 
Club Cain

By LD Marr

A near-future horror story

Copyright © 2019 LD Marr

Published by LD Marr

All Rights Reserved

Includes short excerpts:

Have Teeth, Will Bite, a cozy vampire mystery, prologue

Alien Pets (Xeno Relations part 1), chapter 1

By Trisha McNary (a pen name of LD Marr)

Cover by Victoria Cooper  
(modified by LD Marr)

## Chapter 1

In the near future...

"Great news, Chloe, your tests today show no new alcohol or drug use," I said to the teenage girl sitting a few feet away from me in my miniscule counselor's office. "That's fantastic. I'm so proud of you!"

In fact, I was ecstatic. I was a new counselor at the voluntary clinic for at-risk teens, and Chloe was my first client to stop using.

"Thanks," Chloe answered.

She was thin like everyone else, from the food shortages as well as her past drug use. But the slight smile of her dark-lipsticked mouth made dimples on cheeks still chubby with baby fat.

"So I think you've gone more than a week without using. How's that going? Anything you want to talk about?" I asked.

"Well, you know," Chloe said.

I sat in silence and waited to see if she'd say more. I knew better than to push too hard. No one knew that better than me, and I tried to curb my enthusiasm. Chloe plucked with a black-painted fingernail at a loose thread hanging from one of many holes in her frayed jeans.

"I know it's hard to stop," I said after it was clear that she wasn't going to talk first. "And hard not to go back too. So if there's anything that's putting pressure on you to keep using, maybe I can give you some ways to cope. But if you don't want to tell me, that's OK. I don't want to pry into your personal life, I just want to help you. You know that right?"

I knew there was always more than just drugs going on. And the other stuff was usually more embarrassing than the drugs. Prostitution, shoplifting, and other crimes they didn't want to tell me about. And why should they trust me?

"I believe you want to help me," said Chloe.

Then more silence. We stared at each other. Two teenage girls who didn't look that much different on the outside. But I was eighteen, and my dark past was behind me. Chloe had only taken the first small step toward recovery. Still at risk.

"I think the hardest part is when all your friends are still using," I filled in the blank for her. "If you're hanging around with the same people and going to the same places, you keep getting that pressure. Right?"

"Yeah, that's right," said Chloe. "I still go to the after-hours club. All my friends are there, and the music's cool, and I like to dance. Club Cain. You know that place?"

"Yeah, I know it," I said. "I used to hang out there too."

Chloe's eyes widened.

"Cool!" she said.

She looked at me with new respect. I decided it was time to let Chloe in on some secrets of my own past.

"But I stopped going there when I stopped using," I said.

She didn't say anything, and I kept talking.

"Yeah, I went there all the time. I loved that place too. But I kept caving in to the pressure. 'Come one, it's just one line,' my friends would say. And then I'd feel awful the next day. So that's why I'm worried about you going there. Maybe you could find some other things to do, other places to go."

Chloe sat back and crossed her arms. Crossed her legs.

"There's nowhere else I can go," she said. "That's the only club that doesn't card for underage. But I know that's not what you mean. You want me to stop going to clubs, look for a job, go to school. You know a crappy place in Jersey or Brooklyn you can send me to live with some weirdos, right?"

I laughed. This girl was no dummy. That's why she'd figured out that the drug lifestyle was bad. I'd spent hours talking to her, and I knew she had a sharp mind. That was the level I had to reach her on now.

"I'm not telling you to stop going to the club," I told her. "I'm just saying that it will make it harder for you to get clean and stay that way. The options I have sound boring, but I think if you give them a chance, you'll be glad you did."

Chloe lifted both hands above her head and started finger-teasing her long platinum-bleached hair while I was talked. I'd noticed her doing that in some of our other sessions.

_Does it mean she's bored, or I'm not getting through to her?_ I wondered.

The answer to that came into my mind. _She teases her hair when she disagrees with something, and she's not going to do it._

Somehow I knew that was true, but I didn't question where that answer came from. Sometimes my mind worked like that. I'd ask a question, and there would be an answer. Or I wouldn't ask a question, but I'd suddenly have information I needed. Or I'd be told to do something that turned out to keep me from getting hurt.

I had some other weird mental episodes too. Times when reality seemed to change to something less real. But I never told anyone about these things anymore. When I had in the past, my school and family hadn't reacted well. Then I had to run away, and I'd ended up homeless and using drugs. So now I kept quiet, but I still paid attention to those thoughts.

Now I turned my attention back to Chloe.

"OK," I said to her. "You have to decide what you want to do, and I can't make you do anything. You're here voluntarily, right?"

Chloe stopped working on her hairstyle and crossed her arms again.

"That's right," said Chloe. "Anyway, I can still go to the club and hang out with my friends and dance and not drink or take anything. I did that all last week. It wasn't hard. Just because you couldn't do that doesn't mean I can't. I've decided to quit drugs, and I'm going to, and that's it. We've talked, but you don't know everything about me. And one thing about me is when I make up my mind to do something, I do it."

"OK, I believe you. I want to believe you," I said. "You sound like you're determined, and everyone's different. I hope you're right because honestly, I'm thrilled that you want to get clean. Because I was there too, and I know how bad it was. To be using and stuck in that life. That's why I care. Do you believe me?"

"Yes," Chloe said.

A tear dripped from the corner of one of her eyes. My own eyes felt moist too.

"OK. I won't tell you to stop going to the club, and I won't keep talking about jobs and halfway houses," I said. "You know we have them, and I'll wait for you to ask me if you ever want to."

"OK," said Chloe.

"Our hour is up now. Can I schedule you for the same time next week?" I asked.

"Yes," said Chloe. "I'll be here."

"I'm really happy for you," I said again.

I stood up and smiled. Chloe stood up too. I reached out a hand for her to take or not. It was the only physical contact the counselors were allowed to make. The meeting was recorded of course. But it would never be watched unless there was a need. A client's complaint about the counselor, for example.

Chloe didn't take the hand I offered. Instead she leaned forward and gave me a quick hug.

"Thank you," she said in a teary voice.

Then she rushed out of the room.

_She's going to stay clean. I know it._ The thought went through my mind.

But that thought was followed by a cold chill that ran up and down my spine.

_No. I'm just imaging things this time_ , I told myself. _Or that chill means something else._

# Chapter 2

After work that day, I stood on tired feet on the subway train home. At this hour, the train was always packed. There were no empty seats, so I swayed back and forth and held onto a bar for balance.

Through the train's windows, in between long passes through dark tunnels, I watched the lit-up stations flash by.

The train pulled into the Bowery station—the last Manhattan station under the unflooded part of the city. Everything on Manhattan island south of here was now under water from the rising sea levels of the last hundred years. Scientists said the rest of the island would go under in time, but for now, it was still here.

The underground train tunnels and all the subways were supposed to be water tight. Our government assured us that the subway walls and tunnels were supported with the latest flood technology. But it didn't look like any work had been done in this aging station—not lately or ever.

I tried not to think about that when I rode on the train. And I wasn't thinking about climate change in the future. My thoughts were on Chloe.

I knew that I should be feeling happy and excited—my first client to stop using—but I wasn't. The cold chill that I'd felt earlier had grown to nervous anxiety throughout the day. The more I tried to tell myself it was irrational, the stronger that the feeling of dread became.

_There's no reason to feel so anxious_ , I told myself. _Maybe it's not her. Maybe there's something wrong with me. Am I crazy like people used to say?_ I wondered. _Will I end up in the sanatorium they wanted to send me to after all? Getting a lobotomy or my brain dissected?_

My morbid thoughts were interrupted when a small bunch of riders crowded in front of the door next to me. Brakes squealed, and the subway car slowed and stopped. Instead of moving out of the exiting riders' way, I felt a strange panic and broke out in a sweat.

_I have to get off this train!_ I thought.

I crowded in with others next to the door. It opened, and we all got off quickly. Experienced riders who moved fast without any shoving or pushing to exit before the doors closed again.

The rest of the exiting commuters walked away. But I took only a few steps and then stopped. I looked up and down the length of the rundown station. The smell of urine and disinfectant hit my nostrils with stronger force than I was used to in other subway stations, but I ignored it.

Now my panic was gone.

_Why the heck did I think I had to get off the train in this junky old station?_ I wondered. _Where did that bizarre feeling come from?_

As I stood there wondering why I was there, I was overwhelmed by curiosity about the station itself.

I looked down the long length of tracks on both sides of the narrow cement island I was standing on. The station was long enough for at least twelve train cars to open their doors and let out passengers.

On both far ends of the station, black metal-barred cages enclosed worn cement stairs that led up to the street. An ancient escalator sat unmoving halfway between the stairs.

Another train pulled in on the other side of the tracks. I turned and watched passengers quickly exit and enter. Doors closed, and the train pulled away. I stared at the ancient wall behind the tracks. Grime and dust-covered marble tiles. Empty patches where tiles had fallen off and not been replaced. Odd mini-sized wooden door shapes were built in all along the wall.

For no particular reason, I felt the urge to walk to the opposite end of the station. I started walking, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cool dampness of the station air.

As I went along, I looked up at the cameras attached at wide intervals on the dusty, cobwebby ceiling above me. The cold feeling inside me intensified the farther I walked in this ancient station that had stood for almost two centuries.

"Bowery," said a placard carved into the side of the aged marble wall. Thick rust-colored metal columns supported the ceiling. The station was poorly lit, but the round panoramic cameras looked new.

I kept walking and reached the stairs at the station's end. The stairs were built into the far side of a concrete wedge. A door shape was etched into the side of the wedge that faced the station.

I stopped and stared at the door-shaped lines. The coldness inside me became a feeling of terrible wrongness that somehow gave my mind a razor-sharp clarity. I looked up and located the camera that would record this section of the station.

It was the same as the others, wasn't it? It looked exactly the same. But when I stared up at it, it seemed like there was something different about this one. A dead feeling.

_The subway maintenance people must check all the cameras to make sure they're working, right?_ I thought. _It must be working._

Then I felt a sudden discomfort at the thought of this camera recording me. I stopped staring at the camera and tried to act natural and casual. As if I just happened to be waiting for the next train at the farthest end of the station for some reason.

I walked over to the rusty metal post nearest to the wedge and leaned against it. I put my hands in my coat pockets and looked sideways at the concrete wedge under the stairs.

My vision seemed to sharpen, and I saw the door-shaped lines trace a real door beneath layers of dust and grime. A bare metal door was built into the dirty stone.

As I had that realization, my sense of reality became fuzzy. Time sped up as if I were in a dream. The paths of commuters, entering and leaving trains and the station, flowed in blurred lines around me. As the rush hour ended and more time passed, the lines in my vision that were the paths of moving people thinned. I waited. I didn't for know what.

## 

Time passed, but I didn't know how much. Then another odd chill that wasn't physical jolted me back to alertness. The movements of the people and trains passing by me slowed down to normal speed. My vision blurred. Then it sharpened again.

My eyes fixed on the thin etching of the door shape under the stairs. A bright red line formed and blossomed there. Thick red liquid outlined the door and then oozed down its sides to the floor.

An acrid, bitter smell burned my nostrils and left a metallic taste in my mouth. I recognized the taste from when I'd had my wisdom teeth pulled.

_That's blood!_ I thought.

A puddle formed and spread toward my feet. I stepped back. Then I walked away and stood near a few people who waited in line along the tracks for the next train. People passed by and walked to the stairs built into the concrete wedge—right through the blood. But none of them seemed to notice it.

My curiosity overcame my revulsion, and I walked through the puddle of blood too, so I could watch people go up the stairs. They stepped in the blood, but I couldn't see any blood on their shoes. And their feet didn't leave any marks on the pale, dirty staircase.

I lifted a foot to look at the bottom of my own plain brown winter boot. There was no blood there either. I walked back around and stared fixedly at the door that was now pouring out streams of blood. It flowed down off the passenger island onto the train tracks. I stood there wondering why the liquid didn't cause any sparks from the live electric bars that ran the trains.

_Get away!_ a voice seemed to shout in my mind.

Another chill shook me, and this time, I felt pure fear. I turned, walked back, and stood among the people waiting for the train again, facing the direction that the train would come from.

A loud depressurizing "whomp" sound, followed by a big splash, came from the direction of the bloody door. None of the other people waiting for the train showed any reaction to the sounds. I turned my head slightly and looked out of the corner of my eye back toward the door.

A man walked out through an ankle-high river flow of blood. I stiffened with a strong sense of recognition, although I was sure I'd never seen him before.

_That man is the reason why I'm here!_ I thought.

But I didn't know why I had that thought. He was tall and brawny—bigger than any man I'd ever seen—dressed in jeans and a dark hoodie like anyone. A few strands of straight blonde hair stuck out from the edges of the hood that shadowed his broad, pale face.

Another thought came into my mind: _I need to memorize that face_.

So I studied it in my peripheral vision. A wide face with heavy features and thick lips. Light skin and eyes. But as I stared, the man's coloring changed—from pale to brown skin and eyes, from blonde to black straight hair. Then his coloring changed back to blonde again.

_Did I really see that?_ I wondered.

For a moment, the man stood looking at the people lined up waiting for the train, including me. His shoes and pants below the knees were damp with red liquid. But no one else in the subway seemed to notice the blood. Or the changes in his hair and skin color.

I had an intense, undeniable feeling that there was something wrong with this man. Not just wrong. An overpowering emanation of decay and death.

Now the sharp, powerful blood smell clogged the air. The smell of blood and something more that I didn't recognize. None of the other people in the subway seemed to notice the putrid odor. The urge to vomit overwhelmed me, but I struggled to keep it down.

_I can't draw his attention to me!_ I thought.

Instead of walking over to wait for a train on either side of the platform, the man turned and walked around the bar-enclosed concrete wedge he'd just come out of. He climbed up the stairs and was gone.

I breathed deep in relief. My need to vomit left too.

A train pulled in, but I didn't get on. Instead, I walked back to the stairs. The blood wasn't puddled on the floor anymore, but the floor was stained with large red circles. Red footprints led out from one of the red circles on the side where the man had walked toward the stairs.

I followed the footprints around the black metal cage to the foot of the stairs. The bloody footprints continued up the stairs, fading near the top.

Then I turned and walked back to wait for the next train home.

# Chapter 3

About an hour later, I unlocked five locks. Then I pushed open the door and walked into the Brooklyn apartment I shared with two other recovered addicts. It felt hot and stuffy after the being out in the cold, wet late November air.

My roommates Frank and Rita were sitting on the big plasti-leather couch in the enormous but mostly empty living room. Rita's pale face was glued toward the television, but Frank got up off the couch and walked over to meet me in the hallway.

"Myrna!" said Frank. "You're so late tonight. It's almost midnight. We were getting worried about you."

Frank's brow was wrinkled, and his small round eyes focused on mine as if looking for answers there. I knew it was more than just the late hour that he was questioning. He was worried that I'd been out at a bar, or worse, taking drugs.

"Almost midnight?" I repeated.

It was dark, and the street had been deserted when I'd walked from the subway stop to the apartment, but I had no idea it was that late or how it got that late.

I took off my coat and boots without saying anything else.

"Are you OK?" Frank asked me with even more concern in his voice.

"She's fine. Butt out," Rita said from the couch.

She brushed a hand through thick brown hair, but she didn't look up from the small black and white TV perched on its small stand several feet away. A big imitation-wood coffee table squatted in between the TV and the couch.

Frank put a thin hand on my shoulder and spoke to me in a lower voice.

"Do you need to talk about anything?" he asked.

"Frank. I didn't slip. I haven't been using. I know that's what you're thinking," I answered in a whisper. "I got out at the wrong subway station, and I stayed there for a while, and I guess I lost track of the time. I really don't know how it got so late, but that's where I was."

"I believe you," said Frank. "But I'm still worried about you. Standing around in a subway station? It sounds like maybe you had a PTSD episode. Sometimes people like us have them, you know."

"I've heard about that. And you could be right," I said. "But I'll be OK. I was just thinking about some things. I'm fine," I insisted.

Frank didn't look convinced.

"Come sit with us for a while and watch TV," he said. "Rita's here tonight. We hardly ever see her."

Unsaid between us was the fact that Rita was often out late after her work day ended in the city. And she was probably drinking at the least.

"OK," I agreed even though I hated television, and Frank knew that. "I need to put my stuff away and go to the bathroom, and then I'll hang out with you two for a little bit."

A few minutes later, Frank made room for me to sit between him and Rita.

"What's on?" I asked.

"The government news is on all channels," said Rita. "The president is talking tonight."

I groaned inwardly. I hated most of what was available to us on TV, but news and politics bored me.

_I'll just watch with them for about fifteen minutes. Then I'll say I'm tired, and I have to go to sleep_ , I told myself.

The TV showed the newscaster on one half of a split screen and the president on the other. Then it zoomed in on just the president. A middle-aged olive-skinned man with streaks of gray in his dark swept-back hair. Big, trustworthy green eyes.

"Such a handsome man!" said Rita. "I'm so glad I voted for him. Finally, a president who cares about us and will make our lives better."

I hadn't voted in the last election because I was too young, but I would have voted for President Jefferson. He'd promised to increase our food supply. The other candidate (our former president) said it was impossible to increase the supply. Instead, she'd promised to distribute more of our excess population to other countries—otherwise known as the global equal redistribution program (GERP). Half the country passionately supported the program. The other half was vehemently opposed to it.

The president spoke.

"Greetings, citizens. When you elected me, I promised to find ways to increase our food supply. I know it hasn't happened yet, and many of you are hungry, but I'm working on it. As a first step, I'm going to increase surveillance inside all public buildings. Our satellites can only record what goes on outside. But the plots people hatch to take more than their share of food happen indoors. When we put a stop to that, there will be enough food for everyone."

He flashed the sincere caring smile that had got him elected. For some reason, I suddenly felt nauseous. I put a hand over my mouth.

"It makes me so mad that people horde and eat more than their share, when the rest of us go around hungry! At last, someone's doing something about it," said Rita.

"To cover the cost of all that equipment, I'm going to have to increase your taxes," the president continued. "But you citizens entrusted me with improving your lives. So I know you won't mind making this small, temporary sacrifice that will lead to a brighter day for us all."

Now for the first time, I had my doubts about this president. I turned and looked at Frank and then at Rita on my other side to check their reactions. They both stared at the TV with rapt expressions.

But I felt kind of confused and dizzy. I took a deep breath and noticed something else. Although I knew it was impossible, an odor wafted out to me from the television—salty and metallic. It smelled exactly like the blood I'd just smelled in the subway station.

I gagged.

Rita turned to look at me with a peeved expression.

_She probably thinks I'm making fun of the president_ , I thought.

But I couldn't stop myself from gagging again, and I realized that I wouldn't be able to control it this time. I got up fast from the couch and rushed into the bathroom.

"Are you all right?" I heard Rita ask just before I dropped down in front of the toilet bowl and began heaving the contents of my stomach into it.

"Myrna?" I heard Frank's hesitant voice in the doorway, but I couldn't answer.

I kept retching dry heaves long after my stomach was empty. I knew Frank was standing there, but I couldn't look up at him.

Finally it was over. I sat on the hard-tiled floor and leaned my head back against the wall. My hair stuck to my head, and my entire body was covered in sweat.

Frank held a washcloth under the sink and then handed it to me.

"Thank you," I managed to say.

I took the damp cloth and wiped my mouth and then my face. Then I looked up at Frank who was bending down toward me with his hands on his knees.

"I haven't been using, Frank. I swear," I told him.

"I believe you," he said.

"Can you help me up?" I asked.

I lifted my arms up toward him.

"Yes," said Frank.

He grabbed my hands and pulled me up to a standing position. Then I walked to the sink and rinsed out my mouth while he held back my hair.

# Chapter 4

A week later, it was time for Chloe's appointment. I sat in my office on the thin cushion of my metal-backed chair. I couldn't wait to hear how Chloe's week had gone.

She'd always been right on time, but today she was a few minutes late. Anxiety reared its ugly head. After ten minutes, I went out to the barebones lobby to see if Chloe was there. Maybe the receptionist was busy?

But when I opened the door to his small work space separated from the client lobby by metal bars, Danno didn't look that busy. He sat with his adjustable office chair tipped back. The colorful cap he wore to cover his chemo-balding head was askew, partly covering his half closed eyes.

"Hey, Danno. Has my two o-clock appointment shown up yet?" I asked him even though I could see Chloe wasn't there.

Danno opened his eyes, blinked a few times, and then swiveled his chair around to face me.

"Nope. She's not here yet," he said. "I'll send her right back if she shows. But you know sometimes they don't. A lot of them don't."

The older ex-addict looked at me with sympathy in his large brown eyes, and I knew what he was trying to tell me. But I couldn't accept it yet.

"I'm sure she'll be here," I said. "She's probably just late. I'll wait in my office. Thanks Danno."

"Uh huh," he said.

I turned and walked out the door of his tiny workspace, getting away fast before he could see how upset I was. I sat back down on my chair and stared at the door. Waiting.

_This can't be happening_ , I thought.

But somehow, I knew it was. I knew that Chloe wouldn't show up for her appointment. And I had a deep, unshakable feeling that something terrible had happened to her.

_I know she was going to stay clean, so if she's not here_ ..., my thoughts didn't want to go there.

But my gut had already gone there, and I was a wreck.

Ten minutes passed and ten more. By then, I'd gone into trance-like state. My eyes were closed when someone knocked on the door.

Hope flashed. I jumped up and threw it open. Sandra, the clinic's manager stood there. Hope crashed.

I stepped back, and Sandra walked in. A tall, elegant dark-skinned woman with a hard past of her own, as everyone who worked at this clinic had. But she'd never told me anything about her history, and it wasn't my place to ask.

"Myra, I don't think your client's going to show up today," she said.

My mouth and eyes opened wide.

"No! No! I don't believe that!" I almost shouted.

Then I flushed in embarrassment.

_I'm so unprofessional!_ I thought.

