths. Our new resort world will now include a monument to honor the slain, designed by the great water artist Ohm Kumquat. Travelers from many Frames will come to see it and pay homage to the lost innocents.

"We welcome alliance with Anya and Anwyl to find the true killers. We understand why it is difficult for them to accept that Warty Sebaceous Cysts evolved during their time in prison and now recognize the sacredness of life. We hope they will come to believe us over time. Some among the Framekeeps may also doubt us. Even should you fail to recognize the veracity of our presentation today, and cannot rule us innocent of all charges, the petitioners have offered no proof of our guilt and by law you cannot rule us guilty."

Damn, they were good. If I hadn't encountered the real Cysts outside this room, I might have swallowed their dreck. Which of the Framekeeps had prior experience with these scumdogs? Perhaps only the cactus.

"Each of you holds copies of the paperwork by which we established our company and our partnership with the good Gumbys of Halcyon. The dates confirm that we made this pact long before the killings and longer before these accusations."

"May I inquire?" Anya asked, and when the cactus permitted her to proceed, "That you established this business arrangement is not in dispute. Can you provide proof that you have altered Halcyon, _after_ the day of genocide? If you lack such proof, you show us that you wanted the world empty, and you wanted no witnesses to your taking of that world."

"The next phase of our operation has been delayed by the necessity to prepare for this petition."

"You answer 'no', then. After annihilation, you took no actions to uphold the pretense of creating a resort. Before you went into prison, all the Frames knew you to be cruel and bloodthirsty beings. What could inspire the astonishing changes you say you have undergone?"

"It was a spiritual transformation, outside the constraints of religion."

"Can anyone vouchsafe your claim to this transformation?"

"Only our three selves. We did not anticipate that we would one day be asked to vouchsafe our most intimate philosophy and moral code. Now, may we continue with our explanation?"

As Anya sat down, Anwyl touched her arm and they exchanged a look. Left and Right Cysts now returned to their seats and Middle Cyst paced in front of the witness stand.

"We did indeed track Anwyl's journey to Shastina. However, it was not Zasu we followed. We knew not of her existence or presence. We followed Nica, the Neutral. Nica spoke truly about one matter. We did make light probes of her outermost public thoughts." Middle Cyst paused, expecting and getting whispered conversations among the Framekeepers about this admission. "We did all these things because we hold grave concerns about the use of Neutrals by Anya and Anwyl. We have evidence of two Neutrals involved in matters of the free Frames. There may be many others. Two Neutrals witnessed a book attack, and could have perished that day. Not long thereafter, Travel to Shastina was so reckless that Nica was rendered incapable of standing. Betwixt these events, at Anwyl's behest, the Neutral named Nica received incurable injury that has required lengthy treatment by the Healers to temporarily reduce her suffering. None of this should a Neutral endure. We began to watch Anwyl and Anya's misuse of Neutrals in hopes we misunderstood. Instead, we discovered the abuse was far more grave than we had imagined.

"We will file a Petition of our own, in the next quarter-cycle, to protest this careless abuse of Neutrals. However, Anya and Anwyl's disregard for Neutral safety poses danger so immediate that we must need also mention it today." Middle Cyst strutted back to the other Cysts.

Crap. You know how when you are a kid and you sneak back home when you are supposed to be at school, because there is something you want to try and your mom would get in the way? And you take your skateboard up on the roof and the steep slope is every bit as fun as you anticipated and you're going to land in the deep end of the neighbors' pool, just like you planned? Except you didn't expect a wheel to catch on a gutter? And you know how the neighbor finds you mangled in the bushes and the paramedics ask her how to contact your parents and she makes some comment about lack of supervision and the two of them look at you like _you poor kid we've got to do something about this_? You know? Well, that is how the Framekeeps looked at me now.

"Questions, Anya?" the cactus said stiffly.

Anya had one. "Warty Sebaceous Cysts, what was the Battle for Targyre?"

The Cysts mottled. "It was an ancient battle."

"Did you fight in that battle?"

"We did."

"Was Maelstrom your ally?"

"In that long ago era, before we changed, we did occupy the same side."

"What happened in that battle that has made that day infamous?"

"Neutrals were killed."

"Would it not be more correct to say that you slaughtered millions of Neutrals?"

"If you will."

"That battle was the basis for our policies and laws that protect the rights of Neutrals. Does it not seem ironic that you now expect us to believe that you are a champion of Neutral rights?"

"And, yet, thus it has come to pass."

"Never has a reformation been so complete as yours in prison, would you agree?"

"Yes. Our reformation has been complete."

"I have posed all my questions," Anya said.

"Proceed with closing comments."

Anya stood. "This petition was difficult for us to bring to you and will be difficult for you to decide. Warty Sebaceous Cysts are cunning and clever. By the time we have firm proof of their intentions, it could be too late to stop them. I do not know all they have planned but they have not changed. I fear them, and I fear for the free Frames if we do not stop them today. The Gumby people were gentle and quiet, known to few. Are we to believe that, just as Warty Sebaceous Cysts coveted their Frame, some other, unidentified evil also discovered the Gumbys and by coincidence annihilated them on the same day that Warty Sebaceous Cysts took their Frame? Truth is more simple than that story. Warty Sebaceous Cysts stole the Frame by trickery and wanted none to know of this, so sought to destroy all witnesses - without conscience, just as they annihilated Neutrals in the past. They feign concern for Nica, but she has told you the reality - that they gave her to their clockwork dogs and she is here today because Shastina saved her.

"Over all the eras, in times of crisis, the free Frames have joined with Neutrals, just as these petitioners now join with Nica. We have enlisted Nica's aid to thwart the latest plot of Warty Sebaceous Cysts. This petition culminates our efforts. Only the Framekeeps can protect the Frames now. Thank you for your service to the Frames."

Anya remained standing and tilted her chair so that it balanced against the table on two legs, seat down; no one could sit on it. Anwyl rose and did the same to his seat.

The cactus turned the closing statements over to the Cysts, who rose together and finished each other's sentences. "The petitioners have proved only two things - that we were in Halcyon and that we followed Nica to Shastina. We acknowledged both as facts and explained both. We have never met Pent-Up Angst before today.