"I know you're upset. Why don't we sit down and talk about it?" Sandra said, in her voice that always seemed to stay calm.

I sat back down in my chair, and Sandra took the guest chair. I was silent, not knowing what to say, and Sandra asked me the same question I asked my clients to get them talking.

"Do you want to tell me what's going on? I know your client didn't show, but can you tell me why you're so affected by it?"

I wasn't sure myself. My extreme reaction had taken me by surprise. But I took a breath and tried to explain.

"I really expected Chloe to be here today. Because when I saw her last week, she was doing so well. She'd stayed off drugs for a week, and she convinced me she wasn't going back. So when she didn't show today, I got scared that something bad happened to her. That's why I'm so upset," I said. "I'm sorry I got so emotional about it."

I felt sniffy. I reached for a tissue from the box I kept on a small rickety table near the two chairs. Sandra looked at me and spoke again.

"Yes. This happens quite often. A client will clean up for a while and get our hopes up. Then they get back into the drugs and don't make it to their next appointment. They might come back later, or not. It happens all the time. But you're new, and I know it's the first time it's happened to you. It's hard when you care about them, and I know you care. That's why I hired you."

I knew that Sandra had also hired me because of own my own drug-use past, but she didn't say that. It was understood.

"You're right that it's the first time I've had this happen," I said. "But I'm upset and worried because I don't believe Chloe went back to using. I talked to her enough to know her, and I was sure that she was going to stay clean. So if she's not here, I think something must have happened to her. Something bad. You know it's not just drugs that our clients are involved with."

"Yes, I know that," Sandra answered. "If the drugs don't get them, the human traffickers will. Those people are often the ones who get them hooked on drugs. A lot of these kids are homeless and hungry, and they'll go with anyone who gives them a meal and a bed for the night. And sometimes, something goes wrong, and we never see them again. Either they end up in the morgue, or they just disappear. Is that what you're worried about?"

She'd hit the nail on the head.

"That's exactly what I'm worried about. And I have a terrible feeling about it. Can we report her to the police as missing? Or do something?" I asked.

"We can, but we don't often do that," Sandra answered. "Sometimes that can be worse for them."

"Worse how?" I asked.

"Because when we report our clients, the police run facial recognition scans on the video monitoring inside this building to find out who their parents are. Then the police notify the parents. It's up to them whether or not they want their kids to be looked for. The parents need to have money or influence, or that's not going to happen. But if they want their kids found, and they're willing to pay for it, the police can find them. They'll query the faces videotaped here in our clinic with the monitoring tapes of the entire city, and something will match up if they're still in New York and still alive."

"If the parents were rich, wouldn't they have already paid to have their kids found if they wanted them?" I asked.

"I'm not saying it could never happen, but it's unlikely. Someone would have to be insanely wealthy to afford a data search of the hundred thousand cities in this entire country. But when we narrow the range down to just our city, it becomes more doable," Sandra answered. "Doable, but not necessarily a good thing to do."

"OK. I understand why that could be bad," I said. "Because they'll be sent back to an abusive situation. Right?"

"Yes. That's the reason," said Sandra. "We make our clients sign an acknowledgement that they'll be videotaped in here. But they don't worry about it because they know everywhere they go on the streets, the subway, stores, and anywhere run by the government has video monitoring. And the government isn't going to check that video unless some crime is committed that they actually care about. Or if someone has a lot of money. I doubt if most of our clients come from wealthy families. Do you know anything about Chloe's family?"

"No. I don't. She never wanted to talk about them, and I didn't press her," I answered. "I assumed they were the reason she ended up on the streets though."

We looked at each other for a few moments. Recognizing the pain in each other's eyes. Then Sandra spoke.

"I've only reported one missing teen ever. And I'll always carry the guilt with me for what happened to that boy when he was sent back to his family. He's dead now. That was the last time I reported any of these kids. But you're Chloe's counselor, so I'm going to let you make the decision. It's up to you. Do you want me to report this?"

More silence. I dropped my face into my hands.

_I'm only eighteen! Why is she putting this awful burden on me?_ I asked myself, even though Sandra had just explained why.

"You don't have to answer right away," Sandra said. "You can take all the time you want to think about it."

I dropped my hands down and looked at Sandra again.

"But you know that the longer we wait, the more likely it gets that she'll never be found," I said.

"Yes, we both know that," Sandra agreed, putting the responsibility back on me.

Sandra sat back in the hard chair and rested her hands on her knees. Waiting patiently for my answer. I sat back in a similar position.

_OK_ , I told myself. _It's up to me. I've got to stop feeling sorry for myself and make this decision. Should I report Chloe? Should I let this go? Is she really in danger?_

A strong, weird feeling rose from deep in my gut.

_She is in danger!_ I thought.

Somehow I believed that to be true even though I had no proof or evidence. Every ounce of me believed it.

"Yes. Report her. I want you to," I said to Sandra with no hesitation in my voice.

Sandra sighed deeply. In that sigh, I heard a mix of sadness, resignation, and also relief. But I was confident now about my decision. Scared but confident.

We both rose from our chairs, and Sandra reached out a hand to me. The only physical gesture we were allowed to make. I took the hand and held onto it. Tears threatened to flow, but I held them back. Sandra squeezed my hand and then turned to leave without saying anything more.

# Chapter 5

Another week later, I sat in my office across from a new client. A slight sweat gleamed on the tan face he hid behind long dark hair. The sweat of a recovering addict.

"I'm so happy that you decided to come here, Laz," I said. "I know it can be scary to trust people you don't know and tell us you've been using drugs. Am I right?"

"Yes," said Laz.

He lifted a hand to wipe the hair from his face and looked at me with still bloodshot green eyes.

_This is how Chloe looked at her first appointment_ , I thought.

A week after reporting her missing to the police, there'd still been no word. Each day, my apprehension grew, but I focused back on my newest client.

"I know it was hard. And it's great that you're ready to make a change. I just want you to know that we're only here because we want to help you. That's all we care about," I said.

"OK," said Laz in an unsteady voice. "I believe you."

"I know that right now you might not completely believe me, and I wouldn't blame you for that," I said. "Because maybe people have told you that same thing—that they only want to help you—and then it turns out to not be true. They even end up hurting you. Has that ever happened?"

"Maybe," Laz answered.

He leaned back in the hard chair and crossed black pseudo-leather-clad arms over his chest. Hair fell over his eyes. I guessed that he didn't want to talk about that right now.

"Well, I hope this time will be different for you," I said. "Anyway, you've had three days of withdrawal, and now you've been through the worst of it. How are you feeling?"

"OK. I guess," said Laz. "Kind of weak and sweaty."

The eighteen year old lifted a hand to brush back hair again. Just from one side.

"Well, that's to be expected," I said. "It's going to take a while for everything to get out of your system. And it still can be hard even after that. There might be pressure on you to go back to using. But you must want to quit because you came here and went through detox. Can you tell me why decided to do that?"

"Uh, I don't know," said Laz.

He looked down again. I waited in silence. I kept my legs and arms open and uncrossed. I sat alert but relaxed—trying to look interested but not prying.

"I just got sick of it, I guess," he said.

Laz tipped his head all the way backward and let out a big sigh.

"That's a good reason," I said. "I'd like to hear more about it, but you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. Like I said, I'm just here to help you."

"I don't want to talk about it," said Laz. "But I'll tell you anyway. I got really scared."

He straightened his head and looked at me. There was a moment of silence.

"Yes?" I encouraged him to say more.

"One of...a friend of mine, like disappeared. A few weeks ago. The last time I saw him was in Club Cain, and no one's seen him since then. We think he must have OD'd," said Laz in a voice that started to crack.

A chill went down my spine.

_Just like Chloe!_ I thought.

Fear gripped me hard.

"Did you check with the police?" I asked him, although I knew the answer to that question.

"No. No way!" said Laz. "I'd never go there."

His eyes narrowed at me.

I realized I'd lost some ground with that question. But I'd panicked in that moment. The sense of knowing things—whether it was real or imaginary—had made me ask it. And now, I was feeling it strong. Something was terribly wrong. Something bad had happened to this young man's friend and to Chloe. I knew it, and I was terrified, but I had a job to do. Laz still needed my help. I pulled myself back into the moment.

"OK. I understand why you won't go to the police," I said. "I understand because I've been there too. I was a drug user. All of us who work here are ex-users. Did you know that?"

"No. I didn't. But I guess I've heard stuff like that," said Laz.

He sat up a bit and seemed less tense, but I didn't want to push him to open up any more. I sensed that now was not the time. It was the same kind of sensing or knowing things that had caused trouble for me in the school. My friends had said I was crazy when I told them about it, and they told my teachers. Then my family agreed to send me to a special institution. That was when I ran away.

Now I also sensed that Laz was curious about my own background. But I never told people about the time before my drug addiction or that I 'knew' stuff.

"Yes, Laz. I was an addict about three years ago," I said.

"Wow. You don't look like it," he said.

"Well I was," I answered. "I looked different back then. Big hair, lots of makeup, cool clothes. You wouldn't have recognized me. I hung around Club Cain, and that's where I got hooked."

Laz's eyes widened, but he didn't say anything. He was probably surprised that I'd hung out there. With my plain clothes and minimal makeup, I wouldn't fit in now.

"Same here," he said. "I go to the club for the music, but that's where I started using. And I drank a lot too."

I already knew what he'd had been taking from his drug tests. But I didn't tell Laz that. The important thing was that he was talking.

"So I've been there, and I know you can quit if you want to. But I know that unless you're lucky, it's not easy. This is just our first meeting. The main thing I want you to know is that if you're having a hard time, and you're feeling pressure to start using again, you can call us anytime."

I lifted a card from the small stack on the table next to our chairs and handed it to Laz. He glanced at it and put it in a jacket pocket.

"Someone will answer and talk to you. Or you can come here. This clinic is open twenty-four hours a day," I said.

"OK," said Laz.

He didn't argue that he wouldn't need to call or come in. And I didn't expect him to.

"I'm sorry about your friend and very concerned too. I hope he'll show up soon," I said.

But I was almost certain that wasn't going to happen.

"Thanks," said Laz.

He crossed his arms again. Eyes lowered behind hair.

"Is there anything else you want to talk about?" I said. "It's up to you. I don't want to put any pressure on you."

Laz brushed hair away from his eyes and looked at me. I waited.

_He has beautiful eyes_ , the thought came unwanted into my head, and I admonished myself for it. _I'm his counselor, and it's inappropriate for me to be admiring his eyes!_

"You said you went to Club Cain," Laz said finally. "After you stopped using, did you stop going there?"

"I didn't stop at first," I answered. "And my friends didn't pressure me. But they kept offering, and people I didn't know kept offering, and after I while, I slipped up. And I had to go through everything again—withdrawal. After that, I decided not to go to the club anymore. But that wasn't easy either. I had to find other things to do. Things that seemed really boring."

"Yeah. I don't think I'm ready to stop going to the club yet," he said. "All my friends are there, and we're into the music."

"I know," I said. "I'm not telling you to stop going. I'm not even telling you to never take drugs again. But I hope you won't because we both know they hurt you."

"Uh huh," said Laz.

He slumped back in his chair, crossed his arms and his legs, and let the hair fall down again.

_He doesn't want to talk anymore_ , that voice in my head told me.

I looked at him, and it seemed like my body was trying to tell me something too—physical attraction. I recognized it, felt ashamed of myself, and then felt tense. I hoped he didn't notice the tension.

"Well, Laz," I said. "Our time's about up today, but there's one more thing I want to say. It's great that you've gone through detox, and I'm thrilled about that. I believe in you, and I think you can stop cold if you want to. But if you do slip, please don't feel embarrassed to come back to your next appointment."

"OK. OK. I won't let that stop me from coming back," he said.

"Thank you!" I said.

I was surprised by how relieved his answer made me feel.

I rose from my hard-backed chair. Laz stood up too. I held out a hand to him, and he took it. I gave his hand a squeeze and then let go.

"I'll see you next week at the same time, right?" I asked.

"Right. I'll be here," said Laz.

Then he turned and walked out the door.

_I'm only relieved because I'm worried about his well being_ , I told myself. _Not because I'm attracted to him._

# Chapter 6

That evening, after unlocking its five locks, I pushed open the door to my apartment in Brooklyn. I pulled off my coat and hung it on a hook on the wall next to Frank's coat. Two other hooks were empty. That meant Rita wasn't home.

I pulled off my boots and left them by the door. Then I walked across the worn hardwood floor into the living room on feet that ached from long walks to and from the subway and the four flights of stairs I'd just climbed.

"Hey," Frank waved a casual hand at me.

He sat on the aged couch in the middle of the enormous, mostly bare room. He didn't look up from our small TV.

I sat down on one of the two folding chairs near the couch that made up the rest of the big room's furniture.

"News is on," said Frank. He didn't take his gaze away from the television.

My roommates hadn't asked me to watch TV after the night when I vomited, but I'd been watching the news lately, hoping to hear that the police had found Chloe.

"OK," I said.

I stared at the television, too tired to move or talk yet. I tried to focus on what the news reporter was saying.

"A teenager has gone missing in Manhattan," said the twentyish male reporter.

That got my attention.

"The parents of Chloe 847263 reported her, and police surveillance cameras spotted her in the Bowery subway station in the lower east side with an unknown male."

"Chloe! She was my client!" I said.

"Wow! Really?" Frank looked over at me.

I had a sudden realization.

"The Bowery station is close to Club Cain! She must have met him there," I said.

The TV showed a fuzzy film of Chloe walking in the dimly lit subway with the man. They walked with their arms around each other. He was taller than her and buff looking under loose clothes.

"This film was taken about two weeks ago at 2:30 in the morning," the TV newscaster continued.

"Looks like a hook-up," said Frank.

"Or maybe that's what she thought," I said.

On the film, Chloe and the man receded in the distance, and the film stopped and then repeated. It was a short sequence.

"Unfortunately, the video doesn't show where they went from here," said the newscaster. "And there's no record of this man's face on file. If anyone has information on him or has seen Chloe, please call the police."

The TV showed a close-up* of the man's face side by side with Chloe's face and a phone number on the bottom of the screen.

I stared at the broad, high cheek-boned face of the man. Pale skin and pale eyes. Straight blonde hair stuck out from under his hoodie. An attractive man in his late twenties or early thirties. His looked exactly like the man who came out of the bloody door in the same station a few weeks ago—the pale blonde version of him. That man's coloring had changed to brown and then back—in my mind anyway—but this man stayed pale in the video.

_Did I only imagine that?_ I wondered. _Am I just imagining now that this man is the same one?_

An intense coldness struck deep in my gut. My eyes felt moist, and tears began to drip out.

"Maybe she just took off with him somewhere, and she'll turn up later," said Frank.

I turned to look at Frank with water flowing from my eyes. He was about the same age as the man Chloe had gone with but shorter and thin. Curly brown hair topped an elf-like face. Frank looked at me, and his eyes widened.

"Hey, it's OK, Myrna. She could be OK. They don't know anything yet," he said. "They haven't found a body."

"Lots of times, they never find a body," I said in a shaky voice. "Anyway, I have a terrible feeling about this. I feel like she's gone. Gone for good."

I felt a little embarrassed to be getting so emotional in front of Frank. But he was a recovered addict too, and I knew he'd seen a lot.

Frank stared at me.

"Let me get you a tissue," he said.

He went into his room and came back with the box. I took one and blew my nose loud.

"She's gone. I know she's gone," I said, even though I knew it sounded crazy.

I was so upset that I forgot my usual rule about not telling people that I 'knew' things. But at least I didn't tell Frank that I'd seen that man in the subway. I knew for sure he'd think I'd gone crazy if I told him that.

"Do you think that guy took her for human trafficking, like to sell her in another country?" Frank asked.

"No. I think she's just gone," I said, knowing that didn't make sense.

Loud, long sobs shook through me. Frank reached over and patted my shoulder.

"You don't know that," he argued. "I think you're just worked up about it because she was your client. It's OK. It's going to be OK."

I knew he was trying to comfort me, but I also knew that neither of us believed that.

# Chapter 7

The next morning, I'd stopped crying, but my eyes and face were red when I walked into the clinic. I pulled off my coat in the warm office and wrapped it over an arm.

Danno sat behind the bar-enclosed counter in his area. As usual, he wore a plaid flannel shirt and jeans. Colorful knit cap. A comfortable, comforting sight, but today, I felt only misery.

"Hi Danno," I greeted him without trying to fake any cheerfulness.

Danno looked at me with knowing brown eyes. He didn't say anything about my red eyes and puffy skin.

"Sandra wants to talk you this morning. You can go to her office," he relayed the message.

"OK. Thanks," I said.

Danno buzzed the door to the inner offices open, and I went through. Sandra's office was just a few steps away down the narrow hallway. I tapped lightly on her door.

"Come in," I heard Sandra say.

I opened the door and walked in. Then I closed the door behind me and sat down on one of two chairs placed in front of Sandra's small desk. Her cramped office was only slightly larger than the offices of the counselors. The curtains of a tiny window behind her chair were parted. The view showed the curtained window of another building close by.

"Good morning, Myrna," said Sandra.

I greeted her too.

Sandra slid her laptop computer over to one side of her small desk. There was nothing else on it except her cell phone and the usual box of tissues. She placed her slender brown hands down on the desk in front of her and looked at me.

We stared at each other in silence for a moment. I knew what she wanted to talk about, but I wasn't able to start this conversation myself.

"I wanted to speak to you before you start work today. I can see by your face that you probably watched the news last night. Is that true?" Sandra asked.

"Yes, I did. I saw that Chloe's missing. Last seen with a strange man," I forced the words out.

"I'm sorry. I know this is hard, Myrna," said Sandra. "But it seems like you made the right decision about reporting her. At least they're looking for her now."

"That's true," I said. "But I don't think they're going to find her."

Tears started to leak from my eyes again. I reached for a tissue from the box on Sandra's desk.

"Why do you say that?" Sandra asked. "Sometimes they find these kids. Especially if her picture's been on TV. That increases the chances. Someone might recognize her, even in another state."

"I don't think so because it's just a feeling I have," I said. "I know you'll think I'm crazy, but inside me, I feel like she's gone. Where no one can ever find her!"

I heard my voice rising and breaking, and I realized I'd just broke my rule again: 'Don't tell people I know things. Don't ever tell anyone anything.'

I covered my mouth with my hand, wishing I could take my words back. Sandra looked at me in silence. Her dark brow winkled, and she leaned toward me.

"No. I don't think you're crazy, Myrna. But I know you're concerned about Chloe. And worried. You're deeply affected by this. That's not a bad thing. It's a good thing when you're a counselor, but it's probably making this hard for you to deal with. Especially because you're so young," said Sandra.

"It is hard," I agreed with a sob.

"Do you want to take the rest of today off, or even a few days?" Sandra asked. "I can cover for you. It's no problem at all."

I lifted the tissue to my nose and blew it.

"No. I don't want to," I said. "I want to be here with my clients. Is that OK? I know I must look awful."

I ran a hand through my mussed up hair, trying to make myself look more presentable.

"If you're sure you can handle it, that's fine," said Sandra. "I don't care what you look like. But you'll probably want to explain to your clients why you've been crying."

"Am I allowed to do that?" I asked. "I know we're not supposed to talk about one client to another."

"Yes, in this case, you can break that rule," said Sandra. "Chloe's been on the news after all. And they mentioned that she'd been to this clinic. But a lot of our clients might not watch the news, so they might not know that Chloe disappeared. I think it's good for them to know about. Don't you?"

"Yes. You're right," I agreed.

Sandra's computer beeped. She looked over at the screen and then typed for a moment on her keyboard.

"Why don't you take a few minutes to calm down. Then I'll have Danno send your next client in. She's out there, but she can wait a little. And Myrna, there's one more thing I want to say. Thank you. Thank you for doing what I couldn't do in my personal weakness."

The older woman leaned back against her chair, and a tear leaked from one eye, but she didn't wipe it.

I wasn't sure how to answer, but I knew I had to say something.

"You're welcome," I said finally and awkwardly. "I'll go to my office now."

"Yes. We'll talk again later," said Sandra.

I stood up and left.

# Chapter 8

A few days later, I sat on the small, hard chair in my office waiting for Laz—my next appointment. I felt drained from worrying about Chloe, both mentally and physically. But I was where I needed to be.

I'd been able to talk with my last client and focus on what she was saying, but Chloe and my weird experience in the subway had been on my mind through the entire appointment.

If anything, the situation had made me even more focused on my client. I'd told her about Chloe and that it was dangerous to go home with people she met in Club Cain. Hopefully, the young girl had listened and not resented the advice.

Now Laz was more than a half an hour late, but for some reason, I didn't feel worried about him. I was too tired to wonder about that. My mental focus was fuzzy. As if my grounding in reality had somehow left me along with the contents of my stomach on the night I'd thrown up.

My tired, numb mind obsessed over the man I'd seen in the subway.

_That man must be the kidnapper, but what should I do about it? What can I do?_ The questions circled through my mind, but my mind wasn't giving me any answers.

As I stared at the door of my office in a trance-like state, someone knocked on it.

"May I come in?" Sandra asked through the door.

"Yes, Sandra," I answered her.

The door opened, and Sandra stood there. She looked down at me with lines of concern in her dark forehead. Her moist, even darker eyes were wide with questions. Still feeling mentally foggy, I focused my gaze and looked back up at her.

Sandra's long colorful skirt swirled around her ankles as she walked in and sat down in the client chair in front of me. She stared at me as if confused.

I felt confused too. Confused about everything. But I didn't want to tell Sandra about how I felt or what had been happening to me lately.

_Will anyone believe what I saw in the subway?_ I wondered. _Not the police. And Sandra will think I'm crazy if I tell her about that._

After staring at me in silence for moment, Sandra spoke.

"I don't think your client Laz is going to show up today, Myrna," she said.

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

Sandra tilted her head to one side and looked at me again. She threaded fingers through her short hair.

"Aren't you worried about him?" she asked. "You were so worried about Chloe, I thought you'd be upset about Laz too, but you seem calm this time."

"No. I'm not worried," I answered. "I think he's OK right now."

"How would you know that?" asked Sandra.

"I don't know. It's just a feeling," I said. "I can't explain it."

Sandra sat back and crossed her arms. She tapped a booted foot for a few moments. I watched the tapping boot. My thoughts seemed far away, thinking of nothing except the man in the subway.

"Myrna, I'm concerned about you," said Sandra. "You're not acting like yourself today, and you don't look well either. Is it possible that the stress of what happened to Chloe is getting to you?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Sometimes traumatic experiences can shake loose our sense of reality," said Sandra. "So I wonder if you think you know that Laz is OK because it's too much for you to handle that another one of your clients might be in trouble. Is that possible?"

I looked back at Sandra, but I didn't answer right away.

_Is that true?_ I wondered. _Did I imagine everything I saw in the subway that night too? But I couldn't have imagined things to make myself feel better then because Chloe hadn't disappeared yet. So that explanation doesn't make sense._

"I don't know," I finally said.

"Do you want me to report Laz to the police too?" Sandra asked me. "I made a mistake in not doing that with so many others, but I'll do it now if you want. He's your client, and you can make the call."

"So many others?" my fuzzy awareness picked up on that phrase. "How many others?"

"Well, I've been working here for years, you know that," said Sandra. "And lots of clients come in here and then stop coming. So maybe hundreds, I'd say."

I jolted up straight in my chair.

"Hundreds!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, probably hundreds," said Sandra. "You know that millions of young people run away from home every year. But even if I reported them all, the police won't look for them unless the parents have money to pay for it, and not many do. Most parents are probably glad they have one less mouth to feed. That's just how it is in this world."

Sandra lowered her gaze and hugged her crossed arms tighter across her thin chest. She seemed lost in her own thoughts for the moment.

"But what can we do if the police won't help?" I asked her.

Sandra looked up at me.

_At least she's not looking at me like I'm crazy anymore_ , I thought.

"I don't know," said Sandra. "There's nothing we can do except try to help them get off the drugs. But we can't do anything about what happens out there on the streets and in the clubs. We don't have any control over that. And like I said, the police aren't going to do anything unless the parents pay. I've started reporting them anyway. One or two a week don't show up," said Sandra.

"That many?" I asked.

"Yes, it's always been like that. But we have so many clients here, and you know a lot of them just can't get clean. Anyway, now I wait for two missed appointments and then report them. That's my new procedure," said Sandra.

"Even if you report them, it might still be too late. Like with Chloe," I said.

"That's true," said Sandra. "But it's all we can do."

"There must be something more we can do," I said, but I had no idea what.

# Chapter 9

That night in the apartment, I sat next to Frank on our living room couch. We were watching the evening news. Wrapped in blankets and wearing long flannel pajamas, we both held steaming cups of cocoa that Frank had made with real soymilk. An expensive treat.

"I thought you hate TV and you hate the news, but lately you've been watching every night. What's up with that?" asked Frank. "Not that I mind the company."

"Now I have to watch," I said. "I need to know if there's any news about Chloe. Or if more people go missing. I need to know."

Frank turned and stared at me. With no smile, his thin-featured face looked drawn and tense.

"Why do you need to know?" he asked.

"Because I care," I said.

"It's good to care, but sometimes it's not good to care too much," said Frank.

I put my empty cup down on the table in front of me and wrapped my blanket tight around myself. I stared back at the television screen. The gas-heated apartment was cool in late fall, but a deep chill gripped my entire body.

I'd been watching the news every night since the story about Chloe had first aired. Each night, there was a replay of the same video. But so far, there was no progress or leads in finding Chloe. Maybe there never would be, but I had to keep watching.

The TV showed the Bowery subway station sign at street-level view. My cold feeling increased as the camera panned down the stairs and into the station.

"There's still no clue on the missing teen who was last seen in this subway," said the announcer.

I sighed out loud. Ever since that night in the subway when I'd seen the man and the blood, I'd felt different somehow. Even more different than I usually felt.

Part of my mind was fuzzy. The part that paid attention to other people and my surroundings. Another part of my mind felt much sharper. And it was focused like a laser on the question of Chloe's disappearance.

Frank reached a hand over and placed it on my shoulder, but he didn't say anything. The same video played again.

"This film captures a young teen named Chloe going into the Bowery station with an unknown man," the announcer's voice continued.

The grainy video continued. Under the station's dim but garish tubular lighting, thin, teased-haired Chloe, dressed all in black, walked next to the large blonde man down the narrow island between the two tracks.

"This man was last seen with the missing teen," the newscaster said.

I leaned forward and looked closer. Again, I noticed how much he looked like the man I'd seen come out of the door below the stairs. And he was leading Chloe in that same direction. But I wasn't sure if I should tell Frank about that or not.

_He'll probably think I'm crazy_ , I thought.

"You don't have to keep watching," said Frank. "I know it's upsetting you. I'll tell you if there's anything new."

"Wait!" I said. "Look how bulky that man is. That's not fat, that's muscle. He must be wealthy. Only rich people can afford to eat that much protein."

As that thought entered my mind, red spots bloomed in the edges of my vision. I leaned back against the couch, closed my eyes for a moment, and took some deep breaths.

_I won't throw up_ , I told myself.

"So you think this guy is super rich?" Frank asked.

He turned and looked at me. I stared intently at the screen, not really seeing it now and only half paying attention what he was saying.

"Are you OK?" Frank asked me.

"I'm OK," I answered. "But I've got to do something about this. Every week, one or two clients don't show up at the clinic. And it's been happening for years. Sandra told me. Even if she reports it, the police won't look unless the parents pay. And most can't afford to if they even want to."

I stared back intently at Frank. A thin man with a pointy nose and features so different from the massive, broad-faced blonde man. I decided to try to explain what I'd seen. Hopefully, he wouldn't freak out too much.

"Frank, the man in this video looks just like a man I saw in the subway the night I got sick," I said. "But sometimes he looks blonde, and other times he looks like a dark-skinned man."

I felt the truth of that somewhere inside me.

"What are you talking about?" Frank answered. "How do you know that?"

"I know because I just know," I said.

A phone number flashed across the television screen.

"Please call this police tip number if you have any information about Chloe or this man," said the announcer.

"I need to call the police and tell them they need to look for that brown-skinned man too!" I said. "Before anyone else goes missing."

I reached for my cell phone on the table in front of me. But before I got it, Frank reached out and covered the phone with his own hand.

"No, Myrna. Wait," he said. "Stop and think for a minute. If you call the police and tell them they need to start looking for a brown-skinned man, they'll think you're crazy. 'I know because I just know' won't be a good enough reason. They'll have your phone number, and they'll log you into their system as suspicious. You know that, right?"

"I know you're right, but I don't want to let my fear for myself stop me from helping Chloe and lots of other people," I said. "I have to do it."

"No. You don't," said Frank. "It's not going to help anyone. It's only going to hurt you. Think about it. If you know things, you must know that's true too."

"Hmm," I said.

I rested my hands on my blanket-covered knees and thought for moment. It was confusing because my mind seemed to work differently than it had in the past. Now I noticed that it leaped to conclusions on its own without analyzing all the available information.

_Yes! Frank is right!_ I realized.

I turned to look at him with wide eyes.

"Frank, you know things too!" I said in a surprised voice.

Frank laughed. "You finally figured that out?" he said.

Then his voice got more serious.

"Actually, I'm starting to get worried about you, Myrna. You've been acting strange. Ever since that night when you came home late and threw up. If there's anything you need to talk about, I'm here to listen. I won't judge. You know that," said Frank. "Has something changed?"

"You're right. I do feel different since that night, but the only thing I need to talk about is Chloe and who that man is," I said. "If I don't call the police, and they're not going to find her, then I need to do something on my own. I need to talk about that."

"I admire you for feeling that way, but what can you do, Myrna?" Frank asked.

His eyes widened, and he gripped my shoulder.

"You're not thinking about hanging around in the subway at night, are you?" he asked.

"I could go back to the subway and see if one of those men comes out and then follow him. That's a great idea!" I said.

"No, Myrna! That's a terrible idea. Waiting for a kidnapper in the subway! What if he notices you following him and kidnaps you too? And what do you mean, 'comes out'? Comes out from where?" Frank asked in an agitated voice.

"Comes out from the door under the stairs," I said. "I saw that man—he looked exactly like him except when his coloring changed—come out from under the stairs."

"Under the stairs?" Frank repeated. "His coloring changed?"

He dropped his hand from my shoulder and looked at me as if I were crazy. I made an effort to explain, but I knew how it would sound.

"Yes, Frank. I didn't tell you everything before. I saw a man come out of a small door. He looked just like the man Chloe was with. But his skin and hair color changed back and forth. I know you think I'm losing it or hallucinating, but I'm not," I insisted.

Frank stared at me for a moment before speaking. Then he said, "Maybe you're not imaging things, but have you thought about talking to your post-recovery advisor Gorg, just to make sure? Have you talked to him lately? I know Chloe's disappearance has been hard on you, and it wouldn't hurt to check in and talk about it with a professional."

I pushed down the angry response I felt like giving to that suggestion.

"Frank, I know you care about my well being. And I'll go and talk to Gorg but not yet. Right now—tonight—I need to find out what happened to Chloe and the others who keep disappearing. The more time that passes, the lower the chance gets of their being alive. You know that, right?" I said.

Frank leaned back and sighed. He lifted a hand and covered his small mouth and pointy nose with it. His thinking expression, I knew.

"OK, Myrna," he said. "It looks like I can't talk you out of this. But I'll go with you."

I thought about that for a moment.

"No, Frank," I said. "I have to do this alone. It won't work if you're there."

"Why won't it work?" Frank asked. "Because he won't be able to kidnap you if I'm there?"

"I don't know why. It's just a feeling I have," I said. "Thank you for offering though. I really appreciate that."

I looked at Frank's distraught face.

_He's thinking about calling Gorg about me_ , I guessed.

I got up fast and ran to my room to change into some old, dark clothes.

"Wait! Myrna! I'll walk you to the subway," I heard Frank say behind me.

# Chapter 10

About an hour later, I stood leaning against a rusted metal girder near the door under the stairs in the Bowery subway station. Slouching back in a baggy old coat, dark work pants, and worn, scuffed boots, I angled my body toward the train tunnel.

The coat's black hood partly covered my face. I looked toward the approaching trains as they came out of the tunnel's dark mouth. But my attention was on the small door in the edge of my peripheral vision.

Again, I wasn't aware of how much time passed. Trains, people, and time itself seemed to flow around me unnoticed and unnoticing while I waited. Until, once again, red liquid appeared around the edges of the door, and the fast flow of time slowed and went back to normal.

The door opened half way, releasing a gush of red, bloody liquid. A big, brawny man stepped out of the part-opened door and quickly shut it. This time, his skin was brown, and his hair was black, but I knew he was the same man I'd seen before. Blood stained his pants up to the knees and gushed down onto the subway tracks.

I didn't turn my head to look, but again, there was no sound of the electric sparks and crackles I'd expect when liquid poured onto the subway's live electric lines.

I slouched deeper into the gap in the metal girder that I leaned against. I kept my face straight toward the tunnel.

_I'm just a nobody waiting for a train_ , I willed the man to believe.

In spite of the late hour, a few people passed by. They didn't notice the man or the blood, and their shoes didn't leave tracks through it. But the man's shoes left tracks as he walked a few feet toward me.

Then he turned and walked around the staircase to its entrance. Up the stairs. I waited till he was near the top and then followed.

Before I reached the top of the stairs, I paused with just my head up at street level. I twisted my neck and looked around.

There! I saw the main walking away down the street to the north. His back was to the subway. I climbed all the way out and followed.

The strange mental numbness about everything around me, except this one man, overtook me and somehow told me what to do. I walked with soft steps and maintained a certain distance back from him.

When he stopped at a street corner to wait for the light to change, the big man turned and looked around. He looked back in my direction, but I didn't flinch or pause in my steady tread forward.

The pedestrian light flashed green, and the man crossed the street to the east. I neared the corner as he crossed again to the north and continued on his way up a street of darkened doorways. The glass windows of a few closed shops glimmered under the harsh but weak orange streetlights.

I reached the corner and stopped there. I watched the man walk part way up the block. Other pedestrians walked past me in both directions, but I didn't look at them. The walk light turned green, and I crossed north, staying across the wide one-way street from the man. A bus went by and a few cars.

He stopped in front of a darkened doorway. Then he climbed a few steps and stood facing a square of darkened glass set in the door just below his head height. The glass held only the slightest shimmer from the tall sodium lights on the far corners of the street.

I walked steadily on but kept watching. The color of the square of glass in front of the man changed as if there was movement behind it. A few seconds later, the door opened just enough to admit him, and he went in.

I kept walking, and some of the fog in my mind cleared as I realized where he'd gone.

_That's Club Cain!_ I thought.

Now I noticed that among the few pedestrians walking by were some young people dressed for clubbing. I climbed a stoop in front of a doorway and sat down, facing in the direction of the club. Two spike-haired teens in black imitation leather stopped in front of the glass and went through the same routine as the man had.

_That must be the same man who took Chloe!_ I thought. _I need to go in there too, but they'll never let me in dressed like this. Should I wait here until he comes out again? That could be hours. But what if he takes another teen? I have to know._

The stone step I sat on was hard and cold, but except for my butt, the rest of me was warm in many layers of old clothes. I looked around for a better spot.

Behind me, a squat bush cast a shadow on one side of the concrete stairway. I waited till the street was empty. Then I got up and went down the stairs. I sat down on the ground in the shadow of the bush.

I breathed in, and the acidic smell of urine burnt my nose. I had the urge to get back up, but the strange mental fog came back in and took over. My thoughts grew fuzzy, and my eyes focused on doorway across the street.

Time passed without my awareness. People passed. In the time that I waited, a few people even went up the stairs right next to me. But I didn't pay any attention to them.

"Ugh! That smell!" someone said from the top of the stairs. "Look, there's another homeless person next to our stairway. When will the government do something about them?"

"It's not illegal," said someone else. "And you know there are shelters, but the young people who run away won't go to them."

"That stupid club across the street draws them here," said the first voice in a disgusted tone.

"We could always move," said the second.

"Yeah, right," said the other voice. "Like I would give up my rent-controlled apartment?"

I heard them, but I ignored them both. Something fell through the air and dropped to the ground in front of me, but I ignored that too. I sat unmoving, unthinking, eyes focused only on the door across the street.

The door to the club opened and closed, letting people in and out, but not the tall, bulky man. More time passed.

After what might have been hours later, the man came out. A younger man was with him—a tall, lanky teenager. Red spiky hair glimmered in the dimness above his dark clothes. They walked down the street together, back toward the Bowery station.

I waited till they'd crossed the corner both ways. Then I got up and followed, still at a distance.

As I expected, the two males went down the stairs into the Bowery subway station. I waited at the top of the stairs.

_Should I go down there?_ I wondered.

At two in the morning, the street was almost deserted. The subway would probably be empty, except for those two and me if I went in.

But something tugged at me, and I couldn't resist. I pulled the drawstrings of my coat's hood tight around my face and creeped down the stairs. I turned at the bottom and looked around. The subway was empty. The two people I'd been following were already gone, but I hadn't heard any trains come in.

I looked down at the narrow edges of the concrete that surrounded the stairway. One set of red footprints led away from the foot of the stairs, around to the doorway under them.

I stared at the thin lines that barely suggested the doorway. There was no handle on the door.

_How does it open?_ I wondered.

This time, I didn't get an answer to my question. Frustrated, I walked away and waited for the next train home. The sense that time was moving fast was gone, and I endured an uncomfortable wait alone in the cold, creepy station.

# Chapter 11

Finally, my train pulled in, and I got on. I sat on a thin-cushioned seat and stared at the clean stainless steel walls of the empty car. A complete contrast to the shoddy conditions of the Bowery station.

_What should I do now?_ I asked myself in frustration. _Another person is in danger. I need to tell the police but not from my cellphone. Maybe a phone booth?_

The train stopped and opened its doors at all the other stations on the way to my station in Brooklyn, but no one got on. About a half an hour later, I reached my stop, the Utica Avenue station, and got off the train.

The broad, curving street was almost empty, but a few people walked along at a far distance from me. I looked in the direction of my apartment, several enormous blocks away.

Large apartment buildings converted from mansions built in the early twentieth century stretched along the side of the curved street. Across the street hulked the enormous dilapidated building that used to be the Brooklyn Public Library. Past the library, overgrown plants swayed in the wind and cast dark shadows in the vast space of the abandoned Brooklyn Botanical Gardens.

Now I was only interested in the phone booths spaced at far but regular intervals along my side of the street. Almost no one ever used the phones because everyone had cellphones, but the government kept the ancient phones working and free to use for emergencies.

A quarter-mile walk brought me to the nearest booth. I pushed on its graffiti-covered door. It stuck, and I shoved hard to get its grimy wheels moving on the track that bent its doors open. I stepped inside. A phoneless cord dangled from an ages-old black box.

I left the booth and walked on to the next one. The phone in it was intact. I lifted it and held its round black plastic ends to my ear and mouth.

Then I paused. I realized that I didn't know the police tip number they showed on TV. So instead, I reached up to push the faded numbers on square silver buttons: 9, 1, and 1.

An indistinct static buzz repeated in my ear.

_Will anyone answer?_ I wondered just as someone did.

"Hello. 911," said a bored voice. "What is your emergency?"

"I just saw a teenager get kidnapped," I said.

"Really? Where? What happened?" the voice asked, sounding more interested.

"In the Bowery subway station," I said. "It was the kidnapper you've been looking for, but he's changed his hair and skin color to brown. He took the other girl, Chloe, too. The one they've been showing on the news."

"Hmm," said the 911 operator. "That sounds a bit confusing. I see you're calling from a phone booth in Brooklyn. What is your name?"

"I can't tell you my name," I said. "I'm just saying that you need to start looking for a brown-skinned man with black hair. He's the same man as the blonde man in the video."

"Look, ma'am," said the operator. "Do you really expect us to start looking for every brown-skinned man who takes a subway in the lower east side? Do you think the police department has the budget to pay for that? Do you have the money? Because we don't. How do you know about this anyway, unless you're somehow involved?"

I felt nervous.

_They know where I am, and they think I'm crazy or else part of the kidnapping_ , I thought. _Will they send a police car to this phone booth?_

"I'm sorry, I was just trying to help," I said.

I replaced the phone on its metal hook, left the booth, and took off running. Instead of heading for my apartment, I ran up a side street for a few blocks.

Out of breath, I turned and walked in the direction of my street. Then turned again and walked back toward it on another side street. Back on Eastern Parkway, I stopped on the corner next to my building and looked down the street at the phone booth several large blocks away.

All was quiet and empty. Still, I creeped though the shadows to reach my building's side doorway.

# Chapter 12

After fumbling to unlock its five locks, I shoved the door open to find Frank standing in front of me in the foyer.

"Myrna!" he exclaimed as I walked in. "You stink!"

Frank backed away from me.

"You smell like piss!" he said.

"What the hell?" I heard Rita shout from the couch in the living room. "Myrna, have you been using again? Busted!"

"No. I haven't been using," I insisted. "I was sitting behind a bush, hiding. The smell must have got on me."

"Oh, not using, just crazy," said Rita.

"Myrna, what's going on?" Frank asked me. "No. Tell me later after you get rid of those clothes."

I noticed the pungent smell more myself now that I was inside the close, warm air of the apartment. I took off my old coat and sniffed it. Then I held it away from me.

"It's mostly on my coat," I said.

"Stop right there," said Frank. "Don't come in yet. I'll get you a trash bag to put all your clothes in. You'll have to throw them all out. It could be on everything, and you can't wash away that smell or any disease that might be in human body fluid."

I didn't mind throwing out all of these old, baggy clothes, but I felt uncomfortable.

"Do you expect me to get naked here in the hallway?" I asked.

"I'll bring you some clothes to change into," said Frank. "And we'll give you privacy. Right Rita?"

"Whatever," said Rita.

Frank rushed away to get the bag and clean clothes for me. I opened the door behind me and dropped my old second-hand coat outside in the hallway. I took off my boots and threw them out there too. Then Frank came back and handed me a giant-sized trash bag and my pajamas.

"I'll go into my room now," he said.

But first, he walked back into the living room and stood next to the couch.

"Rita, let's go," said Frank.

"No. I can't get up now. I'm watching my show," she said.

Rita turned and looked at me.

"Go ahead and get dressed," she said. "I won't look."

I still felt uncomfortable.

"If you don't go in your room, I'll come over there and bring my pee clothes with me," I said.

"I can't believe how pushy you are, Myrna," said Rita. "I didn't know you were that kind of person. Anyway, stay over there. I'm going."

She got up from the couch. Frank waited for her to head for her room. Then he followed behind her. After Rita closed her door, he turned back to me.

"Knock on my door when you're done," he said. "I'll take your stuff out to the dumpster."

"Enabler!" I heard Rita yell from inside her room.

## 

A half an hour later, I sat in my pajamas on the couch next to Frank. A towel wrapped around my damp hair kept it from dripping down my back. Rita sat on his other side.

"That shower took too long! You used too much hot water," she accused me without turning her face away from the TV. "Who's going to pay for that?"

"Turn the TV off, Rita," said Frank. "We need to talk."

"Right. Just waste more of my time," Rita complained, but she grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned it off.

"Anyway, Rita," said Frank. "You run the hot water till it goes cold every time you take a shower, but we always pay equal shares of the bill."

"Oh, now you're getting down on me, when she's the one who's messing up? Are you trying to get the focus off the craziness of what's going on with Myrna? Why are you doing that Frank?" Rita's voice rose. "You know as well as I do that even if she's not taking drugs, something's wrong with this picture. We need to tell Gorg, so he can do something about it. Myrna shouldn't be living here with recovered people if she's not recovered. She needs to go back to one of the halfway houses for people who still have problems."