"We spent many years imprisoned and the experience changed us. We request that the Framekeeps permit us to continue our efforts to build our new life. We also ask that Anya and Anwyl receive censure for their dangerous exploitation of Neutrals."

The Cysts tilted their chairs the way that Anya and Anwyl had done.

The cactus spoke words that sounded boilerplate. "Thirteen Framekeeps have heard the petition and now seclude themselves to decide the facts and the fictions of this situation."

The lights shifted to the three Framekeep assistants, who stood and called as one, "All rise."

The lights shifted to emphasize the big table. The Keepers filed out of the room, in the opposite order from their entry. The cactus went first, the assistants went last.

I searched all faces for clues to their opinions. I'm usually a good judge of character and attitude, but needed more experience to support my intuition. What expression does a cactus have when it trusts you? And, to identify the facial expressions of a construction crane, I first need to locate the face.

The lights shifted, emphasizing the aisles. It was time to exit. The instant the Framekeeps retired to their chamber, I heard snuffling and felt probing in my brain. "Stay out of my head," I muttered, and backed toward the exit door that was farthest from the Cysts. I was one of the first to go outside.

And now we had to wait - for the Keepers to protect the free Frames from destruction, or to defend the rights of three misunderstood reformed felons. All the spectators and most of the participants milled around on the broad lawn outside the observatory. Happily, the Cysts remained inside.

I liked that the Framekeeps were called Keepers. It made me think of soccer goalies. They are the last hope to support and protect the goal from intrusion. They are the ones you depend on after ordinary means and efforts fail.

I was in babble mode. I tried to share this comparison with Anya, Anwyl, and Zasu, who had followed me outside. They listened but made no reply as we all climbed to the top of Monk to talk in relative privacy. Below us, Ruby circled, maybe because she was restless and maybe because she wanted to protect us. Now that the testimonies were concluded, the guards were nowhere in evidence and Zasu was on her own again, safetywise.

"How long does it usually take them to reach a decision?" One of us asked impatiently. I'll let you guess who that was.

"Moments. Or many cycles." Monk replied. I wanted to hear Monk make no sense again. He had been so quiet and miserable of late that his few words lacked their usual confusion.

"You did well, Nica and Zasu. Your stories made impact," Anya said with a smile.

"I thought we all did good. How did it sound to you?" I asked Monk.

"Rough like the truth. Lies are smooth."

If Miles were here, he would have found something teaseworthy in that. "Is Miles dead?" I blurted, craving and fearing his reply.

"I do not feel him gone. Nor do I feel him present. But I am not the one to know. My need shrouds the sun."

I clung to Monk and felt my love flow through him and back to me. I don't know how long we stayed like that when Zasu shouted, with equal parts anger and fear, "The Cysts cannot win!"

"We cannot predict the decision. The Keepers have many surprises," Anya warned us. "The only certainty is that the decision will not be unanimous."

"There can't be a unanimous agreement?"

"Never has there been one."

Anwyl snorted. "Some say they pretend to oppose one another."

"You don't think much of the Framekeeps, do you?" I stated the obvious.

"There have been noble Framekeeps, and wise ones, but too many ignore their obligations. Each vows to set aside Frame and deny fortune, but few do so."

"What if Warty Sebaceous Cysts bought the Framekeeps votes?" Zasu gasped.

"The Framekeeps would not sell these votes. This petition is not important enough for them to risk so much."

"So Maelstrom only bought their votes on big petitions?"

"Maelstrom used threats, not payment, to change votes. He held families hostage and he tortured friends. For this petition, we looked carefully and found no sign of danger or threat to the beloveds of these Framekeeps."

"Or we did not recognize the signs," Anwyl said.

Anya shared Anwyl's view but not his anger. "As a librarian, Pent-Up Angst has no beloveds. Yet Warty Sebaceous Cysts swayed him."

"So if I understand this right - sometime in the last two days, the Cysts found out that Pent-Up Angst talked to you, and they hurt him - or threatened him - enough to get him to change his story."

"It does no harm to see it so," one of them replied, with the phrase that I now recognized as Framespeak for _close enough for rock 'n' roll._

"If this lowly Neutral can see that, surely the Framekeeps will, too."

"If they choose to see. Some Keepers once chose to help Maelstrom, and did so without threats." Anwyl continued his cheery interjections.

"Maelstrom is not free to attract such fervor." Anya's optimism seemed to have devolved to Pollyanna blinders, but maybe that was just in comparison with Anwyl's bleakness.

"Maelstrom is not free for now," Monk corrected and this provoked silence. I imagined the others were remembering the bad old days of Maelstrom. I let my imagination run amok, trying to envision the universe they knew, but I gave up quickly. It's no fun imagining terrible and I'm no good at it. Instead, I noticed the warmth on my skin. At home I would have baked in this much sun, but here the heat was tempered by a lawn that evaporated a continuous cooling mist; and by thin low clouds that positioned themselves to block direct sun for the clumps of waiting participants.

I took the plunge and directed us to the subject that I couldn't stop thinking about. "Overall I couldn't read Framekeep reactions, but most of them looked negative when you talked about that prophecy."

Anwyl grimaced at Anya. "We should have foreseen mention of the prophecy. We were not prepared. That could bring harm."

"The prophecy is awesome!" I exclaimed. What a thrill to learn that a prophecy foresaw me with Anya and Anwyl! Well. Implied. Maybe. The words were too vague to identify anybody conclusively.

Anya smiled. "Prophecies persist through all the eras, only attitudes change. Some assemblies of Framekeeps have been secular, as is true today. In other eras, Framekeeps have shown more faith."

"In some eras, Framekeeps have shown too much faith!" Anwyl added.

"Faith grows when darkness comes," Monk said.

Anya positioned herself to address all of us. "And this we must remember. We are here today because the darkness grows, and this petition is but one small matter. Victory today has never been assured. Whatever today's decision, we must and will continue to expose Warty Sebaceous Cysts, to block their progress."

Perhaps she sensed that it was time. The three assistants exited the building, ringing large booming bells. Anwyl and Anya looked at one another with surprise. "A decision already!"

Back inside, lights blazed throughout the cavernous room. The Cysts lounged at their table as though they hadn't left. All three of them winked at me, which was as pleasant as your grandma smoking meth.

The lights shifted to illuminate only the assistants' table. The assistants filed in and called, "All rise." As we rose, the lights shifted to the Framekeeps' table.