I sat silent through Rita's rant. I hated confrontation and usually didn't argue back with people. But this was important. People's lives were in danger.

_I have to find out what's going on. I don't have time to deal with Gorg and possibly have to move somewhere else_ , I thought.

I leaned forward around Frank and stared at Rita, who was still looking straight ahead at the now blank TV screen.

"Rita, look at me," I said. "If you talk to Gorg about me, I'll tell him what you've been doing too. Do you understand?"

She turned and stared at me with big eyes and a wide-open mouth.

"I can't believe you're threatening me, Myrna!" she said. "Anyway, I haven't done anything. I'm not using or drinking. You're the one who's doing crazy stuff, not me. Right Frank?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Frank leaning back into the couch with eyes opened wide behind his thick glasses. His head turned back and forth to look at the two of us, but he didn't answer Rita's question.

I answered it for him. "I know you're drinking, Rita. You've been out late lots of nights for more than a year. You're probably doing drugs too."

"Yeah, I go out after work, but I'm not taking drugs. How the hell would you know that?" Rita demanded.

I was suddenly certain of it, but I couldn't explain how I knew. So I gave Rita a logical-sounding answer instead.

"I work at a drug clinic. Do you think I don't recognize the signs?" I said. "Anyway, I don't have any problem with taking a drug and alcohol test. We can both get one if that's what you want."

Rita leaned back on the couch and sniffed.

"Fine! You get your way, as usual," she said. "I won't tell Gorg since you're willing to betray me. I knew you were stuck up, and you think you're superior, but I didn't know till now how sociopathic you are. You've gone crazy, but Frank will just keep enabling you, won't you Frank?"

"Huh?" said Frank.

He sat stiff with arms crossed defensively over his thin chest. He crossed his legs too.

"You're enabling her because you've got a thing for her. You're hot for her and just waiting for her to get the hots for you too. But she never will. That's why you secretly sleep with me but pretend we don't have anything going on, isn't it Frank?" Rita accused him.

Frank covered his face.

"Do we really have to talk about this now?" he mumbled from behind his hands.

"Yes, we're sleeping together," Rita said to me. "Did you know that?"

I sat forward and looked at both of my roommates. I'd just heard some disturbing revelations, but for some reason, they didn't seem that important.

"Look Rita and Frank," I said. "I care about both of you. I hope you know that. But I don't need to know these things about your personal lives. Right now, I just need to try to stop my clients and other people from disappearing. And I need to get some sleep because tomorrow night, I have to go to Club Cain and find the kidnapper."

Frank took his hands off his face and looked at me.

"No, Myrna. Please don't do that," he said.

"See! See!" Rita shouted. "She's totally lost it! She's gone over the deep end!"

I stood up and walked toward my room. Rita got up and followed me. She grabbed my arm before I reached the door to my bedroom.

"Myrna, I've always wanted to go to that club. I'll go with you. OK?" she said.

"No, Rita," I said. "You can't go with me. They might not let you in, and then I won't be able to get in either if I'm with you."

Rita's face scrunched up.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked. "Are you saying I'm not cool enough to get in? But you are! You think you're better than me!"

"That's not what I meant, Rita. It's because you're older. This is an underage club, remember?" I tried to explain without making Rita even more mad.

"Now you're saying I look old!" Rita shouted at me. "You're not underage. You're eighteen!"

Frank got up from the couch and walked past us into his room. The door to his room shut behind him.

_I need to end this conversation, so I get some sleep_ , I thought.

"Right, Rita. I'm eighteen," I said. "But you're twenty-seven. Some people my age still go to Club Cain. But no one your age goes unless they're people with money looking to meet teenagers. Is that what you want to look like? And you'd have to pay to get in. It's expensive. You'd have to pay for me too if I'm with you. Do you have the money for that? Because I don't."

Somehow explaining the two types of patrons who frequented the club disturbed me. I'd never spent a lot of time thinking about this reality when I'd been going there. Now the stark realization hit me. Club Cain was a place where older wealthy people went to buy the bodies and time of younger people.

_That's even more reason why I need to go there and find the man who took Chloe and the others_ , I told myself.

"OK. Fine. I won't go," said Rita.

I heaved a sigh of relief that she was backing down.

"But I look young for my age. Everyone says so. I don't look that much older than you. You're just flattering yourself, Myrna. You're just trying to make me pay for you to get into an expensive club, but I won't. And I bet you won't be able to get in free by yourself either. You're too old now. I'll have the last laugh when you come back all depressed because you got turned away!" said Rita.

She turned and stomped into her room. The door slammed.

_Phew!_ I thought.

Then I went to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

# Chapter 13

The next evening, it was time for me to get ready to go out to Club Cain. I closed my door, so that Rita wouldn't see me getting dressed and get mad again. Then I pulled a box down from the shelf in my closet.

I set the box down on my bed and opened it. I stared for a moment at folded up clothes, shoes, and trays of makeup that had been so valuable to me just a few years ago. I'd boxed it all away after I stopped using drugs and going to clubs. The sight of the things from my past momentarily froze me, and an unexpected jolt of mixed, confused feelings coursed though me.

Loss? Regret? Shame? I didn't know exactly what, but the obsession that had been driving me pushed through those feelings, and I began to unpack the box.

In the past, it had been fun to take an hour or more to tease my hair, put on dramatic makeup, and dress in the coolest clothes, but now it felt like a chore.

_It's like I was a different person back then_ , I realized. _Why did all that seem so important to me?_

I didn't know the answer to that question, and my thoughts turned to my plan for the night. _I need to walk around and look for that guy, but I don't want to stand out too much_.

I teased my hair only enough to fit in, applied dark makeup, and dressed all in tight black.

When I opened my door to leave, I heard the sound of the television. Frank and Rita were sitting together on the couch. I walked past them on my way to the apartment's foyer, and they both turned to look at me.

"Myrna!" Frank exclaimed.

"Whatever," said Rita.

Frank got up and met me while I was putting on my coat next to the front door.

"Myrna. You don't have to do this," he said. "It's just...it's just..."

"It's just crazy?" I asked. "Is that what you were going to say?"

"No, Myrna. Maybe. I don't know," Frank admitted. "But it could be dangerous. I know that."

"I know that too, Frank," I said. "But that's OK. I have to go anyway. I know you don't understand, but thank you for worrying about me."

"Oh! Isn't that sweet!" Rita said from the couch.

"Frank, If I don't come back, I want you to know that I care about you. And you too, Rita," I said.

"If you don't come back!" Frank shouted.

"Don't worry. I'm sure I'll be back," I said.

"Yeah, sooner than you think when they don't let you in for free," said Rita.

"Bye Frank and Rita," I said. "Frank will you please lock all the locks behind me?" I asked.

He just stared at me without answering, but I knew he'd do it. Then I unlocked the door's five locks and left.

# Chapter 14

About an hour later, I stood in front of the door to the club. My coat was open, so the bouncer looking through the window could see my slim figure in tight, stylish black.

I remembered how I'd felt in the past standing at this door. So cool, hip, so hot! But now I felt only embarrassed and dehumanized—as if I were an item for sale being inspected.

The door opened just enough for me to squeeze in, and I entered a small hallway. I stood under the arch that was the club's weapons detector for less than a minute. Then the bouncer buzzed open the club's inner door, and I went in.

My eyes adjusted to the dim lighting in the familiar crowded and noisy one-room warehouse. And I breathed in the same smoky air, filled with tobacco, marijuana, and other less legal intoxicants.

Near the entrance, a heavily made up older woman stood in a split doorway with the top half opened. I took off my coat and handed it to her.

I recognized Angla, but I didn't say anything. I hoped the coat checker wouldn't remember me. Angla's small green eyes peered at me. Her lips pursed in an unreadable expression, but she didn't say anything either.

She handed me a coat stub and moved away from the door. I put the stub in a small pocket in my skin-tight stretch pants and moved on.

Following my plan, I started toward the nearest wall of the vast open but crowded space. I moved along the edge of the wall, putting some distance between myself and the coat room. Then I stopped and took up a position leaning against the wall in an empty spot between two other thin leaners.

Both male, young, and hidden under dark hoods, they didn't look toward me, and I didn't look at them. They weren't the man I was looking for.

I bent one leg to rest a spike-heeled shoe against the wall and looked straight ahead.

Toward the center of the club, dancers moved sinuously in and out of the murky black-lit smoky air. Some very young and showing skin, some older.

Closer to me on the outer edge of the vast room, other club goers walked past in groups, pairs, and singles. Only a few looked over to check out me and the other wall lurkers. I watched and waited for about ten minutes. Then I moved on.

Patiently, I worked my way around the edges of the club. In addition to Angla, I'd seen a few more people I'd known in the past—some teenagers and some older people who came here to meet teens.

I moved on whenever I spotted a familiar face, hoping they didn't recognize mine. If they did, no one approached me or spoke to me.

After a few hours, I still hadn't seen the man I was looking for.

_Is he even here tonight?_ I wondered.

Then from my latest spot on the wall, I saw someone I recognized—a familiar face from my present.

My client Stella was dancing about ten feet ahead of me with another young girl and a thin teen boy. I tipped my face down, so my hair covered it, and I edged away sideways on the wall.

Not watching where I was going, I bumped into another wall leaner.

"Sorry," I said, turning toward the dark-haired young man dressed in black pants and a plain white t-shirt.

I recognized my client Laz and gasped.

"Myrna?" he asked. "Is that you? What are you doing in here? Getting back to partying?"

Laz spoke in a loud voice, almost a yell, to be heard over the club's pounding music.

I unfroze and answered him.

"No. I'm not here for that," I answered.

I had to yell, but I knew no one standing even a few feet away could hear me.

Laz chuckled.

"No. It's not that," I tried to explain. "I'm here looking for a man."

Laz closed the distance between us and stood in front of me, inches away.

"Well, it looks like you found one," he said in a flirty but nervous voice.

"That's not what I meant," I said, aware of his closeness and oddly confused by it.

But my purpose still drove me. And now that Laz was so close, I could speak without yelling.

"I'm looking for the man who was seen with my client Chloe before she disappeared. They showed the video of him on TV. Did you see that? I saw that man come out of the subway, and I tracked him here last night. He left the club with another boy and took him back into the subway," I said.

Laz had turned his head sideways, so he could hear me better while I was talking. Now he turned back and faced me. He lifted an arm and placed his hand on the wall just above my shoulder. Then he leaned in close and spoke.

When I turned my head to listen, his tan arm was inches from my face. It was lean with defined muscles under a black swirling tattoo.

"Sorry, what was that?" I asked him.

Somehow I'd missed what Laz had just said.

"I said that I saw the video on TV, but what you're telling me sounds crazy," said Laz. "You followed a man to the club from the subway. And then you followed him back into the subway with some guy he picked up here. So now you know that he's a kidnapper. How can you know that, Myrna? Have you been using psychedelics?"

I pushed down the angry reply that instinctively came to my lips, but I still felt frustrated.

_I'm not going to be able to explain this, and I need to get back to looking for that man!_ I thought.

I spoke to Laz in a fierce, intense voice. "People are disappearing and maybe dying, and I need to try to stop it. That man takes people from this club. I can't explain how I know, and I probably can't convince you or make you understand. But I still need to find him. Because I'm the only one who can. I tried to report him to the police, but they wouldn't listen. So it's up to me."

So close, Laz stared into my eyes for a moment. Then he spoke.

"Even if you're right, what do you expect to do about it? Are you planning to go with him too? If he's kidnapping people and then they disappear? How's that going to help?"

I thought about that. I hadn't planned past looking for him in the club. What would I do next?

"You're right, Laz," I said. "I'll have to go with him. That's the only way."

I tilted my head to both sides, trying to look past Laz, in case I'd missed the man I was looking for while we were talking.

"OK. I'll move out of your way," said Laz. "But no. I didn't mean that's a good idea."

He took his hand down from behind me and moved around to lean against the wall beside me. His shoulder pressed against mine, but I didn't move away.

I scanned the crowd in front of me and didn't see the man, but I noticed a change in the color of the smoky air. Its black light purple-tint was now spotted with red. Blood red. I didn't know how, but I felt the man's presence in the club, and I felt him moving closer.

I tipped my head sideways toward Laz, so I could talk without yelling. I was tall, and with my heels on, we were about the same height.

"He's here!" I spoke into Laz's ear. "He's coming this way! And yes, I need to go with him. To find out where he takes people."

"No, Myrna. No," said Laz.

Laz turned back around toward me, but he didn't speak again. He moved in closer this time and put both his hands on my shoulders. My mind registered the inappropriateness of the situation, but I didn't move away. I didn't want to move away.

Laz was so close that his lips were next to mine but not touching. I felt the man from the subway just a few feet away now. Right behind Laz.

"I need to go with him," I mouthed the words to Laz, brushing my lips against his as I spoke.

"No," he said back, brushing his own lips on mine.

And then, our lips were together. Laz's lips were full and warm in the club's chill air. Without thinking about it, I lifted my arms and wrapped them around his narrow waist.

He moved closer, and our bodies pressed together. The kiss continued, and for several minutes, I stopped thinking about the man I was looking for. I stopped thinking about anything except how good it felt to be in Laz's arms.

## 

A loud male voice yelled into my ear and broke the spell.

"Myrna? Is that really you? And you're kissing Laz? I can't believe this!"

I pulled back from Laz and turned toward the man standing next to me. A familiar face with big bulging eyes and thick smirking lips was within a few feet of my own face.

"Steve. Hi," I said.

I was flustered by the interruption. And I suddenly realized what I was doing when I was supposed to be finding Chloe's abductor.

Laz seemed less flustered.

"What the hell, Steve!" he said, turning toward him.

Steve, also a tall, thin man but in his thirties and thick in the middle, held up both hands as if protesting his innocence.

"Can't I say hello to an old girlfriend I haven't seen in years?" he asked.

"I wasn't your girlfriend," I clarified as I had so many times in the past.

"Well, you weren't my roommate or my cousin either, like you always claimed," said Steve.

"You're right, Steve. I lied," I said. "I'm sorry. Anyway, it's nice to see you again. I hope you're well, but I don't have time to talk. There's something more important I need to do right now."

"You mean kissing Laz?" Steve asked.

The smirk on his thick lips lifted up higher.

"No. Not that. I don't know how that happened. That wasn't part of my plan," I answered.

I took my hands from around Laz's waist, surprised by my feeling of reluctance, and stepped back from him. Meanwhile, Laz glared at Steve but didn't say anything.

Steve didn't appear at all intimidated by the glare.

"You know, Laz wasn't exactly my roommate either," said Steve.

I wasn't surprised or shocked by that insinuation. I knew that most of my clients slept with the older, wealthier patrons of Club Cain for drugs, a meal, a place to sleep.

"Steve. I'm sorry, but I don't have time to argue right now," I told him. "Like I told you, I'm here for something important. I'm trying to find the man who's been kidnapping teenagers. You saw that on TV, right? He's taking them from this club, and he was just here."

Steve stared at me with his huge eyes that were somehow beautiful, perhaps his best feature, although I'd never been attracted to him.

I expected Steve to laugh or otherwise express disbelief, but he didn't.

"Hey, I did see that on the news," he said. "That girl who got kidnapped was your client at the clinic? And now you're looking for the kidnapper? Wow! Those are some bad dudes, Myrna. You'd better be careful. But I can help you. I'm there for you Myrna. Here's my card in case you forgot my number."

Steve reached a hand into the pocket of his stylish jacket and pulled out a business card. He handed it to me, and I took it and put it into the small pocket in my pants.

Now Laz spoke to Steve. "You said it's dangerous, but you're encouraging her? Are you crazy? Did you know she's planning to try to get kidnapped herself?"

I knew Steve, and I knew he probably was crazy, but I didn't say anything. He'd helped me in the past, giving me a place to stay and food without demanding sex, although he'd made it clear that was what he wanted.

"I know Myrna, and she's going to do this anyway, no matter what anyone says, so I'm just offering to help," said Steve.

He turned back to me again.

"Myrna, if you're going to go with this kidnapper guy, you'll need weapons. I can help you get something. And you might need a place to stay again. Just call me," said Steve.

Laz put his hands on his hips and yelled at Steve. In the noise of the club, his words were just audible.

"You're offering to get her weapons now! Knives? Guns? If she's got a knife, that guy will just take it away and stab her with it. You've got the money to buy her a black market gun? That's insane! She'll never get through the club's weapons detector with that stuff anyway."

"He's right," I said. "I need a weapon, but I need something that can get through weapon detectors."

"OK. Got it. I know a guy who has that stuff," said Steve. "Call me tomorrow, and we'll get what you need."

Then Steve turned and yelled at an orange-haired young girl in a white mini skirt and white stockings who'd just walked by.

"Fantasia! Hey! Wait up!"

He strode away after her.

I felt Laz's hand on my shoulder. He moved back in close to me.

"What a jerk!" said Laz. "At least now we can go back to where we were before."

Laz brushed his lips against mine. But this time, I pulled back a few inches.

"I really want to go back to where we were, but I can't," I said.

He stiffened, but he didn't move away or take his hand off my shoulder.

"I shouldn't have kissed you. It was irresponsible of me because I'm your counselor at the clinic. I'll lose my job if I get involved with any of my clients. That was in the contract I signed. It was wrong. I was wrong. I'm sorry," I said.

"That's OK. I'll just stop going to the clinic. In fact, that was why I didn't go to my last appointment. Because I was into you, and I was confused about it," Laz admitted.

"No. Please don't stop going, Laz," I said. "You can change counselors if you want to. Anyway, I'm here to find the kidnapper. That's what I need to be doing."

I turned my head and looked around again—as far forward as I could see through the crowd and the smoky air. The red tint in the air was gone now, and I no longer felt the man's presence.

"He's gone! I've missed him!" I said with deep disappointment.

Laz sighed.

"OK, Myrna. I don't want you to lose your job, and I won't kiss you again. But I wish you'd forget about looking for this kidnapper. Steve was right about one thing, if you do find that guy, he's probably going to hurt you too," said Laz.

"No Laz. I can't give up. I don't care if it's dangerous. I have to do it," I said. "And now since he's not here, I need to go home and get some sleep because I have to work tomorrow morning and then come back here tomorrow night."

"Will you at least let me walk you to the subway?" Laz asked. "It's late, and I'm worried about you."

"OK. Sure," I answered, and we both turned and left the club.

# Chapter 15

Late the next evening, I sat across from Steve in a Ukrainian restaurant in the East Village. He said he'd take me to the man he knew who had weapons. But Steve asked me to have dinner with him first.

It was a small request, and I'd agreed. A waiter served our huge meal of heavy carbs and cream, and I found myself ravenous. A meal like this was something I'd never been able to afford on my sparse earnings from the clinic.

Steve chuckled.

"You've lost weight since you left me, babe," he said. "But stick with Stevo, and you can eat like this all the time."

"The food is great. Thank you, Steve," I said. "But you know I'm here because of what I need to do."

I didn't want to talk about it specifically in the crowded restaurant.

"Why are you dressed so plain, with no makeup?" Steve asked me, as we both dug into dumplings and borsht. "Last night you looked like your normal self, except skinnier. I was expecting you to be more dressed up tonight."

Now I noticed Steve's black silk dress shirt. His black curly hair was slicked back, and he smelled of expensive perfume. I remembered that he often dressed up when he went out to dinner. I would have felt guilty even a few weeks ago, but now I was only mindful of my purpose.

Some kind of obsession had changed the way I thought about things. And a kind of mental blur was always with me now. A blur that kept me from thinking much about things like clothes and meeting other people's expectations about my looks and even my behavior.

That area of my mind was blurred, but any thoughts about finding the kidnapper were razor sharp.

"I don't dress like that anymore, Steve," I said. "This is my normal look now. I'm a drug clinic counselor. You know that."

"Right. Right," said Steve. "You're a professional. That's cool. And you still look beautiful, just different, that's all. But look, Myrna. There's one thing you need to do for me since I'm doing this favor for you."

Steve leaned across the table, and I leaned forward to hear him. I hoped it would be something I could actually agree to.

"Here's the thing, Myrna," said Steve. "Don't keep telling people that you're not my girlfriend, OK? It didn't matter that you told that loser Laz, but don't tell anyone else. Can you do that?"

I suppressed a laugh and leaned back.

"Sure Steve. No problem," I said.

"Wow!" said Steve. "You know, you've changed a lot. You're so much more mature now. You were always telling people we weren't together back then. You always argued with me about it too. And now you just agreed so easy. Wow."

"I'm a different person now," I said.

I suddenly realized how true that was.

"Hey Stevo!"

"Steven! Hey!" Steve answered back with his usual emphasis on the 'n' at the end of the name.

I looked up to see the man standing next to our table. It was Steve's best friend, who was also named Steve. Steven had the same dark curly hair as Steve, but he was more classically handsome, and he kept in shape.

"Is that Myrna? Stevo told me you were back, but I had to see for myself. And here you are!" said Steven.

"Hi Steven," I said.

"Can I join you too?" Steven asked.

"Of course, of course," Steve answered.

"Sure," I said.

Steven removed his fedora and tailored coat and piled them on top of Steve's hat and coat on a chair next to the booth. Steve slid over on his side of the booth, and Steven sat down next to him.

I wasn't surprised that Steven had shown up. I kept eating my food. I didn't know when I'd have a meal this good again.

"Well, this is a different look for you, Myrna. I wouldn't have recognized you if you weren't with Stevo," said Steven.

"Yes, it is," I said in between mouthfuls.

"Myrna looks beautiful no matter how she's dressed," said Steve.

"I agree, definitely," said Steven. "It's a very natural, clean look. Sophisticated. I like it. It's just different, that's all."

"Thanks," I said.

"Myra's a drug clinic counselor now. She's a professional, so she has to look like one," said Steve.