The Keepers filed in, we sat, we heard boilerplate yadayada about why we were here today. Then they served the main course.

"On this matter, our decision is divided," the Cactus said.

The dolphin explained, "Warty Sebaceous Cysts, you may never outlive the memories of your past deeds and that is a part of justice perhaps."

"However much you may change," a humanoid added.

"Some of us believe you are capable of change, some do not," the dolphin added.

"We have concerns about much we have heard here today," the Construction Crane added.

"But concerns are vapors," a humanoid mused.

"We cannot send creatures to prison on _concerns_ ," the tiny winged creature from Shastina sighed.

"Yet, some facts we see clearly. Your business venture exploited the Gumby people and was never in their best interest. Throughout the eras, sophisticated Travelers have exploited the naive. Still, we do not and must not condone such acts," a humanoid said.

"We cannot send you to prison on this evidence, but we restrict the terms of your freedom. For ten times ten cycles, you are forbidden to Travel or conduct business outside the central Frames," the cactus ordered.

"Ten times ten cycles!" Center Cyst protested, but I could tell he was smug and happy. Anya listened with resignation, Anwyl with fury.

Then Zasu screamed and pointed at the redtail hawk within his cubicle. Pent-Up Angst hung upside down, talons gripping the glass lattice at the top of his cubicle. He released one leg to hang by one leg. "I am a warrior, not a liar," he said flatly. "With this I sound the alarm." His free leg moved so fast I couldn't register what was happening.

"No!" Anwyl jumped over his table toward the cubicle as screams and cries erupted through the room. I replayed the moment and saw the bird rake talons across his own throat, then stab one talon into an artery. Blood flooded over his head onto the floor. His grip on the overhanging glass lattice slackened and he fell, dead. It was all over before the guards could extinguish the blue electric shield - and they were fast.

"Librarians are not know for stability," Left Cyst sniffed to Right Cyst, as Middle Cyst shook his head in mock horror.

I saw little of the aftermath. Anwyl and Anya knelt in the cubicle, with hands out as though attempting to help. Someone ran from the back carrying a cauldron of dirt I assumed held healers. The blue electric field expanded to surround the cubicle and emit a pulsating glow that hid activity inside it. My view was further blocked because cupid guards on books surrounded me at shifting altitudes, to protect the ground and airspace around me. I appreciated the protection. With so much attention on the hawk's cubicle, the Cysts had too much freedom.

"Nica, to me!" Monk called and - I admit it - I ran to him. Tucked under his girders I felt safe and the guards must have agreed, because they left me with him and joined other guards to patrol the room.

The lights shifted to illuminate the front of the room. "We now resume," the three assistants called as one from their table.

Cherub guards escorted me to my seat. The blue light shield was gone, the hawk was gone, the hawk's cubicle was gone. Anwyl and Anya stood by their chairs.

"Anya and Anwyl, the Framekeeps find that you have also done ill," the cactus said. The noise in the room crescendoed then dropped, as the cactus swept his eyes around the room, looking for perpetrators. "Prophecies, like other aspects of cults and religions, must be kept within the home Frame and must never motivate actions across the Frames."

"Your use of Neutrals is illegal and immoral," the female cobra chastised. "By your own admission, you brought a Neutral to another Frame, merely because he walked from an elevator as you prepared your Travel. This is negligent and dangerous."

"We the Framekeeps censure you for these acts, and forbid them in future. Moreover," the cactus continued, "from this moment forward, you must have no contact with Nica of Los Angeles."

"What! Wait! That's -" I exploded, then imploded when I caught the look the assistants gave me.

"Should you disobey this ruling, you will spend one year in prison for each infraction." The cactus looked at Anwyl as he said this.

"Nica of Los Angeles, we wish you a long and loving life in your Frame. Guards will escort you back there now."

"They made her a Guide," Middle Cyst finked.

Left Cyst yelled, "We confiscated it for evidence," and whipped it out of the pocket of his tennis skirt. The assistant scurried to take it.

The cactus ad-libbed, "Anwyl and Anya, we forbid you to make another Guide for Neutrals."

I wasn't intended to hear their reply. Two of the tiny women who gather memories pulled my hands; cherub guards prodded me toward an exit. "Wait. Your honors, excellencies, worships. May I please have a few minutes to say goodbye?"

"Farewell, Nica of Los Angeles," the cactus replied.

"Anya. Anwyl. Zasu. Oh, Monk!" were my last words to them. They were forbidden to reply.

The tiny women and the guards pushed me the last few feet and I tumbled to the ground outside the Connector. For once, I was miserable to arrive at the Griffith Observatory. I spent an hour convincing myself that I could not get back into the Connector on my own. I don't know why I tried. If I had succeeded, they would have spit me right back home.

I was screwed. So were the free Frames, p.s., because the Cysts had won the day.

### 39. A What-If Explosion

What they did to me can't be legal. It has to break a moral code, at least. You can't introduce a person to the free Frames, then make her go back to being a Neutral. Boring ordinary. Cut off. I am a citizen of the free Frames. I can't return to Neutrality. Yet here I am.

No fair no fair no fair.

I could not accept this fate. And so, that day, I pushed forward and carried on. Hernandez was nowhere to be found, so I did some digging with the plans and permits folks, found more Digby construction locales, rented a car, cased the Digby sites. There were no signs of visitors from other Frames, and nothing felt odd or unusual at any of the sites. I went to Watts. It looked like they had started to reconstruct Miles, then stopped because new damage endangered the workers. At the Largo, I saw no visitors emerge from either Connector, and could of course not enter either Connector, myself.

What was most disturbing was how normal every place felt, even locations that had felt non-Neutral to me before. Had something changed at the locations, or within me? To determine this, I silenced the inner voice that accused me of having a death wish and visited the dangerous Digby sites, the ones where Anwyl and Hernandez got hurt. I encountered no dangerous dogs nor hostile beings. Over the last couple weeks, in so many places, I had sensed something off or weird - and I had been right. Now there was nothing funny, no place.

It was well past midnight before I made my last desperate attempt. I went up to the roof of the Henrietta. None of the doors stuck to delay my ascent; the building herself seemed oblivious to my presence today. I shoved open the stairwell door and stomped across the roof to stand in the alleged garden, now a patch of dirt with no plants. So? What? The last couple weeks were a dream sequence?

My suspicion was that the Framekeeps had altered my perceptions to enforce my return to Neutrality. My next favorite suspicion was that the Cysts were messing with me. Either way, I had to let them win. When the stakes are high enough, I can be patient. I would bide my time ... until ... when? And ... then what? Crap. Trying to answer those questions made me feel hopeless.

Deep down, some part of me kept whispering, "It's over. You know it's over. Give up. Move on." As I slumped into bed to abandon this miserable day, I was exhausted of body, mind, and soul. I couldn't think of any music I wanted to hear - which was a first for me. I fell into a state that was as close to comatose as it was to slumbering. As I fell, my last words were to that whispering voice. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

The next morning, I awoke with a chip on my shoulder the size of Nebraska and twice as cheery. I grabbed my shower gear and stomped down the nine flights of stairs to the street outside the Henrietta. I stomped to the gym and waited outside until it opened at dawn. The guy who unlocked the front door always saw me early, but this was the first time I was the first entrant of the day. He tried a flirty joke about hope I had enjoyed being up all night. I didn't see where he was going with it and after he saw my expression, we both forgot he had tried to converse.

I went straight to the punching bags. Man, that's what I needed. By the time I left the gym, I had also shoved weights, pounded a treadmill, and yanked a rowing machine - so I felt approximately human again. It was a strenuous workout all around, but I credit the punching bags for my restoration. I kept them as imaginary playmates the rest of the day. Whenever it all started to add up, I would close my eyes and place myself back in the gym, whacking the shit out of an unyielding bag.

During my second stint on the rowing machine, I replayed the Framekeeps hearing and the suicide of Pent-Up Angst \- and I froze, for so long that some guy snapped fingers in my face. When I refocused my stare on him, he got defensive. "You have a stroke or something?"

I resumed rowing without reply, swept up in my realization. Pent-Up Angst hadn't let Anya down. He had died a hero, ensuring that the truth, not his testimony, would hold sway. After the Cysts threatened him, he could still testify to help our side - and they would kill him. Or, he could testify to help their side - and they would kill him after a discreet time had passed. Whatever he said from the witness stand would be undermined in a _he said_ versus _they said_ debate. He had killed himself to elevate his credibility and prove coercion. No one takes his own life because he just told the truth and was never pressured to do otherwise.

And so the Cysts had killed yet another of the good guys. I returned to the punching bags to process my new understanding.

When I left the gym, I was in the mood for confrontation and I had a doozy to enjoy. It fell to me to get the cops off Benny's back. That had to be the purpose of his suicide note, after all. I knew he hadn't offed himself, but the cops needed to believe it. The note meant he needed to disappear and I would have no idea where he was or when I might see him again. Which made me so mad, I could spit molten lead then swallow it again. Which is not to say that I was out of control.

I knew better than to confront cops on my own, so I took a friend with me to police headquarters. Sure I was mad, but punching is for bags, silly. Publicity is for cops.

My friend is a reporter for one of the local TV stations. She's as close to a muckraker as you can get in this era of muck being all around and wallowed in, regularly. Old-time muckrakers didn't have to work so hard to shock people with exposed secrets.

But I digress. Fatima Jones, that's my friend, and all the cops know her. Many of them hate her, but it's hatred underlain by respect, even when her cameraman's gear is packed away. She's tough, she's relentless, she's honest, and she's fair. So, at Parker Center, when we told the Desk that we needed to see the captain and the chief, we didn't spend much time in the waiting room and we got the captain plus a top assistant chief. All I had to do was keep Fatty visible.

Yes, that is her nickname and no, she doesn't mind. I think she's the one who came up with it; she thinks it was I; the truth is lost in the prehistory of middle school. Back then, she had the physique of a chopstick. Nowadays, she's a chopstick with big hair.

The cops didn't know I had instructed Fatty to keep the camera off - to spare Ben the notoriety. (While he was in hiding, he didn't need some true crime fan recognizing him after a news bite.) The cops assumed the cameraman stood beside us as an unspoken threat. _Cooperate, and no footage will be shot._

We read Ben's note aloud together. I told them about Benny's unstable efforts to get his life back. I described my personal experience with Mathead and Scabman, and voiced my suspicion that they were somehow entangled in the bogus charges against me. I demanded that the cops should help me get closure by finding Benny's body: I figured this was a demand that boosted my credibility without adding to Ben's risk. Either Ben really was dead, or he was long and far gone. He would not have left the note if he could be found tooling around town. My last demand made me realize that a scratching nagging piece of me did fear he was dead. I embellished that genuine fear when I spoke with our uniformed audience; it made me all the more convincing.

Our hosts made no commitments, but I could tell that Ben's days as a _refusnik_ stoolie were over. I could tell from the way the captain asked to see Fitzpatrick. I could tell from the way Mathead looked when she left the building, maybe twenty minutes later. By then, Fatty and I sat in the front of the news van, munching corn chips and watching the steps outside Parker Center. The cameraman, Mikal, had told us we should wait and see what happened after we left.

"Mikal, you're a genius," I crowed.

Fatty pointed a chip at Mathead. "That one. I know her. She's a cunt. Follow her."

"In the news van? Subtle."

Fatty had already shed her interview duds and striking jewelry; she switched to shorts and a tanktop the instant we got in the van. Mikal had ignored all the skin - they'd been together longer than most spouses. Now, she dragged her silken coiffed tresses into a low-lying ponytail and stuck it out the back of a soiled Angels' hat. Cheap shades and student sandals and she was out the door. Mikal locked the van and caught up with us.

Mathead was easy to tail: straight five blocks, down three, over two. Not yet noon and already my toes felt scorched through the soles of my sandals. Fortunately, our prey's pace slowed with each block through the beating sun. In this section of downtown Los Angeles, the buildings are shorter than in my neighborhood and plenty of sun reaches the sidewalks, all day long.

Abruptly, Mathead was gone. My eyes jumped from block to block, building to building, door to door, trying to pick up the trail.

"Inside after her?" Mikal shielded his eyes to look up the side of the eight story office box, protecting his eyes from the sun, reflected in the rows of glass sheets that delineated each story. She had entered that building.