"Right. You told me that," said Steven. "But I thought maybe she was going back to using. You told me she was at Club Cain last night, and you're taking her to get stuff tonight?"

In the past, I'd often been offended by the two Steves talking about me as if I wasn't there. But tonight I didn't care.

What they didn't know, and what I was starting to realize, was that ever since the first night in the subway when I saw blood coming through the door, something had changed in my mind.

_Am I going crazy, or do I have some mental problem?_ I wondered. _Here I am with the two Steves. It's like I'm sinking back into my old life. Do I need to talk to Gorg about it? Maybe_ , I decided. _But I don't have time now, and Gorg would try to stop me anyway. I can talk to him when all this is over._

I kept eating.

"No. I'm not taking Myrna to get drugs," Steve was explaining to Steven. "What she's doing is really cool."

Steve leaned in to whisper in Steven's ear.

"I'm taking her to see ....." I couldn't hear the rest.

More whispering back and forth.

"Whoa! Seriously?" said Steven. "That's some heavy shit!"

He stared with huge wide eyes, also big but not as bulgy as Steve's, back and forth from me to Steve. I stared back.

"That's right," said Steve. "I always told you there was more to Myrna than you thought."

Steven kept staring at me, but he didn't say anything. I wondered what was in that look. Was he impressed, or did he think I was crazy? I ate another spoonful of borsch.

"We're going over there after we finish dinner," Steve said to Steven. "Do you want to go with?"

"No way," Steven answered. "You might have a death wish, but I don't."

"Oh, please! Don't be so dramatic," said Steve. "Well, don't go then. It's not for the feint of heart. Luckily for Myrna, old Stevo's up for some action, right Myrna?"

Steve smiled big.

"Yes, thank you Steve," I said. "I deeply appreciate you doing this for me. And buying me this delicious meal too."

"Wow!" said Steven. "She was never so polite and grateful before."

"She's changed, Steven," said Steve. "She's more mature now."

"Hey! I'm sitting here, you know," I said. "You don't need to talk about me in the third person."

Steve held up his hands in his often-used gesture of innocence.

"OK. OK. You're right. I'm sorry," he said.

"Thanks," I said.

"You really have changed," said Steven.

Then the waiter approached to take his order.

# Chapter 16

An hour later, I walked down long streets with Steve through the East Village on the way to get my weapons. Sodium lights glowed harsh orange at the ends of the darkened streets, leaving dim splotches in between.

At eleven o'clock, pedestrians were still out, as well as light traffic. But as we walked farther east, the areas of darkness grew, and the traffic diminished.

Finally, on Avenue F, Steve stopped next to a storefront lowered half-way below street level. A light above the shop's door illuminated the hand-painted sign on the window that read, "Wild Style." Bras, panties, and other undergarments were displayed in the window.

A flash of anger churned through me. What the heck was Steve up to?

"Steve! What kind of crap is this? You're taking me to get lingerie!" I said.

"Chill, Myrna. Chill," said Steve, again with a lift of his hands. "That stuff is just the cover for what this guy really sells. Do you think he could afford to live in this neighborhood just by selling used underwear? Come on. Let's go in."

I looked at Steve, still not completely believing him. But I followed him down the short flight of stairs to the store's entrance.

_It's not like I have a choice_ , I thought.

Behind the glass window, the inside of the store was dark. Steve pressed the button of an old-fashioned buzzer, and I heard a loud ringing inside the store. We waited.

"Is anyone even here this late?" I asked him.

"Don't worry. He knows we're coming. I called ahead," said Steve.

A tall shadow moved behind the small square of thick glass set into the door. Then the door opened the few inches that its security chain allowed.

"Who's there?" a deep voice asked.

"Hey, Pierre. It's me, Steve," he said. "With Myrna."

The door closed again and then opened wide without the chain on it. A tall, dark, and bald man stared out at us from the dimness within.

"Come right in," he said in an impossibly deep voice as he stepped back to allow our entry.

"After you," Steve said with a gesture toward the doorway.

I stepped inside, and Steve followed me. The room was dimly lit, and the odd extra sensitivity I'd been experiencing lately gave me a feeling of growing darkness too. A feeling that had nothing to do with the room's lighting.

My eyes began to adjust as I followed Pierre through the small showroom. A few red bulbs lit an inventory of scanty clothes and lingerie arranged on racks and shelves. Other than that, only a plain wood desk holding an ancient cash register filled the rest of the room's small space.

"Myrna, this is Pierre," Steve introduced him with a wave of his hand.

I looked up at Pierre, who was even taller than Steve. Plain work clothes hung loose on his thin, wiry body.

"Pierre, Myrna," Steve finished the introduction.

"How do you do?" Pierre asked in his deep bass voice.

"Well, thank you," I said. "It's nice to meet you."

Pierre stared down at me—peering into my eyes for a few moments as if assessing me. I stared back, unblinking.

"Very well. Right this way," he said finally.

He turned and walked toward a brighter light that shined out from the open doorway on the far side of the showroom. Pierre went through, and we followed him down a narrow hallway with a few doors on either side. Although this hallway was bright, the dark feeling inside me grew stronger as we walked along it.

Pierre stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall. He pulled a large jangling keyring from his pants pocket and unlocked the door.

Steve and I followed him into a much larger, high-ceilinged room. Guns, knives, grenades, and other weapons I didn't recognize were arranged on tables, behind glass, and on hooks on the walls.

Almost every available space held some kind of weapon. Now the darkness I felt on some level turned dead black in puddles around the weapons. In the edges of my vision, my real sight was overlaid with another sight. Faces in pain, faces screaming in agony.

_The faces of those who were hurt or killed by these weapons_ , I thought.

It was frightening, but whatever it was that pushed me on this journey muffled my fear and propelled me forward into the room.

Pierre led us over to a massive cabinet at the far side of the room. He stopped there and turned to me.

"What size bra do you wear?" he asked.

That question jolted me, even through the unnaturally calm mood I'd been walking around in.

"What?" I asked.

"It's where you'll keep your weapon," Pierre answered in a calm, polite voice. "Steve told me you need something to get through metal detectors, and you don't want a gun or a knife. Is that correct?"

"Yes," I said.

Pierre reached down and pulled open one of the cabinet's wide drawers at waist height. It was filled with rows of bras of many colors and sizes, arranged in perfect order.

"What size?" Pierre asked again.

"She wears 36C," Steve answered for me. "Or she used to. I think she's lost some weight."

I realized that in the past, I'd have been mad at Steve and embarrassed, but now I didn't care that he'd just implied this intimacy with me. Pierre looked at me again as if assessing my bra size under my heavy coat.

"That will be close enough," he said.

He lifted one of the bras out of the drawer. A flimsy, delicate, light blue bra with under wires.

"I think this one will do," said Pierre.

He handed me the bra and then looked down at me.

"Now then," said Pierre. "Before I give you my weapons, I also need to know what you're planning to do with them—exactly what."

In this room's brighter light, Pierre stared intensely into my eyes again. I stared back and explained. I took my time and told him about the man coming out of the subway and going to Club Cain but not about the blood or my recent odd feelings.

When I finished talking, Pierre looked at me for a few moments without speaking.

Steve stood silent too. All three of us were still as statues.

_Does this man think I'm crazy?_ I wondered.

Finally, Pierre spoke again. "I have one more question for you. Have you told the police what you know? Or what you think you know?" Pierre asked me.

"Yes, I have," I answered.

Pierre's brown eyes narrowed.

"Oh?" he asked. "Did you file a report at a station?"

"No," I said. "I called them from a payphone on the Eastern Parkway. About a half mile from my apartment. They didn't want my information, but they asked who I was. So I hung up and took a roundabout way home."

"Hmm. Yes. That should be OK," said Pierre. "But after I give you my products, you can't go to the police again. Do you understand that? Will you agree to that?"

He looked me dead in the eyes again, waiting for my answer.

"But how will I report it if I find something?" I asked. "I told you I'm trying to find out what happened to people who disappeared. If I find out, I'll need to tell someone, right?"

"You'll have to tell someone else other than the police," said Pierre. "They're not going to do anything anyway unless you have money to pay for it. You know that, right? And even Steve doesn't have that much money."

"I have money!" Steve insisted.

Pierre chuckled. "Not enough, not enough," he said. "Anyway. There are some other people you can tell. You can tell all the news stations—the public ones in particular—but you can tell the government-run station too. You'll have to give them solid evidence like photos or recordings, or they won't be interested. Only news stations and not the police. Do you agree?"

"Yes. Thank you," I said.

I released the breath I'd been holding.

"Good. That's settled," said Pierre. "There's just one last thing I need to know. Is your intention to kill or just temporarily incapacitate your target?"

"I don't want to kill anyone," I answered. "I just want to be able to get away if I need to."

I stood there with the neatly folded bra clutched tight in my hand. I wondered how I'd be able to either kill or incapacitate anyone with it.

"Ah...That's always better, I think," said Pierre. "About how much does the person you want to knock out weigh?"

"I don't know," I said. "He's tall, and he's big.

"He looks like about 220," said Steve. "I've seen him on the news video."

"Yes, I've seen that too," Pierre answered.

He pulled out his keyring again, turned back to the big wooden cabinet, and unlocked a smaller drawer higher up. I couldn't see what was in the drawer when he pulled it out, but it was just below his eye level.

Pierre reached in and took out two plastic envelopes with plastic things inside them. Then he walked over to a small round table in the back corner of the room and sat down in one of four plastic chairs placed around the table.

Steve and I followed him and sat down too.

"Spread your bra out on the table please," he said, and I did.

Pierre unzipped one of the bags and took out eight small hypodermic needles. They were slightly curved.

"These contain heroin," said Pierre. "Not enough to kill a big man, but one needle will put him to sleep. I suggest you inject two just to make sure. And I'm giving you extras in case you need them."

_Heroin!_ I thought. _That's stronger than anything I used to be addicted to_.

I had a momentary fear that I'd be tempted to try it, but that passed.

_I'm not that weak now_ , I told myself.

Pierre picked up the bra and held it toward me. Then he picked up one of the needles and pushed it into an opening in the fabric next to the underwire on one side.

"These needles are slightly curved to match the bend of the underwire," he said. "I'll put four in the bra. Two on each side and two in the middle. And I'll give you four more extra needles."

Pierre finished loading the bra and handed it back to me. Then he put the remaining four needles back in the bag and handed me that too.

"Try pulling out one of the needles from the bra," he said. "There's Velcro on the seams. You can just pull them open."

I held the bra and tried it. The Velcro was firm, but it opened with a good tug. The needle fell out on the table with a small clatter.

"OK. You'll need to practice that," said Pierre.

Then, out of the blue, he asked another personal question. "Have you ever used needles?"

That question jolted me because of my drug-use history, but I answered him honestly.

"No. I used other drugs when I was an addict," I said. "No needles."

He peered at me again with eyes that seemed to look inside me. He turned to look at Steve too.

"She's telling the truth," said Steve.

"I believe her," Pierre answered Steve.

Then he turned to me. "But that's not my business except for what you need to be able to do. If you haven't used needles, you need to practice inserting the needle and the drug. We'll do that now. You can practice on Steve."

"What?" said Steve. "You want her to inject me with heroin! I want to help, but that's going a bit too far."

"No. No. I'm not going to waste good heroin on you, Steve," Pierre said. "These needles only have salt water in them."

He picked up the second plastic bag, pulled out eight more needles, and pushed them across the table to me.

"Myrna will inject you with salt water for practice," Pierre said in his calm, reassuring bass voice.

"Oh. Well. I don't know," said Steve.

He looked tense and uncomfortable. I looked at him, but I didn't say anything. I wasn't going to beg him. It had to be his decision to help me or not.

Steve looked back and forth from Pierre to me.

"Can't she practice on you?" Steve asked Pierre.

Pierre chuckled. A strange deep sound coming from such a thin man.

"No. Steve. It has to be you," said Pierre. "I don't offer that service to my clients. And my time is valuable, so don't waste it. Are you going to help this woman or not?"

_Whoa! Pressure!_ I thought, but I didn't say anything.

Steve sat silent. He stared at us while his olive skin reddened a bit. Then he answered.

"Fine. I'll do it. Sure. It's just a few tiny needles. Like a flu shot. It's the least I can do for Myrna," he said with a big smile at me.

I reached over and patted his shoulder.

"Thank you, Steve," I said. "That's very kind of you to help me."

"Sure. Sure," said Steve.

He started to remove his coat.

"Take off the coat but not the jacket underneath," said Pierre. "She might need to inject through a jacket."

Steve draped his heavy wool coat over the empty chair next to him. He kept on his dress jacket made of a lighter wool-silk blend.

Pierre got up, walked over, and stood behind Steve. He reached out a large, bony hand and clapped Steve on the shoulder.

"Steve. That's my man!" said Pierre.

Steve smiled and uncrossed his arms.

"OK. I'm ready for this," he said.

"Good. I'll demonstrate first," said Pierre.

He picked up one of the eight needles on the table and held it up toward me.

"First, you need to remove the protective cap over the needle," he explained.

Pierre tugged the plastic cap off the end of the needle and placed it on the table.

"You might need to do this with one hand, so we'll teach you to do that," said Pierre.

He handed me one of the needles to practice on. I pulled off its cap and waited for more directions.

"Hold the needle between your first two fingers like this," Pierre said. "And place your thumb over the plunger."

He demonstrated. It was kind of awkward, but I copied him.

"Then jab the needle in hard," said Pierre. "And quickly push the plunger in."

To demonstrate, he shoved the needle into Steve's shoulder.

"Ouch!" Steve said.

He rubbed the back of his shoulder with an offended look on his face.

"Now you try it," Pierre directed me.

"Are you still OK with this Steve?" I asked him.

He looked at me unsmiling but held out his arm.

"Go ahead," he said.

I felt nervous, but I stuck the needle into the offered arm and then pushed in the plunger. Steve winced. But he didn't say anything this time.

"That's not hard enough," said Pierre. "You might not make it through your target's jacket to the flesh. You must be successful on the first try, or I'm sure you can imagine what will happen."

I knew exactly what he meant, and I didn't need him to describe it.

"Try again. Harder this time. Sneak up on him from behind," said Pierre.

"OK," I said.

Pierre stepped back, and I walked behind Steve. He sat stiff. I could feel him tense with anticipation, but I hovered there for a few moments.

The odd mental fog that so often clouded my mind lately grew stronger, and I didn't resist it. It seemed to want to control my actions, so I let it. I lunged, slammed the needle into Steve's back as hard as I could, and pushed the plunger in.

"Ouch!" said Steve again.

"Perfect!" said Pierre.

"Great," said Steve. "Can we stop now?"

"No, not yet," said Pierre. "We still have six more practice needles. You want Myrna to be an expert at this, don't you? You understand the danger she'll be in if she's not, right?"

"Right, right," said Steve. "OK. Myrna. Keep going. I can take it."

At that moment, I was impressed by Steve. My estimation of him rose. I'd always thought he had his good points, but he also had many flaws, as I knew well. A complicated man. He'd given me food and shelter without demanding much in return.

I fumbled for words to express my gratitude.

"Steve. I appreciate this so much," I told him. "I never knew you had this heroic side."

He smiled up at me, and his huge eyes seemed moist.

"Sure Myrna. It's nothing," he said. "Keep going."

"You don't have to sneak up on him again," said Pierre. "Just inject the rest of them—hard."

I still felt guilty about poking Steve, but I knew I had to do it. So one after the other, I injected the rest of the needles into his back, arms, chest, and thigh. I think we were both relieved when I was finished.

"Hey, Pierre," said Steve. "Are you sure this was saltwater and not heroin Myrna just put in me? I'm feeling kind of light headed."

"Of course, I'm sure," said Pierre. "The bags are marked with what's in them, see."

He held up the empty bag and the full one with eight needles. Asian symbols were printed on labels attached to the bags.

"I can't read that. It's Japanese!" said Steve.

"Don't worry. I can read it. Anyway, if you'd been injected with that much heroin, you'd be dead now," said Pierre.

"Oh. That's comforting," said Steve.

He turned to me. "I'm ready to get out of here. How about you, Myrna?"

"Yes. I'm ready. Thank you Steve," I said again. "And you too, Pierre. Thanks for your help."

I put the bra and the bag of needles away in an inside pocket of my coat. Steve stood up and started putting his coat back on too.

"So, how much do I owe you for this, Pierre?" Steve asked him.

Pierre stared at both of us with his intense brown eyes. Still in my foggy mental state, I felt darkness behind his eyes. A deep, endless darkness planted there by past murders and other horrendous acts. Yet I wasn't afraid of Pierre. His intent toward me wasn't to harm.

Instead, I felt him sending a need to me through his gaze. The need to somehow lighten or at least clean some of the darkness that lived inside him. His desire to help me, so that might happen.

"There's no charge for Myrna," said Pierre.

"Wow! That's so generous! Thank you Pierre," said Steve.

"But there will be a charge for you, Steve," Pierre continued.

"Huh?" said Steve. "How much?"

He pulled out his wallet from an inside jacket pocket.

"No. Not money Steve," said Pierre. "I'm doing you a favor, so you will owe me a favor. An even exchange."

Steve stiffened up. I could tell he wasn't happy about accruing this debt, but he put his wallet back without any argument. I had the impression that Pierre wasn't a person you'd argue with.

"OK. Then. A favor it will be," said Steve.

He buttoned up his coat and nodded at Pierre without saying anything more. Pierre nodded back. Then Steve took my arm and led me through the door and out of the building.

## 

Outside, I took a deep breath of the cool early December air. It cleansed away some of the darkness of the place we'd just left. Steve hooked his arm through mine as we walked back west toward the subway.

"Thank you again, Steve," I said. "I couldn't have done this without your help. I know those shots were painful. But now, at least I have a chance. If I find out what's been happening, maybe I'll get away to tell about it."

"All in a day's work," Steve answered. "No problem. I mean, sure, it was kind of painful—like getting eight flu shots in a row. But it was OK. Compared to what you're about to do, it was nothing."

I patted his arm but didn't say anything. It might have been the strange mental state I was in, but for whatever reason, I wasn't the least bit worried about what would happen to me.

Steve turned to look at me as we walked along.

"You've changed a lot, Myrna," he said. "I don't know whether to be impressed or scared by the way you plan to put yourself in danger. I guess I feel both of those things."

"It's true. I'm not the same person you used to know. And I feel like I'm not even the same person I was last week," I admitted.

"Well, I was thinking that if you're a different person now, maybe you've changed the way you feel about me. Maybe you'd like to come home with me tonight?" he asked hopefully.

I started to laugh and then stopped myself. I didn't want to hurt his feelings.

"No. I'm sorry Steve, but that part of me hasn't changed. Except that I'm not interested in anything physical with anyone anymore. That's changed."

Now Steve laughed at me.

"Oh, really?" he said. "Not from what I saw you doing with Laz last night. Have you got a thing for that guy? He couldn't have helped you with something like this, could he? He's got no connections. He's just a loser. You know that right? Or are you trying to claim that you kissed him as part of your mission or something?"

We turned a corner on Avenue A and started walking north.

"No. That wasn't intentional. I know what you saw, and I can't explain why that happened," I said. "But it was a mistake, and it's not going to happen again. I have to focus on what I'm doing, and I can't get into any kind of romantic relationship with anyone right now. And anyway, Laz is my client at the clinic, so please don't put him down like that. He's been cleaning up, you know."

We stopped at a corner and waited for the light to change. Then we crossed the empty intersection and walked on.

"Whoa!" said Steve. "That's all kind of intense. He was your client, and you were kissing him?"

He paused and then went on.

"It sounds to me like even though you're talking like you've got it all together, you might not know what you're doing. Maybe you don't know yourself as well as you think you do. And that could be dangerous with what you're getting into. So now I'm feeling even more worried about you."

"You're right. I don't know what I'm doing, and I don't know myself. Did I claim those things?" I asked.

"Umm," said Steve.

"If I did, I didn't mean to," I said. "The only thing I know for sure is that I have to find that guy. And I feel like I shouldn't get involved with Laz or anyone else right now."

"Well, I agree with you about Laz," said Steve. "You shouldn't get involved with him. But you can get involved with me if you change your mind. I'm not your client. And anyway, you might need my help again. You might need a place to stay. If you do, you know you can always stay with me, right? And I won't expect anything in return."

"Wow, Steve," I said. "You know, I don't think I ever appreciated you before. You're impressing me tonight. And that is so kind of you! But I've got a place now, so I'll be fine. And I need to get home because it's late, and I have to work tomorrow morning."

We reached the entrance to a subway station, and we stopped walking. Steve stared at me, and I saw the concern in his eyes.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'll be fine."

I didn't believe that myself, but I wanted to reassure him.

"You have a place to stay now, but I have a feeling things are going to change for you," he said. "You have no idea what you're getting into. Call me anytime."

"I will," I promised.

I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him tight. Then I let go and walked fast down into the subway.

# Chapter 17

The next morning, Danno spoke to me when I walked into the clinic. "Sandra wants to see you in her office."

I turned and looked at him. Danno wore one of his many cheerful and colorful caps, but he wasn't smiling his usual reassuring smile. I felt waves of tension washing out from him.

"What's up?" I asked.

Before I had time to take off my coat, he buzzed the inner door open for me.

"You need to talk to Sandra," was all Danno would say.

I smiled at him anyway and walked through the door and down the hallway to Sandra's small office. Her door was open, and I went to stand in the doorway.

Sandra looked up at me from behind her small desk. She wasn't smiling either. A frown lined her fine-boned face, and I felt emotional waves coming from her too. Concern, worry, and was that disappointment?

"Come in and sit down, Myrna," she said.

I walked in and unbuttoned my coat, but I didn't take it off. Then I sat down on the wood-frame chair in front of her desk and looked at her. I waited for her to speak.

Sandra was silent. For a few moments, she just stared at me. Again I felt the emotional waves from her.

_That's interesting_ , I thought. _Am I reading people's emotions now? Or am I just imaging things? And if I'm reading her emotions, is she about to fire me?_ I suddenly wondered.