Fatty thought not. "We'll lose her if we go inside. Too many options. There are at least a dozen tenants in there."

"Oh em eff gee," I breathed.

"What you know?" Fatty demanded.

"I know where she went. We can go home now."

"We give you our day off and that's all you've got to tell, bitch?"

The three top stories of this building were occupied by Beauregard, Collins, and Ishikawa, a top-notch law firm with a policy to intercept phone calls from non-clients. In a bolt of intuition, I resolved a nagging uncertainty. Benny didn't arrange my attorney. Mathead did, for reasons I needed to understand.

"She went to see my lawyer. As soon as I know why, I'll be happy to fill you in."

My brain blasted me with a what-if explosion. Mathead was surely the kind of cop who would be on the take - that was a no-brainer. What if she'd been paid to set me up with Kimball? Kimball, who had taken me to get my GPS tracker installed. A tracker that the cops on my case didn't recognize and didn't know I wore. A tracker the Cysts used to follow me through the Frames. What if Mathead was in cahoots with the Cysts? Or Kimball was? Or they both were?

"Alright. We stay outside in this motherfucker sun. Nica, you okay?"

"No but yes. I just realized something, but it's -"

"Let me guess. Long story."

Nothing like an old friend.

"You need our help investigating this?"

"I have no idea. But not now, not just yet."

We stood trying to see past the sun glare to the building. We could wait for Mathead to emerge. We could barge in on her with Kimball. I decided to keep going with my instinct, which told me to get the hell out of the sun and away from that building. It wasn't time to move on these suspicions; if I went inside now, I would be at a disadvantage.

We waited in a lobby across the street, watching from behind smoked glass. Four minutes later, Kathleen Kimball and Mathead emerged. Kimball held the door for Mathead to exit, replied in monosyllables as Mathead effused. The lawyer's attitude was aloof but tense. She maintained her usual world-weary poker face, but her shoulders were shoved up by her ears, and she kept adjusting her position so that Mathead stayed in her line of sight. "Kick-ass" Kimball seemed intimidated, an unwilling participant in the conversation and probably the relationship. When Mathead departed, Kimball remained at the entry until Mathead disappeared around the corner. That reminded me of my first visit with Mathead and Scabman, when I'd walked them outside the Henrietta to be certain they were gone.

By the time Fatty and Mikal dropped me at the Henrietta, I was out of confrontation mode and seeking commiseration, so I went to find Hernandez. He didn't even know I was back, didn't know the Framekeeps had ruled so quickly and so wrongly. I could make myself feel a bit less bad by sharing the miserable news with him.

I walked the halls, didn't see him, smelled no cleansers that indicated he'd recently passed that way. Not at work two days in a row was odd for Hernandez, and it was no time for odd. I headed for the office to check on him.

Every hall brought a different memory of Anya and Anwyl, including the halls where they'd never been. When would I see them again? The Framekeep answer was _never_ but I couldn't believe that. They wouldn't just vanish on me. They wouldn't. But they would wait to return. How long? I didn't like the possible answers. But they would come see me when they could. They had to. I couldn't bear it otherwise.

I thought about Kimball, too, and Mathead. And Benny. And Miles. Try as I might, I could find no good thoughts, anywhere; and I was in no mood to search.

The office told me Hernandez had gone home early yesterday and called in sick this morning. With that news, I called his cell but went straight to voicemail. I called his house line and it stayed busy for one hour, 37 minutes. I didn't like that. No one should be on that line. His girls would be in school and he only kept that phone for emergencies.

I resigned myself to renting the car an extra day and went to his house. The truck was not there. The shades were down, curtains drawn, and from inside, television blared. I didn't like that, either. Finally, I pounded hard enough to be heard over the TV.

Before he opened the door, I thought he might be drunk or high. I found him disheveled but more sober than anyone should be. When he saw me, he walked back inside, leaving the door open for me to follow.

"What's with you?" I greeted him.

"Are the Cysts back in prison?"

"Not hardly. What -"

"You tell me first."

So I did. While I talked, I shut off the TV and opened the shades. He didn't care. While he listened, he rubbed the arm injured by the Cobra. When I finished, he said, "They need to be put down," with a casualness that could only mean he was serious. "The bad guys won the day in court."

"Anya warned us this could happen and it did."

"What's our next move?"

"I'm sure Anya and Anwyl have already made several. Us, we're waiting to see how we get a next move."

"Invite the Cysts here," he said, and flicked something off his thumb. It hit beside me with a clink. On the floor was a can filled with pennies, surrounded by pennies. He had sat here all day, flipping pennies in the dark. He was in a foxhole of his own construction.

"Your turn," I concluded. "What's with you to waste a whole day?"

"What time is it shit." He rubbed his face as though to wake up, although he looked like he hadn't slept for years. "My girls will be home soon. Help me lighten up."

"Explain."

A long slow sigh, airlock leaking into deep space. "There were knocks on the door yesterday while I was at work and Karina was home alone. She knows not to answer and she called me when the knocks repeated. A woman she doesn't know stood on the porch and wouldn't stop knocking. I get home, see who it is and why Karina doesn't recognize her. It's their mother. Their mother at the door."

"I thought their mother was dead!"

"We had no word from her for so many years we didn't know for sure."

"So where has she been? Prison? Coma?"

"Finding herself. Landing a rich husband. She looks great. She's happy. Now she wants to know her girls again. Twelve years later."

"I hate her already. How did the girls react?"

"All their anger, poof. They're so excited to have her back. And I'm happy for them. Girls need their mom, no matter who the mom is. But she wants them to go and live with her for a year. A year or more. They are so excited."

I waited.

"She lives in Spain. She is taking my girls to Spain."

"Shit."

"Something like that."

"I'm sorry. But that bond you have with your daughters, distance can't change that."

"You and Patti both said that." There was that _Patti_ again. "I tell you like I told her. You sound pretty certain for somebody who never had kids."

"I had parents, dummy."

"Okay," he said. "Okay, I see that," with just the faintest sound of hope.

"What a rotten week. It's enough to make you believe in astrology," I said, "the way the last couple days have gone."

"What sign are the Cysts?"

"Nobody knows anymore, they discontinued that sign."

He almost smiled, then watched something out the window. His truck pulled up into the driveway and his girls tumbled out. Behind it lurched a decrepit Chevy with dents like it had driven through the asteroid belt. The driver's door opened and Edith emerged, looking a little less solemn than I had seen her previously. From the passenger's side stepped Detective Henson, pretending to still her heart.

"Edith doesn't look discouraged today."

"The court listened to her. And she's back home because her mother has started to listen, too."

Her mother, Maria. I had a flash memory of the short squat exhausted woman who had reminded me of a log cabin.

"Edith's case got scheduled. It will start in October. The court will pay for Karina to fly back from Spain to give testimony, so I will get to see her then."

"When do the girls leave?"

"Three weeks that will feel like three minutes."

"Nobody loves a couch potato," Patti said, when she entered without knocking. He tilted his head back to look at her upside down. I was spared seeing them smooch by watching the girls plow past on the way to Karina's bedroom.

"I will be at work tomorrow - that will be a good time to decide our next steps," Hernandez said to me, climbing back out of his foxhole.

"Sure, come find me on your break, I'll be around."

Maria. Cabin.

I jumped to my feet and ran to the car, after the minimum necessary farewell pleasantries to ensure nobody followed me to ask what was wrong.

I knew where Ben was.

### 40. You Will Know

Or anyway, I had a great guess where to look for him.

The San Gabriel Mountains rise tall at the top edge of Los Angeles and separate us from riff raff to the north (JK, Bakersfield and San Francisco). Much of the mountain range is national forest with stark rocky landscapes. Bedroom communities cling to the extremities. Bedroom community. That term always sounds dirty to me. Give me a no-nonsense suburb any day. The interior of the mountains is prone to wildfires and intense rains that cause killer landslides. Nonetheless, thousands of people use the mountains to recreate. Which sounds even dirtier.

Scant handfuls of hardy individualists live inside the mountain range, in cabins such as those nestled in Big Tujunga Canyon, a winding gash through the mountain landscape, carved by extreme weather. Their homes are not entirely theirs. In a complicated and tenuous grandfathered arrangement, they live on public land. They can't resell their cabins; when the current tenants move, the land is supposed to revert to some public agency. And so the communities cannot grow, and the hardy few have the wildlands to themselves, with neighbors that include a few humans and lots of bears, bobcats, mountain lions, hawks, rattlers, and of course, coyotes. It's only a thirty-minute drive through the canyon to the big city, but the area feels remote, undiscovered, rough, and wild. At night, it's magical there, black but for stars, noisy with critters, pulsating with the underlying connection among all things.

Ben possesses one of the cabins. He inherited the key from his stepmother's nephew's cousin. No search of official databases would ever uncover the connection to him. Since he was a teenager, he has come here in retreat. You might assume he used the place for major benders, but that's because you don't know him. The cabin is the one place he has never gotten loaded. It is sacred to him. It is for soul cleansings and fresh starts. He flees there a few times a year. He's too sociable to live there. I've been there three times, total: on our two honeymoons and the first time he got sober - the time he did it on his own and stayed clean until he left the cabin.

I always miss the gravel turn-off. When I got to the big rock shaped like a nose, I knew I'd gone too far and turned around, found the turn-off on the way back. Up the gravel road a couple turns, I could see the cabin lights glint between branches. It was early afternoon but already the sun was behind the mountains. I parked before the final turn to the cabin and walked softly around back to the garage. I didn't want to surprise a squatter.

I hadn't realized what a big part of me feared the note really was a suicide goodbye, until I tugged the garage door open and saw Ben's panel truck hidden inside. I shivered. I had forgotten that it would be thirty degrees cooler here and I needed a sweater.

The generator was grinding and hid the grating of gravel under my sandals. Ben ran the generator a couple hours a day, to supplement the solar panels and the wood stove. Come sunset, it was candles and lanterns, battery-operated devices. There was no service here. Cellular, cable, phone, internet, power, sewer, water? Forget about it.

I was headed for the front porch when I heard his laugh. "I knew you'd find me."

He sprawled on the back porch, his chair balanced on two back chair legs, his head propped against the log wall, making a lazy angle with the rest of his body. The fragrance of espresso wafted through the pine and the sage. How did I not smell that until now?

I found the steps and climbed them. By then he had dragged the rocker outside for me and brought out another coffee cup. We savored a shot of espresso together. The generator powered down and it was as peaceful as the day before humans found this place.

I finished my caffeine. "What the fuck, Ben."

"Not Ben. Ken now. Kenneth Harris."

He extracted a worn wallet stuffed with new identity, worked to look used. Ratty-edged photos of people neither of us knew - his new family pix. A well-handled social security card. Driver's License. Visa debit card, no doubt with several years of bank records upon request.

"Passport also?" When he nodded I added, "What nationality?"

"Still U.S. But I grew up in Tacoma now. Since my girlfriend left me, I've been doing some moving around. I'll probably try the east coast next. Or maybe Chicago. I'll do a rehab in one town, sober living in another. It's hard to trace people through those."

"Is laundering your identity your only reason for treatment?"

He sighed. "Not completely."

I sighed. "I didn't realize your vanishing would be this heavy duty. Permanent."

"I know." A pair of gray squirrels took turns chasing each other around an oak trunk. "I brought it all down on myself."

"We all do. But today, Fatty and I used your note to buy you some time."

"Fatty helped! I love that! Tell me more!"

I told him about our trip to the police station. I didn't mention tailing Mathead to my lawyer. That was a part of my story he didn't share.

"You did good. Great. Thank you. And thank Fatty for me."

"Any chance Fitzpatrick will leave you alone now?"

"For a while, definitely."

"But not forever?"

"You met her. What do you think?"

"Even if she bails on the plan to make you an informant, she'll want revenge because you earned her negative attention from her supervisor." And with Ben gone, the unspent wrath might direct itself to me. Yip-te-doodle.

"The cops aren't the only reason I left my apartment. Nica, you're messing with heavy trouble."

"I am so sorry about what happened. I never thought my bad guys would find you. What happened, exactly, anyway?"

"I can't talk about it. I'm just sayin', if I'm freaked, you should be, too."

"Message received. I promise I'm being as careful as I can be." I studied him, studying me. Our memories of the other's features were indelible, yet we sharpened them for the coming separation. Eventually, I wondered, "How will I know where you are?" That you are.