"I've heard something very disturbing, Myrna," she finally spoke. "It was about you."

"Oh?" I asked.

"Yes, Myrna. I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but is it true that you were out at Club Cain two nights ago? And were you kissing one of your clients there?"

Sandra looked at me, and the feeling that poured out of her now a was deep sadness.

I was filled with a strong desire to take away that sadness, but I didn't know if I could.

"Yes. It's true," I said. "I was there. And I ended up kissing Laz, but I didn't plan on that. Anyway, I know you're upset about it, and I want to explain why. I hope it'll make you feel better, but I know it might not."

"OK. Go ahead," said Sandra.

"Well, we've talked a lot about Chloe and all the other clients who've disappeared," I began.

"Yes, we have," said Sandra.

She stared at me, and I felt her sadness grow less but her concern grow more.

_Concern that I'm crazy, or I've lost it_ , I thought.

But I tried to explain.

"Well, I found out where the man who took Chloe comes out of the subway and where he goes after that," I said. "I followed him to Club Cain. And last week, I saw him leave the club with another teenager. I tried to tell the police what I knew, but they wouldn't listen to me. So that's when I decided to do it on my own. I'm the only one who can find out what's going on. Find out where that man takes them and then report it when I have proof."

Sandra sat back in her old cushioned chair and sighed deeply.

"I'm not using drugs, and I swear I didn't mean to kiss Laz," I told her. "He was there, and I was talking to him, and it just happened. That was all that happened, and it won't happen again, I promise. He's my client, and I take my commitment to the clinic seriously. And anyway, I can't let anything get in the way of finding Chloe's kidnapper. So that won't happen again."

Sandra didn't seem at all reassured by my explanation, and the waves of worry I felt from her were only stronger now. But at least that sense of disappointment was gone. That had bothered me most of all.

_But now she thinks I'm definitely crazy_ , I guessed.

Sandra stood up and walked around her desk to me. She placed a hand on my shoulder. I was shocked! This physical contact was forbidden by the clinic's rules. Then Sandra removed her hand and sat down next to me in the second wooden chair in front of her desk.

She looked in my eyes and spoke. I felt her emotions again. I could almost see them as colors in my mind—pinks and reds. Now I felt her caring as well as her worry and concern.

I knew almost for sure that she was about to fire me, and I was surprised that I wasn't worried about it. Regretful but not worried. It seemed minor next to the importance of what I was doing. I sat silent and let her say what she had to say.

"Myrna, you're very young," she began. "But I took a chance on hiring you anyway because it was clear that you care about our clients. And I knew that you can relate to them too. But it seems like maybe I made the wrong decision. You do care deeply and passionately, and you do relate to your clients, but I think you care too much. And you're so young that you can't separate yourself from them, perhaps. And now these disappearances have been too much for you to handle. It's my fault for putting you in this situation. I'm the one who did this to you!" she said as if she'd had a sudden revelation.

Sandra lowered her face into her hands, and I could see she was crying.

"No, Sandra," I said.

Now I made the forbidden physical contact of patting her on the shoulder.

"You weren't wrong, and nothing is your fault," I said. "It's the fault of the man who took Chloe and the others. I know you have to fire me, and that's OK. And I know you think I've lost my mind. Anyway, I'm going to find that man and where he's taking people. That's all that's important now. I'll find that out if it's the last thing I do. I promise you that."

Sandra had looked back up at me when I was talking. I stared into her eyes, willing her to see the strength of my intention, but I saw and felt that she still wasn't convinced of my sanity.

She reached out a hand and lifted a small card from her desk. Then she held it toward me in an unsteady hand.

"Take this, Myrna," she said. "It's Gorg's number. In case you don't have it. Take it and call him please."

I took the card and put it in my coat pocket, but I didn't say I'd call. Then I stood up to leave. Sandra stood up to. I made another forbidden gesture of physical contact by giving her a quick hug.

"Please don't worry about me, Sandra," I said, although I knew perfectly well that she would.

As I turned and walked out the door, I wanted to reassure her that I'd be OK, but I couldn't.

"Goodbye Myrna. Good luck," said Danno from behind his barred-off partition.

He stuck a hand through the opening in the bars, and I took it.

"Bye Danno. Thank you," I said. "And good luck to you too."

Then I buttoned up my coat and left my job for the last time.

Outside on the street, I started walking south, and now I felt both fear and loss.

_How will I support myself?_ I wondered. _What if I can't find another job? I loved this job. I'll never find another job so perfect for me._

I realized that I should have been even more worried and sad, but those feelings were somehow muffled.

_It's not about me_ , I told myself. _I'm doing what I need to do, and that's what matters. I'm going to the club tonight. And now because I don't have a job, I can go home and sleep first, so I'll be rested up for whatever happens. I'll be at my best—physically and mentally. So maybe getting fired was a good thing._

The sense of loss was still with me, but now I was at peace with it.

# Chapter 18

I got back to the apartment in Brooklyn about an hour later. Frank and Rita were both at work. So I didn't have to explain why I was home so early. I went straight to my room. Suddenly I felt tired from being up so late the last two nights. I put on my pajamas and took a long nap.

I woke when the late afternoon sun slanted bright and warm on my face through my room's west window. All was quiet in the apartment. I got up and took a long, hot shower. As I was leaving the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my head, still in my pajamas, Frank came in the front door.

"Myrna! What are you doing here? Didn't you go to work today?" he asked.

He hung his coat up on its hook, and I walked over to join him in the foyer.

"Hi, Frank," I said. "Yes, I went to work. But I got fired today. I'm sorry, Frank."

"What? You're sorry! What? Why?" Frank's voice rose.

"It's OK Frank," I said.

I tried to reassure him, but he just stared at me with his mouth open while I spoke.

"Someone saw me at Club Cain and told the clinic I was there. I didn't mean to, but I kissed someone in the club—a client," I confessed. "So that's why I lost my job. But it's OK because you know I have to find the man who kidnapped Chloe. And I was able to rest all day, so I'm ready to do that tonight. I'll be sharp and at my best. So it's good."

Frank took off his work shoes and placed them neatly against the wall. Then he straightened up and placed a hand on my arm.

"Let's talk about this, OK?" he said.

"Sure," I said. "I have a few hours before I need to get dressed. I have to dry my hair, and then I was going to cook some dinner. Do you want to cook together? I was thinking about going back sleep after that too—just for a bit."

"Sure. I need to change out of my work clothes too, and I'll meet you in the kitchen in a few minutes," Frank agreed.

## 

Fifteen minutes later, we stood in the kitchen making Frank's recipe for lasagna. Made with soy cheeses because there were no dairy animals left on Earth, aboveground anyway. I stirred the pot of steaming tomatoes while Frank arranged layers of noodles, mushrooms, and ricotta soy cheese in a big glass pan.

Frank had accepted my job loss, but he was still trying to talk me out of going back Club Cain.

"Can you at least wait one night and talk to Gorg first?" he asked. "I know you think you're doing the right thing, but I'm worried about you. Very worried."

"No. I don't have time to talk to Gorg today, but I can talk to him after this is over," I offered. "It's nice of you to be worried about me. And that you're not threatening to call Gorg right now and kick me out of here."

Frank turned and looked at me with intense small eyes behind his round glasses.

"Of course I'd never tell you to leave," he said. "But you can bet that the clinic has already told Gorg. And Rita will probably tell him too. I'm surprised he hasn't called you by now. Has he?"

"Oh," I said. "I haven't checked my phone for a while. And I keep the ringer off. So I don't know. I'll check my messages tomorrow."

Frank sighed.

"OK. I guess it's up to me then," he said.

I knew that he meant it was up to him to bring me back to sanity, but I didn't say anything.

"I know I can't talk you out of this, but I want to say it one last time, even though I know you won't listen to me. Going to that club again is a very bad idea. It's already got you fired from your job," said Frank.

"I'm listening," I said, as I kept stirring the tomatoes.

"Now please don't get mad at me for what I'm about to say," said Frank. "I know you think you found the man who took Chloe, and you know that he goes to Club Cain. But you don't really know that for sure. I think it's possible that you're emotionally vulnerable, and you wanted to find Chloe so much that you imagined you found the man who took her."

He looked at me as if he expected an intense reaction to that, but I was calm. What he'd just said didn't upset me at all.

"I understand why you think that, but I still think it's him. And the tomatoes are ready now," I said.

I turned off the gas on the burner and moved the pan to another burner that wasn't lit.

"Right," said Frank.

He picked up the pan and started spreading the partly cooked tomatoes in between layers of noodles and soy cheese.

"Well, I'm glad you're not mad at me for saying that," he said.

"No. I'm not mad at all," I said.

"Good. Anyway, I don't think that was him," said Frank. "You said the man's skin and hair color changed when you looked at him. But sometimes our minds show us what we want to see, especially in traumatic situations. You know that's more likely than someone's coloring actually changing back and forth, right?"

"Yes, you're right," I said.

I still believed that what I'd seen was real—or at least had a real meaning. But I didn't tell Frank that.

"So maybe you did follow some guy, and he went to Club Cain and then left with another guy," Frank continued. "And maybe he'll be there again tonight, or someone who looks like him. And the worst that could happen is you'll try to meet some weird guy and get him to take you home with him. That might be bad, but hopefully, you won't end up kidnapped or dead. So I'm going to try not to worry about it. But I want you to know that I think you're making a big mistake. And that's the last I'll say about it. You said you'll call Gorg tomorrow, right?"

I didn't want to commit to tomorrow.

"Right. I'll call him as soon as I can," I said.

Frank sighed again. He opened the oven and put the pan inside. Then he typed in the heat and time settings on its keypad.

"OK. We'll eat in an hour," he said. "You're going out, so you should take a double helping tonight or even three."

The three us pooled our resources to buy food. Normally, this much food would be divided into meals for each of us for five days.

"That's so sweet of you, Frank," I said. "But I don't want to take anyone's servings in case I make it back and need to eat dinners for the rest of the week."

"That's not what I meant!" Frank insisted.

But goosebumps rose up on my arms, and I felt his offer like a premonition.

# Chapter 19

Several hours later, I stood under the arch of Club Cain's weapon scanner. On the outside, I was dressed to impress. Hair teased high and highlighted with bright pink. My tightest black dress. Under that, I wore my new needle-packed bra. Pierre had promised it was foolproof, but I was nervous. If I was caught with weapons, I'd be banned from the club.

_I'll just make another plan if that happens_ , I told myself.

But it didn't. The usual short wait seemed to last forever. Then the bouncer buzzed the inner door open for me. I checked my coat with Angla. Then I started a slow stroll around the perimeter of the club.

I tried to get a feel for whether the man I looked for was there. I used that weird sense I had now, or thought I had, but I didn't feel anything.

_He's not here yet_ , I thought. _But he will be. He's on the way._

I didn't question how I knew that. It would lead to questioning my sanity, and I couldn't afford that right now. I wandered past dancers, other people walking by, and others lounging against the wall. This time, I wasn't trying to hide. I was trying to be seen. And I was.

Suddenly, Laz was standing in front of me, smiling. I felt a rush of pleasure, and I immediately pushed it down.

_I can't get involved with him!_ I told myself. _It's already cost me my job, although maybe that was going to happen anyway. But still, I'm here to find someone else, and he'll just get in the way._

Laz stood close enough that I could hear him over the club's pounding dance music.

"Myrna! Hey!" he greeted me.

He didn't touch me, and I could feel nervous tension coming from him. I felt guilty that I would have to ditch him, but that was just the way it was, and for his own good too.

"Hi Laz," I said. "It's good to see you."

_I'm glad to see you're still alive_ , I thought for some reason, but I didn't say it.

"Hey, I heard you got fired from the clinic," he said. "Someone told me you got fired because I kissed you. I'm really sorry."

Now I felt bad that he was taking the guilt for that.

"Wow! Word traveled fast," I said. "Anyway, it wasn't your fault, Laz. Please don't think that. I don't know why I thought I could come here without anyone from the clinic recognizing me. That had to happen. So it's fine. OK?"

"If you say so," he said. "I'm glad you're not mad at me anyway. That's cool that you'll be here at the club again."

He moved in closer to me, and I felt the attraction again that I didn't want to feel. A slow dance song began to play. Laz leaned in and spoke in my ear.

"Do you want to dance?" he asked.

I was surprised that I felt like I did want to dance. I noticed that instinctively, I'd moved closer to him. Our bodies were just touching. But then, without consciously looking for it, the awareness of the man I was hunting came to me.

_He's here in the club!_ I realized.

I moved a few inches back from Laz. Then I leaned in close again to speak in his ear. I decided to be honest.

"Laz," I said. "I want to dance with you, but I can't hang out with you right now. Remember I told you I'm looking for the man who took Chloe? He's here now, and I have to go meet him and get him to take me home with him."

Laz pulled back from me, gripped my shoulders, and stared at me with a disturbed look on his face.

"I'm worried about you!" he said as if surprised by that. "I know you told me that, but I thought maybe you were going through a temporary mental thing—like a flashback or something. And now you've lost your job, which I admit was my fault, but you don't seem to care. And you're saying you want to go home with someone you think is a kidnapper?"

"Right. That's exactly right," I said. "I know it sounds crazy. Almost everyone I tell thinks that."

For a moment, I thought about Steve and Pierre, who maybe didn't think it was crazy.

"But that's why I'm here," I continued. "I'm here so I can find Chloe and the others. And I know it's dangerous, but I still have to do it. It's the most important thing in my life. A lot of people have disappeared, not just Chloe. They might all be dead by now, but more keep disappearing. I have to try to stop that. I'm the only one who can, and I'm ready tonight."

I stared back into his eyes, willing Laz to understand. He looked back at me, and I thought maybe he did, but I couldn't be sure. I realized that I didn't want him to think it was something personal. That I was just making all this up to get rid of him. Something pushed me to lean forward and brush my lips against his. Then I pulled away.

_I shouldn't have done that!_ I told myself.

"OK. I'll accept that," Laz said. "You're here to find a man you think is a killer and go home with him, and that's your mission, and there's nothing I can do to stop you. Got it. I think you're making a big mistake, but I'll get out of your way."

I felt an unexpected stab of something—disappointment? Then Laz leaned forward and kissed me back. I didn't resist or pull away. Just a brief kiss. Then he walked away through the crowd.

I stood indecisive for a moment. I still felt the awareness of the man I hunted in the club. He was over by the bar, I realized. But now I also felt an awareness of someone else too. It was Laz. I felt him in my mind or somewhere in my feelings moving a certain distance away from me and then stopping.

_He's back against the wall_. _But how do I know that? Will that make it harder for me to track the kidnapper?_ I wondered.

I pushed that worry out of my mind and headed to the bar that stretched along the club's back wall. I weaved through the packed crowd, sometimes accidentally bumping into dancers and apologizing, although I doubted they heard me. Mostly young and beautiful, they danced wildly as if in a haze of drugs or forgetfulness.

Some were older, all were stylish. A few touched me or tried to speak to me as I passed by, but I didn't stop.

"Myrna!" someone called out.

I kept going.

I stopped just inside the moving crowd in the area of the dance floor nearest to the bar. To look natural, I danced among the others. The familiar moves came back to me, but this time I didn't let myself fall into the mental trance of the dance.

Instead, I moved along and turned in circles to check out the people who stood next to the bar or sat on high barstools. The long bar and the area in front of it was less crowded. A lot of club goers—the underage ones—couldn't afford to buy drinks when they came here.

It was easy to spot the man I was looking for. Not just because of the strong awareness of his presence that pointed me in his direction. Iced drink in hand, he sat in a casual pose facing out toward the dancers.

Without his concealing black hood, I easily recognized the broad features of his brown face. Large dark eyes moved to watch the dancers who gyrated in front of him. Expensive haircut. Black hair slicked back. Bulging muscles under a tight white t-shirt that glowed purple in the club's black lights.

And although it was impossible in the club's lighting, splotches of red smeared the air around him. No one else showed any sign of seeing the red color. But it spoke to me of pain and death, and the deep chill I'd felt in the subway crawled down my spine again. Strangely, I wasn't afraid. I took care not to look directly at the man.

_Now what?_ I asked myself.

I realized that in all the time I'd spent in this club, I'd never approached a man myself. They'd always come to me. That was how I'd met Steve.

_Will I have to go up to him and ask him to buy me a drink or something_? I wondered.

Just the thought of that made me cringe inside. In spite of the flashy clothes and hair I wore on the outside, I was a hider on the inside. I'd always been like that.

"Insecure," my therapist Gorg had said. "Low self-esteem because of your dysfunctional childhood."

"Obviously!" I'd said.

I hadn't really cared then if I didn't have the skills or confidence to seduce—was that the right word?—a man, but now I felt the lack.

_Or is that the right thing to do in this case?_ I asked myself. _What if he doesn't like that. What if he's the kind of man who wants to be the pursuer?_

My thoughts were interrupted by an intense feeling of being watched. When I turned toward the bar again, arms lifted and bent up behind my head, I looked at the man through slanted eyes. He was staring directly at me! Smiling. A bold stare that could only be interpreted as interest.

I opened my eyes a bit wider as if I'd just noticed him. I kept dancing and turning, but I moved directly in front of him and smiled just a bit. The next time I turned his way, the man held up his drink toward me and shook it a bit. He pointed at me, the drink, and then himself.

_Well, that meaning's clear_ , I thought. _This was much easier than I expected it would be!_ I realized with a thrill that my plan was moving forward.

I stopped dancing and walked over to join the man at the bar.

"Have a seat," he mouthed at me as I approached.

I sat down on the empty barstool next to him. He leaned closer and spoke louder, so I could hear him.

"I'm Claude," he said.

Claude held out a big hand for me to shake.

I looked him up and down. This close, I saw the broad but perfectly sculpted features of his face. His virile masculinity. A well-fed, powerful man with huge bulk but no visible fat.

Most people in those days were thin—too thin. Except the wealthy, who were often overweight but never bulked up with muscle like this man. He was probably the most attractive and healthy male I'd ever seen, but I felt repulsed by him.

I didn't want to take his hand, and I paused.

_I can't do this!_ I thought.

But something pushed me to take it. My hand reached out as if on its own and settled lightly in his.

Claude gave my hand a squeeze, and the intense sick feeling I'd sensed coming from him jolted through me—disgusting and unclean. I felt it inside, but again something held me still, and I didn't react.

"Hi Claude, I'm Myrna," I said in a slow, warm voice that didn't seem to be mine.

I felt the familiar sense of time distorting. I felt like someone else was taking over my speech and actions for me, and I was just a watcher. I retreated gratefully.

_I might be going crazy right now, but I don't care_ , I thought.

The bartender came over, a youngish skinny man.

A black tattoo swirled over his bald head. Probably too young to be bald from chemo, but early cancer was always a possibility. I recognized him, and he looked at me as if I were familiar. But I didn't care if anyone recognized me now. It was too late to matter.

"You need another drink?" he addressed the back of Claude's head.

Claude turned around and ordered a drink for me. "Black Russian," he said, and the bartender left.

"What a big, strong man you are!" I heard myself say to Claude.

_That sounded so lame!_ I thought.

But Claude didn't seem to notice the lameness of the remark. He laughed and flexed a huge bicep for me.

"Would you like to feel it, Myrna?" he asked.

"Love to," I said.

I reached up to caress the arm.

"I've never felt anything like that," I gushed. "How'd you get in such great shape?"

_This is so embarrassing!_ I thought as I continued to watch myself. _What will I do next?_

"Oh, I work out regular," Claude answered. "And I eat lots of protein."

I heard a light clink on the bar behind me, and I turned. The bartender had set my drink there.

"On my tab," said Claude.

The bartender nodded. Then he looked at me with a stare that felt confusingly uncomfortable and walked away.

Claude reached over and gripped my upper arm in one of his big hands. I pretended to take a sip of my drink and smiled at him.

"You've got a little muscle there, Myrna," he said. "But you look like you need some more protein."

"Yeah, well. Protein is expensive," I said.

His hand was still on my arm, just resting there. The feel of it burned through the sleeve of my dress, and I felt disgusted somewhere deep inside. But the feeling was muffled, so that I could bear it.

Claude leaned closer to me, and I could feel the heat of his breath and smell it as he spoke. That was even worse. But again, my revulsion was somehow dulled.

"If you stick with me, I'll feed you some protein," he said. "You come home with me, and I'll feed you the best meal of your life."

I smiled up at him with real satisfaction. I was sickened, but this was what I wanted him to do after all.

My satisfied feeling was interrupted. In my odd new awareness that now included an awareness of Laz, I felt him close by. And moving closer. And I had a sudden realization that he was going to try to interfere with what I was trying to do.

"Sure, I'll go with you," I answered Claude. "I'm starving, actually. Can we leave now?"

He leaned back and laughed. A bit of a scornful laugh.

"You're in a hurry, aren't you, Myrna? But I don't like to be rushed. I haven't finished my drink. And you haven't finished yours," he noticed. "Alcohol isn't cheap either, you know."

_I'm acting too desperate now. Laz is messing me up!_ I thought, just as I felt and saw Laz standing right in front of me and Claude.

"Hey, Claude. How's it going?" Laz shouted over the music.

Lit by the club's black lights, Laz's lanky, thin attractiveness was a sharp contrast to the heathy bulk of the handsome man who sat next to me. I felt the contrast of my feelings for each of them even more.

_I care about Laz. More than just care!_ I realized.

And I despised and feared Claude. I had to get Laz away from him. I looked up at Laz and scowled.

"We're kind of busy here," I shouted at him.

Claude laughed again. He pressed up against me and rested an arm behind me on the bar.

"Pushy, aren't you? A jealous type? Well don't be. It'll hurt your chances with me," he spoke with a slight snarl, either drunken or natural.

Then Claude pulled away from me and reached out to grab Laz's arm.

"Hey, Laz. I thought you weren't interested. That's what you told me last time," Claude said.