"I'll get throwaway phones sometimes and I'll call Hernandez. That is as far as I've thought it out."

"Okay, that could work."

"We'll never be past tense, Neeks."

"Thanks for reminding me, I need another nickname. Somebody vile and repulsive found out about 'Neeks' and now hearing it reminds me of him. Them."

"'Him' thems, huh?"

"Not that kind of 'him', dolt. Business."

"Good, because I want you to keep working on your choice of men. You were headed in the right direction. Ick was a good choice until he died on you."

"Yeah, that was tacky of him."

"Wanna go to bed?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"Okay me neither."

But eventually we did go to bed, where we huddled in each other's arms and I worked hard to think of nothing outside that moment.

We fell asleep. I don't know how long I was out and it took a while to figure out that I was awake again. The world was black and my only sensations were the light rasp and faint tickle of Ben breathing near my ear. Lately, I had dreamed of Ben dead. Was I now dreaming of joining him? I unpocketed my phone and it was bright enough to illumine fragments of the room. The cabin. Right. I had found Ben at the cabin.

And now I must leave him, without knowing when our suddenly unraveled paths would tangle again.

I bumped his shoulder with my head until his breathing changed. He awoke knowing where and with whom. He pulled me in for a last snuggle and kissed the top of my head. "Skeeny," he cooed.

"What the hell is a Skeeny?"

"It's Neeks backward. With a -y of endearment."

"Keep working on the nickname."

Driving out took longer than driving in. When we stepped outside the cabin, the sky at the top of the steep canyon was white with stars, but there was no moon and as soon as my headlights went on, the world outside their beams went blacker than black. My headlights were the only illumination and I didn't know the curves well enough to maintain a steady speed. I'd be zipping along, then suddenly a granite wall would loom bright white straight ahead. I'd brake in time, find the curve, fishtail a smidge; the incident would damage my confidence and I'd need another mile or so before I worked back up to a zip. Even on the occasional straight stretch of road, a low pine branch would scrape the hood, the sound would startle me, and I'd give a burst of brakes or accelerator depending on how much adrenaline surged.

My pitiful exit from the mountains was also a symptom of my reluctance to leave Ben when we had no foreseeable reunion.

A couple dozen turns later, I realized I didn't need to leave yet. It's not like I had cases awaiting me. I was between men and low on available friends, as well as absent of employments. I decided to turn around and go back to the cabin, but by the time I reached a turnout, the impulse had passed. Just as well. I don't like to go back. You never can tell what the morrow will bring and you won't find out if you're facing backwards.

Rivers of red taillights inched past rivers of white headlights. In between, rows of arc lights brightened the asphalt, giving night-shift light to highway workers in neon orange vests as they jackhammered the fast lanes in both freeway directions. I was finally out of the canyon and maybe twenty miles from home. In these traffic conditions, twenty miles meant a two-hour drive.

Patience is a virtue, or so I've been told. I didn't need virtue that night, because on the far side of the jackhammers, the traffic dispersed. I caught myself sorry to be back to full speed. Apparently I didn't want to go home yet. I decided where I wanted to go and changed course, fully aware my new destination could make me feel far worse.

In the Los Angeles basin, thirty miles from the deep mountain canyons, it was nearly midnight but still tanktop weather. Perhaps that is why I wasn't alone when I got to the Watts Towers. A small crowd milled around, staring into what was now a construction site. Every once in a while, someone would groan or shout as a chunk of Miles would hit the ground with an explosion of powdered cement and shattered tile. The security guards wore hard hats.

Oh, Miles. He had lost maybe a fourth of his cement and decoration, and several key girders were snapped, twisted, or dangling. His basic structure still held and that had to be a good sign. New damage continued to materialize and that had to be a bad sign. However, the rate of destruction must have slowed or they wouldn't be attempting repairs. Right? I needed to believe that the good signs outweighed the bad.

Milling at the back of the modest crowd, I blinked for a while then let the tears flow. No one would notice and if they did, they did.

"There is much yet to do," a voice growled over my left shoulder.

"Anwyl," I breathed, as though his name carried oxygen. "Are you saying I can help?"

"If you still wish it."

"But they said you would go to prison if you had contact with me."

"Indeed, and that was no empty threat. Our contact here must be brief."

Anya's beloved voice softened the air on my right side. "Their directive was harsh, but contains what your language calls a loophole."

Anwyl mocked the loophole. "They forbid us to have contact with Nica of Los Angeles."

Anya had the punch line. "Would you be willing to relocate?"

"Just tell me where and when."

"Soon you will know."

"So what's our next step? Getting more evidence against the Cysts?" The Framekeeps had not shut down the case entirely. If we got sufficient evidence, they would reopen the inquiry. That's what they said.

"We have the evidence we sought."

"But -" Can it Nica, they can't stay long, let them talk.

"We needed to know which Keepers are under Maelstrom's control. We know their votes. We have that sorry answer."

"But you said the safeguards prevented that."

"We needed you to believe that." Anya sounded apologetic. She didn't like to lie.

"Oh!" I tried to keep my voice down. They had to trick me about their intentions in case the Cysts read my thoughts. "I hate my leaky brain. I want you to be able to confide in me!"

"Here now is the truth. We knew we could not win our petition. Maelstrom again controls Framekeeps. Our petition served its true purpose, to show us the allegiance of each Keeper. Now the time for deceptions is past. The enemy moves swiftly and soon Maelstrom will be free, lest we move swifter still."

I felt the chill this news delivered. "What do you need me to do?"

"First, we must overthrow the Framekeeps."

Wow. "How many of them voted against us?"

"That vote misleads. Confident that Warty Sebaceous Cysts would prevail, some voted with us to hide their allegiance with Maelstrom. We will overthrow all the Framekeeps then reinstate three."

Ho-kay. They wouldn't plan it if it wasn't possible. "And we need to bring Miles home."

"When our mission allows. As Maelstrom nears freedom, none will be safe. Our dangers grow each day. You risk all if you join us, Nica."

"'We're gonna need a bigger boat.'" I felt puzzlement from my left and my right. "That means I'm in. When do I leave Los Angeles?"

"Soon. You will know," Anya repeated.

"Hey what if they close the loophole and you can't see Nica of anywhere?"