"I changed my mind," said Laz. "I'm hungry, and I want that meal now."

"Cool. Very cool," said Claude.

He sat back again and looked at Laz with a wide smile that made me want to hurl.

"Do you want a drink?" Claude asked Laz.

_No! Laz, No!_ I screamed at him inside my mind.

But I stayed in a slouched-back relaxed position and leaned over to Claude.

"What's going on with this guy?" I asked Claude. "You just said you were going to take me for a meal. Is he coming along too? I'm not into threesomes."

Claude laughed at me again.

"No. I can't handle more than one at a time," he said. "But I've been waiting for Laz to crack for a long time, so you'll have to be next time."

Now Laz was standing close—too close. Claude turned away from me.

"How about that drink?" he asked Laz.

"No thanks. I gave up drinking," Laz said. "But I'm hungry for some food. Can we go?"

"What the heck do you think you're doing?" I yelled at Laz over the music.

He leaned toward me.

"Whatever you think you're doing, I can do it better," he said.

"No. You can't. You have no idea what you're doing!" I shouted back at him, even though he was standing close.

"Maybe you don't either," said Laz.

"Jealousy. I love it," said Claude.

He lifted his glass and tossed down the rest of his drink.

"Time to get going, Laz," he said.

Claude dropped his empty glass behind him on the bar and stood up.

"Man's in a hurry," Claude said to me. "I'll catch you next time."

"What?" I shouted back at him. "You said you didn't like to be rushed!"

Claude reached out a beefy hand and chucked me hard under the chin.

"Cute," he said.

Then Claude grabbed Laz's arm and pulled him away. Laz looked back at me as he walked away with Claude. I stared back at him, trying to put a message in my gaze.

_Don't go!_ I tried to tell him.

That brief stare jolted me. It felt like one of those intense looks that I imagined people in love would share.

_Are we in love?_ I asked myself. _No! That's crazy, and Laz is acting crazy right now. I have to do something, but what?_

For a few minutes, I sat there frozen. I stared at the point in the moving crowd that Laz and Claude had just left through.

_Should I follow them?_ I asked myself. _I won't learn anything from that. I know where they're going. And dressed how I am, they'd notice me. Then what would I do? Try to convince Claude to take me instead? He made it clear that he won't tonight. In fact, he might wonder about me and then never take me. No. I'll have to come back again tomorrow night_ , I decided.

I turned around to face the bar and set my untasted drink on it. Then I leaned my elbows on the hard, sticky wood and dropped my face down into my hands. With that weird sense of knowing things that I still wasn't convinced was real, I felt both Claude and Laz moving farther and farther away.

_Will I somehow sense if Laz is dead?_ I wondered. _Will he be dead tonight?_

_Why did you do this, Laz, you idiot?_ I asked him in my mind.

But of course, he didn't answer.

I felt someone else standing in front of me. I looked up and saw the skin-head bartender standing in front of me. Scowling down at me. He reached out a thin arm, also covered in tattoos, and picked up my full drink. It sloshed on the bar, but he didn't wipe it.

"Bitch!" he said.

He threw the full drink down into a tub of used glasses behind the bar. Over the club's loud music, I heard the glass crash into other glasses. Then the bartender turned without speaking again and walked away.

# Chapter 20

The next night, I spent hours getting ready to go out to the club. All that day, I'd had a sense of Laz and of Claude too. I felt the awareness of Laz as something warm and joyful. Claude was something decayed and unclean, menacing.

Both feelings were sparks in the far distance. And both feelings spurred me on. Through arguments with Frank. Through more arguments with Rita, who insisted I had to move out because I'd fallen off the path to recovery.

I focused on painting my skin with black light gel while the two of them stood in my doorway yelling at each other. And at me.

_Maybe this situation won't be a problem after tonight_ , I thought. _Maybe I won't need to live anywhere after tonight._

But I didn't say that out loud. I didn't want Frank to try to physically restrain me from going.

It was after midnight when I arrived at Club Cain.

_I need to make Claude wait for me_ , I'd decided.

Tonight I stood out in the smoke-swirled crowd. The pink streak in my high-teased platinum hair glowed under the black lights. A hot-pink crop top over my blue needle-packed bra showed maximum skin. Matching low-cut stretch pants. Swirls of pink paint on my stomach and arms.

The queasily dangerous sense of the man I stalked grew stronger when I walked into the club. I knew he was at the bar. He was waiting for me, but there was uncertainty in his mind. I'd angered him or turned him off with my persistence. I knew I'd have to play this pickup carefully, but I didn't have a clue how to do that.

Luckily, I didn't have to know. As I began dancing randomly among the crowd of other paired and solo dancers, the driving force in my mind pushed me back into that fuzzy watching place and took over. I was there, but I was just going along for the ride.

Other dancers tried to connect with me, but I moved closer and closer to the bar where the big man sat. Again, he faced away from the bar, toward the dance floor. This time, my former client Stella sat on the stool next to Claude. But most of her was leaning onto him.

_There's no way she's going to leave here with him tonight_. I told myself. _Even if have to inject her in this bar—or him._

Claude sat accepting Stella's attention but not returning it. He sipped his drink and stared with dark hooded eyes at the crowd. Watching for me, I knew. But not willing to show any sign of it.

Farther down, Steve sat at the bar too. He faced the dancers but showed more interest. Smiling. One leg bent with the foot resting on a rung of the bar stool. The other straight out with the foot flat on the floor.

I made my sinuous way over to Steve and got up close. I was careful not to look at Claude, but I sensed his attention turn like a spotlight in my direction.

"Myrna!" said Steve. "You're still around!"

He threw his arms around me in a tight hug, and I hugged him back. Because he was sitting, and I was standing, it was an amorous kind of hug with his face pressed into my breasts.

I felt the change in Claude's energy from several seats away. Anger and desire mixed.

It wasn't normal physical desire, I realized. The feeling was predatory. Feral and hungry. As if I were prey to be devoured.

I would have been terrified if the mental change in me wasn't numbing me, calming me unnaturally as it took over my thoughts and actions.

But I was still there. I pulled back from Steve and sat on the stool next to him without his invitation. Then I leaned over close and spoke into his ear.

"Steve," I said. "It's great to see you. Can you buy me a drink, so I can pretend to drink it?"

"Sure thing," he said.

We both turned around toward the bar, and Steve leaned forward and waved a hand at the bartender.

The same skin-headed bartender who'd been there last night nodded at Steve. While he took his time getting over to us, we leaned close together and spoke into each other's ears.

"What's going on?" Steve asked. "Have you found the guy yet?"

"He's here at the bar right now," I told him. "The big guy about six stools down with the red-head clinging to him. She's one of my clients. Was one, I mean."

Steve sat back a bit and looked at Claude. Then he leaned back close to me.

"Whew! That guy looks like a major player!" he said.

"Have you seen him here before?" I asked.

"Yeah. I've noticed him around here for a few weeks. He's new. You think he's the one who's been taking kids from the club?" Steve asked. "But you said that's been going on for a long time. How could it be him?"

Steve was in his thirties, so I supposed that teenagers and even people in their early twenties were kids to him. People like me.

"I think he was here before that, but he looked different," I said. "I think he changed his look because of the videotape they've been showing on TV. You saw that video. Did you ever see a guy who looked like that here in the club? A big guy like this one but blonde?"

Steve stared at me for a moment. His big eyes grew bigger.

"Hey! I think that guy was in here! Before this guy started coming, there was another guy who was big too. A pale blonde. Really buff. But, you know, I don't pay attention to the other patrons—I mean paying patrons. I mind my own business. It's not like anyone in here is innocent. You know what I mean?" said Steve.

I did know what he meant. There weren't many people in this bar who weren't doing something illegal, here or when they left. Underage teens who shouldn't be here at all. Sex given in exchange for drugs and alcohol. Food and shelter being exchanged for sex with underage people.

But I didn't answer Steve. Instead I looked up. The bartender stood in front of us. Scowling. Tattooed arms crossed. Steve looked up too.

"What do you want to drink, Myrna?" Steve asked me.

"I'll take a black Russian," I said to the bartender.

"Black Russian for the lady, Thor," said Steve.

Thor nodded but didn't answer. He uncrossed his arms and wiped the bar in front of Steve but not me. Then he turned and walked away.

In the bar's brighter lighting, I noticed the tattoo of an ancient symbol on the back of Thor's head. Lines arranged in a circle. I'd seen that design before in some history book at school, but I didn't remember what it meant.

"I don't think Thor likes you," said Steve.

"Maybe he doesn't," I said. "He seemed mad at me last night. I was sitting with that guy—Claude is his name. He bought me a drink, and he was just about to take me home with him when Laz showed up. Laz told him, 'I've changed my mind, and I'll go with you now.' And then Claude ditched me for Laz. He went in my place, Steve!"

Steve stared at me again. He put an arm around my shoulders.

"Wow, Myrna. I'm really sorry!" he said.

I could hear the unsteadiness in his voice. My new sensitivity told me that Steve was upset.

_He actually cares about Laz_ , I realized.

"I'm sorry I put Laz down, Myrna," he said. "He's really an OK guy. I just did that because I was jealous. Because you were kissing him. You know that, right?"

Instead of answering Steve, I reached over and hugged him. Tight. I felt like crying, but I knew that would smear my makeup, and I wouldn't be able to pick up Claude with a messed up face.

"Don't worry, Steve," I said. " Laz is still alive—I know it. I mean I feel like he is. I'll find where Claude took Laz and the others, and I'll get them away from there. The ones who are still alive."

I was promising a lot, but I believed I could do it. Part of me believed. Part of me didn't believe but wasn't scared thanks to the continued numbing of my normal way of thinking. Normally, I would have been scared out of my mind.

_Is that what's happened to me?_ I wondered now.

Now I looked at Steve eye to eye.

_He must think I'm crazy_ , I thought as he stared back at me.

"You know what? I believe you. I believe in you, Myrna," said Steve.

_Maybe Steve is crazy too_ , I thought.

Thor showed up in front of us again. Still scowling, he plunked my drink down in front of me.

Steve reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet, but Thor lifted a hand and made the stop gesture.

"She don't need your money, Steve," he said. "That guy paid for her drink."

He pointed at Claude. Steve turned to look, and Claude gave him a languid wave. Steve waved back and smiled as if the transaction was between the two of them. Still in my character for the night, I gave Claude a cool smile.

"That's your cue to go over there," Steve told me.

"You're right," I said.

I stood up close to Steve, between my barstool and his. Affection for him flooded me. Not the sexual kind but a real, pure affection. And worry. I leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"Steve, you need to get out of here now. Claude is dangerous. Put your hat on, and don't let him see your face again. Then go and don't come back here for a while. For a long time," I urged him.

"No Myrna. I can't leave yet," he said. "I know this kind of guy. If he doesn't think you have another option, he'll be less interested. I'll stay here till you leave first. But don't worry. I'll be OK. No one messes with Stevo. I got family. In Queens. Ya know?" he asked in an Italian gangster voice.

"I know you've got family in Queens, but you're not Italian," I said.

"I'm not Italian, but I can be tough too," said Steve. "Just get over there. Don't keep the man waiting too long."

I hugged him again. Then I walked away toward Claude with a false drunken sway provided by whatever was now directing my actions.

Claude looked at me and then pointedly ignored my approach by turning to lean down and speak in Stella's ear. She smiled and giggled.

As I stared at Claude, an unnatural redness blossomed in the air around him in my new mental sense. I didn't stop to question whether it was real or imaginary. It spread out into the dancing crowd in the black-lit smoke and turned the space in between the dancers to grayish red. Then outlines of faces and bodies formed in the redness.

I stopped in front of Claude and Stella.

"Hey, Claude. Thanks for the drink," I said casually.

He looked up at me, and time slowed to a crawl.

"Yooouurree....wweeelllllccoommmee," he answered.

But my eyes were focused on the dancing crowd. The red-traced forms became clearer—distinctly drawn young people. Hundreds of them. They packed the club and filled the empty spaces between the real dancers. Some even shared the same space with the real ones.

The red-drawn images rubbed up against the solid dancers and each other suggestively. Others danced alone.

While Claude's words seemed to stretch out forever, I searched among the faces of the ghostly dancers. As if aware of my focus, they turned and stared back at me. Intense stares that burned with something that felt like despair. Stares that begged or even demanded something from me.

I looked for Chloe, but I didn't find her. I didn't recognize any of them, but I tried to give an answer to their demand.

_I'll try. I'll do my best_ , I promised mentally, although I didn't exactly what they were asking for.

Claude grabbed my arm, and time sped up again. I felt the sense of his touch as something that pulsed sickeningly against my skin, but I didn't flinch.

"Hey, you look at me when I'm talking to you," he said.

I looked back at him and Stella sitting next to him. She slumped back against the bar, drink in hand, and glared at me.

"Hey Stella," I said before I turned to face Claude.

"I like to watch the dancers, don't you?" I asked him without apologizing.

"Sure," he said without letting go of my arm. "I like to whet my appetite. But when I buy you a drink, and when I'm talking to you, you look at _me_. Got it?"

"Right," I said.

To show my compliance, I looked him straight in the eyes. I saw and felt a cold, flat deadness there. The promise of death. It chilled me, but the coldness somehow strengthened me too.

_I have to go with him tonight!_ I told myself. _But I need to get rid of Stella first._

"So I looked at you, and I said 'thank you,'" I said to Claude, still staring into his dead eyes. "But I see you're busy with Stella here, and Steve said he'd take me for sushi. So I need to get back over there. In case he thinks I'm ditching him, or he finds someone else. You know what I mean?"

I looked down the bar at Steve. Against my directions, he looked at me and waved. And he wasn't wearing his hat.

In answer to my question, Claude squeezed my arm hard and pulled me toward him.

"Ouch!" I shouted, but I didn't resist.

"You don't leave with someone else when you have plans to leave with me!" he snarled.

"What?" Stella spoke up.

She put a drunken hand on Claude's shoulder and shook it a little.

"You said you were going to take me tonight, Claude!" Stella insisted.

"That's what I thought too," I said. "Stella's with you. I don't want to butt in. That's all. And I already promised Steve."

Claude's face was so close to mine that I could smell his breath—alcohol, minty mouthwash, and another sharp metallic odor that made me want to vomit. And I knew that I would have vomited if something else wasn't there with me. Pushing my normal reactions and behavior aside, so I could do this.

He shook off Stella's hand and grabbed my other arm even tighter. This time, although it was painful, I didn't shout or make any complaint, but I could feel bruises forming. I was supposed to be drunk and feeling no pain, so I acted that way.

I blinked as if confused.

"Huh?" I said. "I don't get it."

"I'll make it clear then," said Claude in a voice of pure, unveiled menace.

I felt Stella stiffen on the stool next to him.

"When I invite you and you agree, you don't leave with someone else. Ever. You're going with me tonight."

Claude let go of my arms and turned his cold stare on Stella.

"Scram," he said to her in the same iced-dead voice. "I'll get you next time."

With drink in hand, Stella climbed down from her barstool. She glared up at me from six inches shorter.

"You bitch! I had him, and you messed up my thing. What the hell are you doing in here anyway? You're supposed to be a drug counselor? Think you're better than me? Well, I got you fired, so there!" said Stella.

"Myrna's a drug counselor. Did you know that?" she asked Claude.

He laughed.

"Couldn't stay away from the stuff, huh?" he asked me.

I smiled back at him.

"I hope you've got some," I said.

Then I turned back to Stella.

"You need to get the hell out of here. You need to get off the drugs and booze, and I don't want to see you in here again. Ever!" I spoke in my most threatening voice, even though my threat was empty.

But maybe Stella didn't take it that way. Her eyes grew wide and fearful as she looked back and forth between the two of us. I saw the reflection of two very dangerous people in her eyes. I remembered the needles I carried in my bra.

_Maybe she's right about me too_ , I thought.

"Hypocrite!" Stella shouted in my face.

She stepped back a few feet, spat on the ground in front of me, and rushed away into the crowd.

"Cat fight. I love it," said Claude.

He looked at me with something predatory in his otherwise empty eyes.

"I'm getting hungry. Let's get out of here," he said.

"Sure. I could use something now," I said. "After that crap."

I sniffed.

"You've got drugs, right?" I asked him. "Coke? "

"I've got everything," he answered. "Just not in here."

"Great!" I said. "You're the man!"

Claude stood up to leave, and I dropped my untouched drink on the bar.

He grabbed one of my arms again and guided me toward the door. His grip wasn't painful now, but I was locked into it.

As we passed through the crowd, I looked again at the red-traced dancers in my mind. Their forms began to thin and twist. Their faces stretched out, and mouths and eyes opened wide, moaning.

The images stretched and thinned even more, joining together and merging toward Claude like a backward-curving wave that poured into him. By the time we reached the door, there was nothing but him. But I felt them now. Inside him. Devoured by him.

_I really need to talk to Gorg about this when it's all over_ , I told myself.

## 

Outside it had turned bitter cold. I'd lined my heavy coat with a thick hoodie, but only thin stretch pants covered my legs. Still with a grip on my arm, Claude strode along fast without speaking. I kept up, and the fast movement warmed me somewhat. But I didn't care. I felt the cold, but it didn't bother me. Somehow I was separate from it. A witness.

All I cared about was getting to where we were going. And now that was guaranteed. The thrill of victory soared inside me, but I didn't let it show. I kept up my whiny persona.

"Where are we going? Tavern on the Green? Chez Chez?" I mentioned the most expensive restaurants I knew. Restaurants I was sure Steve wouldn't go to.

"Those places?" said Claude with scorn in his voice. "No. I told you last night I'm taking you for a real meal. With meat. Real meat. At my place."

"Wow! You're going to cook for me?" I asked him.

My astonishment was real.

"No. Are you that stupid?" he said. "I wouldn't cook for some chick I grabbed in Club Cain. I'm taking you to the community where I live. A lot of people have apartments there. Rich people. There's a restaurant. With a chef and staff. Real food. Your first real meal and your last real meal."

I pretended not to notice the ominous sound of that.

"Cool!" I said. "But if you're so rich, why are we walking? Aren't we going to take a car?"

He squeezed my arm hard.

_Training me?_ I wondered.

"It's only a few blocks to the subway. Aren't you in good enough shape to make the walk?" Claude asked.

By now, we were half way to the Bowery station. We reached the end of the block. Not waiting for the light to change, Claude pulled me out in the street to cross. I didn't resist.

"Sure, I'm in great shape," I bragged. "I just thought a rich guy like you would have a car, that's all."

"Of course I have a car. I've got lots of cars. Beautiful cars like you've never seen," said Claude. "But I don't take the kids I pick up at the club in my cars," he said. "No way."

"OK. Whatever," I said. "I can walk. No problem."

"Yeah. All that dancing at the club keeps you in shape. That's why I like to get kids from the club. Just the right age—ripe—and they're not all skin and bones. At least they've got some meat on them," said Claude.

He loosened his tight grip on me and started feeling up and down my arm.

"Hey. You've got a little muscle there. I like that," he said. "What's that from? Working out?"

"No. I helped lift boxes at my job almost every day," I said. "Boxes of food and office supplies. I helped because I was the youngest."

"Good for me. Good for me," he said with a chuckle.

We reached the entrance to the subway and began the descent into its harsh, ugly depths.

As we walked down the stairs, I heard moans coming for everywhere. I looked over at Claude, but he didn't show any sign of hearing anything. The moaning voices seemed to flow toward him and circle him like a tornado of sound.

I stood next to Claude at the door etched in the concrete wedge under the stairs. There was no handle, and I wondered how we'd get in.

Claude reached up a gloved hand and pushed against the door shape. It gave inward slightly and then sprang open a few inches as if on springs.

The first time I'd seen Claude come out of this door, what looked like blood had flowed out. Now I saw streams of red flowing back in. Flowing in through the cracked open door and into Claude himself.

In those streams, I saw forms and faces, and the moaning sounds grew even louder. I felt despair and need in those moans. As I watched, some of the faces looked back at me. Intense looks that, again, seemed to demand something.

My resolve strengthened.

_I will_ , I heard myself saying to them in my mind. _I will_.

Even though, again, I wasn't sure what I was promising.

Claude pulled the door open just wide enough to go through. Then he tightened his grip on my arm and pulled me into a pool of blackness lit only by the narrowing strip of light that came through the closing door behind us.

The door thumped shut, and we stood in complete darkness. I wondered why I wasn't terrified.

I felt Claude move, waving an arm in the air. There was a small click sound, and a dim light glowed from above us. I looked up to see a beaded metal cord dangling from an uncovered bulb. Its dim glare showed me that we stood on a small bare wedge at the top of a flight of stairs that led down to another door.

Claude pulled me down the stairs to the next door. He reached out a hand to the numbered keypad above its handle, and again time—his time—slowed to a crawl.

I knew that it was critical for me to watch him and memorize the numbers he entered, and I did. He typed twelve numbers in all. It took a minute or more for him to press each key in my time. The slowed time allowed me to repeat the numbers over and over in my head, adding each new one and repeating the sequence over and over again.

Something told me to add musical notes to each one, to create a melody, so I did. Finally, I had the entire twelve numbers memorized as a song. I played the song over and over in my mind while Claude opened the door.

Ever so slowly in time that still crawled, light beamed through the door's expanding opening. A bright but soft and gentle glow. I glimpsed clean, fresh colors, but I didn't know what I was seeing.

By the time Claude had pulled me through this next door, I'd replayed the door code numbers set to music in my head at least a hundred times. Just when I felt confident that I had it burned into memory, time sped up to normal.

## 

The door behind us closed without a sound, and I looked around. We stood in what looked like another train station, but everything was high tech, clean, and modern. Even more modern than the graffiti-resistant subway cars from the 1980s that contrasted so sharply with the stations they rode through. Built in the early twentieth century and almost never retrofitted.