"That may occur. First, they must detect us together in your new home. The Framekeeps will have little time to ponder loopholes."

"Soon even Framekeeps will acknowledge that Maelstrom threatens all."

"Monk spoke truly. When the darkness grows apparent, they will turn to us for aid."

My sides felt exposed. Anya and Anwyl had stepped away. I resisted the impulse to grab them and cling. "What do I do next?"

"You will know." And with that they were gone, strolling arm in arm like a couple enjoying the balmy evening.

For the first time since the Framekeeps dumped me at home, I felt good. Scared, sure - even Anwyl and Anya sounded a little frightened - but ready for the next steps, and relieved to be part of the struggle against Maelstrom. My knowledge of the struggle made it impossible to return to life as I'd formerly known it.

I've never been a poetry person, except during college when I had a thing for an assistant prof who recited great verse to me at all the right times. Thanks to him, I learned to speak some William Butler Yeats, although I'd forgotten it for years. Forgotten, until the last couple days, when I'd had a piece by Yeats looping in my head like it defined my predicament, now that Anya and Anwyl had entered my life.

... and if any gaze on our rushing band, we come between him and the deed of his hand, we come between him and the hope of his heart.

I shivered and felt the empty space around me. My rushing band had disappeared again, the temperature had dropped, the onlookers had dispersed. I was the last one standing at the fence. I blew Miles a kiss, fished the rental car keys from my pocket, and ran to catch up with the stragglers.

Among the stragglers were Anya and Anwyl. "William Butler was a great friend in his time," Anya said fondly. I had recited W. B. Yeats' verses inside my head.

"We must away," Anwyl said, and the two of them loped into the darkness that would hide their departure from this Frame.

The stop-and-go traffic on the return drive to downtown LA was a joy. Parking the car at the rental kiosk and slipping the key into the after-hours return slot was a joy. Walking home through gritty air and smelly streets was a joy. When a BMW ran a red light and swerved to just miss this pedestrian, I shouted with joy. I was hooked and I was ruined and I was back in the real game.

When I unlocked my office door, I awakened Dizzy, sprawled napping on my futon. "Where you been gal?" I greeted her. "How was Shastina?" She watched me cross the room like my steps spoke to her, and maybe they did. "Someday, we must find a Frame that lets us chat," I told her. She sat up urgently to groom her rear. I didn't take it personally. Or if I did, I didn't care.

I grabbed my laptop and joined Dizzy on the futon. Just for the hell of it, I pulled up a travel planner site. Hmmm. Great deals on tickets to Auckland, Seattle, Rio, Charleston, and Hong Kong. Mighty fine vacation destinations, but if this was a sign from the Frames, I couldn't read it. The destinations all sounded equally good to me. I searched for a world topographic map and said the name of each country in turn, hoping to feel _eureka_. Nope. I enrolled for special-deal emails from every travel site I could find.

It was when I was about to close my laptop that I noticed I had a message in my Google voicemail. It wasn't _the_ _sign_ either, but I was thrilled to hear it anyway.

"Hey, kid," said a throaty drawl that I missed so much and loved so dearly.

"It's Jenn," I told Dizzy. "We've been friends since third grade."

"Didn't use your cell in case you're busy with a hot case. The retreat is over and I feel good. Good. Call me, if being carless didn't kill you. I'm home. Call me, I'll let you talk. You can catch me up. Did I miss anything?"

That last one got me going. My laugh meter spiked from chuckle to guffaw, from giddy to hysterical. Dizzy paused her grooming to watch as I collapsed to my knees. I couldn't stop laughing.

#####

THE END (OF BOOK ONE)

Where will Nica go next? Who and what will she meet there? Can Anya and Anwyl unite allies to fight Warty Sebaceous Cysts? Does Maelstrom get free? Is Miles alive? Might Dizzy become a Framekeep?

Find out all this and more in Book Two of the FRAMES quartet.

Book Two is in the works! If you want to...

\+ Stay informed about its progress!

\+ Enjoy special promotions!

\+ Read an occasional guest post written by Nica or another FRAMES character!

\+ Read other posts that have nothing to do with FRAMES whatsoever!

.... then follow Sue Perry's blog, Required Writing (sueperryauthor.com).

Thanks for reading the first book in the **Frames** series. Please make the time to review _Nica of Los Angeles_ \- especially if you enjoyed it. You probably have no idea how important a reader's review can be, on Goodreads, LibraryThing, and - especially - with the retailer where you bought _Nica_.
Acknowledgments

Writing happens alone, but revision needs extra perspectives, and I've been lucky enough to benefit from early reads by Rhiannon Costello, David Ketelsen, Scott Peters, Julie Robitaille, Deborah Schneider, and Louise White. Thanks infinitely much for your insightful comments and savvy editing catches.

Bill Hickey provided valuable real world perspective.

Julie and Deborah - you've kept me writing during some dark times.

About The Author

Writing is the perfect occupation for me and the only job that has ever mattered. As a writer, I can do what I want, pursue any interest, try something new each time. That's important, because I crave variety and abhor routine. Consequently:

  * In school, I got degrees in wildly different fields (computer science, film production, geology, with minors in linguistics and Irish history).

  * I've had so many jobs. (Babysitter, duck caretaker. Switchboard operator, warehouse clerk, bank lackey, secretary, substitute teacher, bookkeeper, bureaucrat. Motion picture story analyst, low-budget TV producer. Scientific research internship director. Earthquake consultant. Professor. Disaster scientist.)

  * I always have many animals around (currently, 5 cats and a dog).

  * And - it figures that when I had kids, they would be boy-girl twins with only a birthdate in common.

Writing always reflects the author's interests, so - until now - I've never written the same kind of book twice. In chronological order, I've written: a character study in which rock fans follow a tour across country ( _Headliners)_ , a psychological thriller involving split brain research and animal rights ( _Was It A Rat I Saw)_ , a novella featuring a quirky group of scientists who solve crimes ( _C.R.I.M.E. Science_ ), a multi-generational coming-of-age drama about a family frozen by secrets ( _Scar Jewelry)_ , and a speculative fantasy with detective elements ( _Nica of Los Angeles)_.

I live in southern California, where I enjoy live music, reading, hiking, cities, beaches, mountains, and the internet. If I had all the money in the world I would have an abode in each of its great cities.