Here, instead of a narrow and worn concrete island between car tracks, we stood on spotless low-pile carpet. A two-sided upholstered couch in deeper lavender squatted in the middle of this wide island between tracks. The walls and arched ceiling displayed a natural sand pattern. Unlike everything aboveground in New York, these colors showed no signs of fading or graying with dirt.

The long tubular car parked to one side of us was even more of an oddity. Instead of a rectangular metal box that ran on open electric tracks, this transparent tube sat inside another open tube with no visible tracks to run on. Shining metal showed behind the transparent car and inside the circular opening that was its track.

The sight of this alternate reality shocked me. So it easy for me to stay in the character of a spaced-out club girl. My mouth opened wide, and I twisted in Claude's grasp to look around.

"What the heck is all this?" I asked him.

He laughed down at me.

"This is part of the subway system," he said. "The better part."

"I've never heard there was a better part. I've never seen this station on TV," I said.

"Of course not," said Claude. "Only the better people know about the better part and get to use it."

"Huh?" I said, truly confused.

"You're lucky you get to use it this one time," he said. "Now get in."

Claude shoved me toward the opening in the side of the tube car, and I obediently walked in. More low-pile carpet in light periwinkle blue softened our steps. We sat next to each other on a long aisle of deeper blue upholstered seats that faced the opening. Cushioned armrests separated each seat.

I felt the waft of a gentle breeze on the exposed skin of my face and neck. I breathed in, and the air smelled faintly of lavender. Now that we weren't in the smoke-filled club or outside, I could also smell Claude's expensive cologne too. And his own personal scent under that. I was sure he bathed regularly, but I experienced his musky, slightly metallic odor as unclean and decayed.

The same nausea that would normally make me vomit felt muffled inside me. It was there, but I didn't react. Instead, I stared out at the station through the transparent wall of the tube car.

"What kind of train is this?" I asked Claude.

He reached over and pressed a circular button on the arm rest between us.

"This isn't a train. It's a vacuum car," Claude answered just as, without any jolts or bumps, the car moved forward into the hole in the wall ahead.

When we were inside the enclosed tubular space, I felt the car pick up speed. The lighting dimmed a bit, but it was still bright enough to see inside the car. The metal walls outside the transparent tube showed as a flowing, rippling black.

There were no seatbelts, but a light pressure pushed me down in my seat. Just enough to not be uncomfortable.

The strangeness of all this made me question my sanity, but I didn't think it was all in my mind this time.

While I peppered him with questions, Claude stared at the stream of black waves in front of him.

"Where did this come from?" I asked. "Why doesn't anyone know about it? If we have this technology, why don't we have these tubes in the regular subway instead of the rundown, falling-apart trains?"

"Yeah, right," said Claude.

He laughed at me again, but I just stared back at him waiting for his explanation.

"This tech has been around for a hundred years, but it's expensive," he said. "People like you can't pay for it. And the people with the money aren't going to spend it on you, obviously. They keep this transportation system for themselves. You people would just trash it up like you did with the old subways."

"People like me? I never trashed the subway!" I denied.

"Yeah, you. The masses," he said. "And yes, you did. Those old subways got messed up from so many people using them. Not to mention the graffiti, vandalism, and people peeing in them. The rich people in the old days made the mistake of paying for that whole train system. But now they've learned their lesson, and they keep their money for themselves."

"I thought our taxes pay for trains and transportation," I said.

"No. Your taxes go to pay the people in power. They decide how they want to spend it, not you people," said Claude.

He laughed at me again, and I thought about this information for a moment. I wondered if what he said was true, but my main concern now was to find out what had happened to Chloe, Laz, and the others.

_Does what he's telling me have anything to do with their disappearance?_ I wondered.

My awareness of Laz as a spot in the distance grew closer as we whooshed along to wherever we were going.

_Are rich people having this guy kidnap teens for sex slaves?_ I wondered now.

That seemed like the obvious answer, but I knew on my new level of thinking that there was more to it than that.

I turned to look up at Claude's broad fleshy face. In this light, his shin was shiny and somewhat moist. A line of pale skin showed at his hairline just beneath his black hair.

_Makeup? Hair dye or a wig?_ I wondered.

But I was already certain he was the same man who was in the video with Chloe. I had to get as much information out of him as I could.

"So where are we going?" I asked. "How long will it take?"

"Not that far. Just to DC," Claude answered.

"DC? Washington DC?" I asked.

"Right," said Claude. "It's only about 225 miles, so we'll be there in a little over ten minutes. They could make this trip faster if they wanted to. It's kind of a drag, but this line only goes a thousand miles an hour. The other lines across continent and across planet go up to 4000 miles an hour—now that's speed!"

I stared up at him in open-mouthed surprise, trying to digest what he was telling me. That seemed like the reaction he expected.

"Yeah, I know. I know. This is all a big shock to you. Wait till you see where we're going. Then you'll really be shocked. You have no idea," he said with another deep chuckle.

"Why don't you tell me about it now, so I'll be less shocked," I suggested.

"Sure. What the hell," he said.

Claude paused for a moment before speaking as if deciding what to tell me. I looked up at him expectantly, waiting. Finally he spoke.

"Well, I'm sure you know that everyone with enough money lives in underground bunkers now. To keep away from the bad air, radiation, and ultraviolet rays up on the surface. And in case there's more nuclear wars," Claude began.

"Sure. Everyone knows that," I said.

"Right. But what you people who live aboveground know is only a small part of what's going on under the ground," he said.

"Really?" I asked. "What's that?"

"There's whole cities down there now, that's what," said Claude. "Cities and transportation systems. A new, separate world for them. For us. All shiny and new. A whole new society. Kept secret from you ground crawlers."

My eyes grew wide.

_Could this really be true?_ I wondered.

"How can that be if there's no money left in the world for new buildings and transportation? Or to repair the old stuff? We're living in a time when we're running out of everything, they say. There's not enough food, and people can barely pay for housing. If they're lucky enough to have housing. Like they say on the news. Like the politicians say," I said.

Claude looked down at me with a thick-lipped smile.

"Sure there's money, plenty of money, tons of resources," he said. "The people who live down here are loaded. The corporation owners you people work for, property owners you pay rent to, food production company owners, politicians, all the people who collect money from the masses in one way or another. But like I said before, they keep it for themselves. Why should they spend it back on you when they go to all the trouble of getting it from you?"

I wasn't sure what answer to make to that question, so I stayed quiet for a long moment.

Then I asked the million-dollar question. "If all this is a secret, then why are you taking me there?"

Claude reached up a hand and rubbed his nose, moved the hand down to cup his chin and partly cover his mouth. Then he spoke.

"Oh, well sometimes we bring in special people like yourself to check the place out, right? There's a limited population down there, so sometimes we bring new people in to join us—even if they don't have any money. Like yourself," he said.

"You mean you're inviting me to live with all the rich people? I'm special?"

I put a hand on my chest and tried to sound impressed and flattered.

"But what if I see everything and decide I don't want to stay? Aren't you worried that I'll tell people aboveground about it?" I asked.

Claude took his hand off his chin and waved it dismissively at me.

"Nah! We're not worried about that. After you see where we're going, you won't want to go back up there ever. You won't be going anywhere. Trust me," he said.

But of course, I didn't.

The tube car slowed. We were approaching our destination.

# Chapter 21

At a leisurely pace, our tube car came out of the blackness of the enclosed tunnel into another light-filled station. Through their clear plastic walls, I could see more similar tube cars stretch endlessly smaller and smaller in the distance.

The transparent door to our car slid open. Claude stood up and gripped my arm again. He strode out of the car, pulling me with him.

_Does he expect me to try to get away and go back?_ I wondered.

But I went along without any resistance. My heels clicked on the polished marble aisle between two tube cars. The doors to the one we'd just rode in whispered shut, and the tube pulled away back in the direction we'd come from. I would have panicked, but I saw the sign in front of the car still parked there.

"Bowery New York," it said.

Like the smaller hidden station we'd just left, this tube station was clean and more modern than anything I'd ever seen. But it was vast with high ceilings and a line of tube cars as far as my eyes could see.

Claude, still clutching my arm, pulled me off the marble isle and led me down a soft-carpeted walkway that absorbed the sounds of our shoes.

Exit signs shone at intervals along the wall that faced the tube cars. We reached one and walked through the open entrance beneath the sign.

The enormous metal-walled elevator we stood in could have held a dozen people comfortably. About half the number of seats in the tube car. One wall was lined with labeled buttons.

I stood next to Claude and watched him carefully. Time slowed again. Claude's hand reached up slow, ever so slow, toward the rows of buttons. I scanned the titles above each column.

Hub City was the heading on top of the entire list. Beneath Hub City, column headings over long rows of buttons included Residences, with subheadings Sectors 1 to 70, Sectors 71 to 140, and so on. Government, Food Production, Media Facilities, and Transportation Center, were some headings of the other columns.

In stretched-out time, Claude's hand reached a button in the column titled Shops and Restaurants. Patrons Inn, was printed next to the button he pressed. Door panels began to inch out from each side of the entrance we'd came in through, reaching to enclose us.

Under Transportation Center, I noticed the long alphabetical list of destinations that included Alaska, Arab Kingdom, California, China, Japan, New York City, Russia, United Kingdom, and more.

_We must be at Transportation Center for New York City_ , I thought.

And time sped back up.

Without a sound, the elevator door shut all the way. Claude let go of my arm, and the compartment moved sideways. Then I felt the floor lower beneath my feet. We moved down and sideways at the same time. My stomach heaved in response to the compartment's motion, but I kept steady.

"Where are we going now?" I asked Claude as we rode along.

"To the restaurant, of course," he answered.

"Great! The meal you promised me," I said.

"That's right. A real meal," said Claude.

"That's so nice of you," I said.

"Yeah. Well. It's not really for your benefit. People always want to see the fresh meat I bring in here," he said.

_Well, that would have spoiled the mood for me if I'd been in the mood_ , I thought.

"Oh," I said. "Is that what you do for them?"

"Yes. I'm in procurement. It's a great job. Great benefits," said Claude. "And I get to live down here with the better people. It's all good."

"Cool," I said.

The compartment's movement leveled out to horizontal, and now it traveled in a curve.

"Almost there," said Claude.

We were both silent for a minute—waiting. Then the car glided to a gentle stop, and its doors slid open.

## 

I looked out at a confusing sight. A vast area opened in front of us. I froze inside the compartment, trying to get my bearings, but Claude grabbed me again and pulled me out onto a wide curved walkway.

The door closed behind us. More closed doors similar to the one we'd just exited lined the wall that circled the enormous area.

A clear railing guarded the inner side of the walkway. Transparent elevator cars traveled up and down in tall clear tubes set at intervals between the railing. I turned back to look at the compartment we'd came out of. Letters above its door said Northeastern US. Then Claude squeezed my arm harder and pulled me away.

We walked toward one of the clear elevators, and I looked down at the vast open space about fifty feet below us. One part of it appeared to be a park or garden. Bright chirping birds flew or perched in a variety of trees—some squat and leafy, some tall with leaves only at the top—arranged along a meandering trail. Among colorful flowers and a splashing fountain, a scattering of people rested on upholstered benches amid the pleasing scene.

Another area off to one side of the garden was spotted with dozens of round white tables. Diners sat at the tables, and servers carried food and drinks to them. From above, I heard a muted chatter of voices mingle with a light tinkling of glass and china.

In my new sense that I didn't think was real but felt so real, something else appeared too. Just like in Club Cain, I saw the same waves of red etched with human faces and bodies form a mist around the diners. The mist swirled and rose up in the open space above them.

I looked up. More clear railings circled level after level of the enormous round open area. Flocks of birds soared through the open air, some perched on the rails and some on the trees and bushes that decorated the upper levels.

The top of the area was far in the distance. It appeared as gentle blue sky dotted with puffy clouds, but I knew that was impossible.

"Is that the sky?" I asked Claude.

He laughed at me again.

"Of course not. That's just a holograph. The sky outside never looks that good," he said.

We reached an open elevator car. I went in without Claude having to drag me, but his grip stayed tight on my arm. He pressed a button in the car without letting go of me. I noticed the number 7 light up. And as the car sunk downward, each of the lower numbers lit up one by one until it reached number 1.

My arm throbbed.

_It must have a huge bruise by now_ , I thought.

"I'm not going to run away," I said when the clear compartment reached the open level at the bottom, and its doors opened.

"No. You're not," said Claude.

But he didn't loosen his grip on my arm.

Claude walked fast along the path toward the dining area among the trees. I kept pace with him to avoid any additional gripping and pulling, but by now my arm was very tender.

"You can let go of my arm now. It's starting to hurt a bit," I said, trying to be diplomatic.

"We're almost there," he said without releasing me.

A few more steps, and we were at the dining area. Without waiting for a server, Claude took me to an empty table and pulled out a chair for me. I sat down and sighed in relief when he finally let go of my arm. He took off his leather-looking jacket and draped it over his chair. Then he sat down too.

I looked around. In truth, I'd never seen anything like this in my life. I was in awe. But at the same time, I was filled with deep nausea and a sense of choking dankness all around me.

Up close, the swirling ghostly faces showed clear. Soft moaning mixed with the light sound of soothing music that came from an unseen audio source. The moaning and the music didn't harmonize well in my ears.

The faces of the other diners were real, I knew. And I felt the weight of their stares.

_Why are they all looking at me?_ I wondered.

I looked around at them, and the metallic smell of blood and death filled my every breath, but I didn't faint or retch. I knew the smells, sounds, and feelings were only as real as the faces I saw in the mist.

Something kept me steady—the strange mental power, or whatever it was, that was still with me.

_Is this thing that's making me think different and act different part of me, or is it something else?_ I wondered.

But I didn't have the answer to that question, and maybe it didn't matter anyway.

"So what do you think?" Claude asked me.

"Beautiful place," I said. "Fancy."

A server with a large full tray approached our table. Bald and dressed all in black, he or she placed glasses of water in front of us. Then plates, silverware, and napkins. Empty wine glasses and a basket of bread. No menus.

Claude didn't say anything.

"Thank you," I said.

But the server looked only at Claude. "Are you ready to order, sir?"

"Yes," said Claude.

The server lifted another small plate from the large round tray he or she carried and placed it in front of Claude. Four bite-size browned cubes with fancy toothpicks in them were lined up on the plate. In front of each cube was a small folded paper with a six-digit number hand printed on it.

Claude lifted the first cube to his mouth and chewed.

"Hmm," he said. "Not bad. A bit too fatty maybe. That's always a problem."

He sighed and reached for the next one. After sampling all four, Claude made his decision.

"530928 is tasty. I'll have it extra rare. It should go well with a bottle of red wine," said Claude. "She'll have the same."

"Actually, I don't want any," I said. "I'm not hungry right now. And did I mention that I'm a vegetarian?"

I was worried that Claude would be angry when I said that, but he just laughed. He seemed to be in a great mood.

"Everyone's a vegetarian up there," he said. "Because there's no meat!"

He laughed again as if that was a great joke.

The part of me that knew how to handle this situation laughed too.

"That's right," I said. "There's no meat because all the livestock got toxic mutation from growth hormones and radiation. So how can you have meat down here? Wouldn't everyone die from eating it?" I asked.

Elbows down on the table, Claude leaned toward me as if imparting a secret. I noticed that the pale color of his tongue and the inside his mouth contrasted with the darker skin of his face and lips. And the thin edge around his dark brown irises suggested contact lenses.

"We have our own special stock down here," said Claude. "A different species that never got the growth hormones that destroyed all the livestock up on the surface. This meat is completely safe to eat. Look around you. All these people have been eating it for years. Look how heathy they are."

Claude straightened up and waved a hand to indicate the diners at other tables set at a discrete distance from ours. I looked around and was disturbed to see most of them staring directly back at me. Their smiles chilled me.

The red-tinged ghost images flowed among them, moaning softly. I cringed inside but didn't let it show. I smiled right back at the other diners and then turned to Claude.

"I've been eating this meat for years and look at me," he was saying.

I looked while he flexed a powerful bicep.

"Nice," I said.

A wolf whistle was heard from somewhere in the crowd. Claude smiled.

The server was back with a bottle of wine. She or he opened it and filled Claude's glass.

"Do you want some wine?" Claude asked me.

I knew he'd notice if I didn't drink it here in this brightly lit restaurant. But I knew I had to stay sharp. I couldn't get drunk or even a little buzzed. I looked at the water glass.

_Could that be drugged?_ I wondered. _I might be paranoid, but I'm not going to eat or drink anything down here_ , I decided.

"No thanks," I said. "I'm not hungry, and I don't feel like drinking either. I just need drugs. When it's like that, I can't eat or drink. Remember you said you had some for me?"

I didn't have any intention of taking drugs from him, but I was sure he wouldn't pull out a needle or other drugs in the middle of this restaurant, and he didn't.

Claude just laughed at me.

"Junkies!" he said.

"You can leave," he told the server.

The server turned and walked away. Claude took a sip of wine before he answered me.

"Yeah. I've got drugs for you," he said. "But not here. In private. And I don't just hand them out for free. You'll have to pay for them. You know what I mean?"

"Sure," I said. "That works for me."

I reached up a hand to the side of my bra and felt the needle hidden there.

"I know exactly what you mean," I said.

Claude smiled and took another sip of wine.

I settled back on my chair to wait. Despite my discomfort under their stares, I looked around at the other people in the room.

A group of five diners at a nearby table looked familiar. Very familiar. Three men and two women. Two Caucasians, a tan-skinned man, and a dark brown-skinned couple. I recognized them from TV, but could it really be them?

"Those people!" I said in a loud whisper to Claude. "At the table over there."

I tried to point discretely while they were all staring our way.

"That looks like the president!" I said. "Sitting with the former president and her husband! And the president before that!"

"Yep. That's right. That's who they are. They're super wealthy, so of course they're going to live down here."

I was too young to vote in the past elections, but I'd seen them all on TV. Talking about what bad people the others were—greedy people who cared only about the rich. People who didn't share one side or the other of the country's equally divided values. And why we should vote for them instead of the others. Because they were the ones who cared about us—whoever was doing the talking.

"But they're all sitting together like they're friends," I said. "And everyone knows they hate each other."

Claude laughed. "That's what they want you to think, so you'll keep supporting them instead of revolting against the government. You people are fooled so easily. Each election, you think the new people are going to help you. They never do, but you keep believing whatever you hear on TV. So gullible!"

He looked at me and smirked. A dark, sick wave washed over me, but I stayed firm against it.

"The funniest part is that everyone knew the last two presidents were friends before the election. Best friends. Shown on television hanging out together at parties all the time. Now you people all believe they're the worst of enemies. That they've always hated each other, and they're totally different kinds of people. It's like you forgot what you saw with your own eyes just because you heard a new story on TV," said Claude.

_Wow! He's right_ , I thought. _I did forget all about that. Of course I'm young, and I wasn't that interested in politics, but still. Everyone forgot the two opposing candidates used to be friends. Everyone thinks these people have completely different values, but the new president used to talk just like the old one, and he even told people to vote for her_.

Claude drank his wine while I mulled over this new information. I studied the people we'd been talking about. They sat at the table nearest to ours. By now, I didn't feel rude because they were staring right back.

Then two of them stood up. The Caucasian former president and her husband. And they started walking in our direction. The sense of oppressive darkness I felt in this place grew stronger. Claude's smile was welcoming.

I hoped they'd walk past us, but they stopped in front of our table. They smiled down at us. I felt their smiles as amused but not friendly. Powerful people next to whom I was nothing. A part of me was terrified. Another part smiled vacantly back at them.

Up close, I was shocked to see how young the former president and her husband looked. They'd both been in their sixties when she held office. That was four years ago. But this woman looked as if she were in her thirties, and her husband looked about the same age.

_Have they had expensive plastic surgery?_ I wondered.

"Hey there, Claude," the ex-president greeted him.

"Mattie. Brent. Hey," said Claude. "How's it going?"

"Tip top as always. Even better now that you're here," said Brent with a wink at me.

"We came over to inspect the new meat," said Mattie.

I resented being called that, but I didn't say anything.

_I need to keep a hold of my emotions_ , I told myself.

Mattie looked me up and down with the fixed smile that now felt feral.

"Sure, sure. Don't you always?" asked Claude. "So what do you think?"

Brent leaned forward and pointed at the bruise forming on my arm.

"Nice coloration there," he said.

"Yummy," said Mattie.

"I'm glad to see that this one has some meat on her bones," said Brent. "Still needs some fattening, of course."

"She's a bit on the old side, isn't she?" asked Mattie.

_Did Claude bring me and the others here to be used for pedophile sex by these people?_ I wondered.

The creepiness of the situation was getting to be too much. I spoke up.

"I'm not old! I'm only eighteen! And I don't do threesomes or foursomes or whatever! And I don't need any fattening!" I said in my most confident voice, even though I was shaking on the inside.

To my surprise, all three of them burst out laughing.

"Amusing," said Mattie in a flat voice that didn't really sound amused.

"Well, eighteen is a bit on the old side, but she looks like good breeding stock. Tall with a little meat on her bones," said Brent. "Good job Claude."

My opened wide, and I looked from Claude to Brent and Mattie. But the two of them ignored me. They turned and walked away, heading toward one of the transparent elevators.

My suspicions were confirmed that something beyond awful was going on here, but I still didn't know exactly what.

_Now what should I do?_ I wondered.

I could act as if I didn't notice anything unusual, but that would be out of character. I had to say something.

"What the heck was that about?" I asked Claude. "What did they mean by 'breeding stock'? I'm not breeding stock!"

"Relax! Relax!" said Claude.

He reached over and gripped my arm tight again, which wasn't very relaxing.

"I'll explain in a minute. My food is here," he said.

I looked up to see the server standing in front of us. He or she soundlessly placed a large steaming plate in front of Claude. A huge slab of meat dripped blood from its pink center. The smell of it sickened me, but I stayed cool and calm on the outside.

Now I noticed a ghostly red form swirling in the air above our table. Young eyes etched in the smoky haze stared at me from a young face. I stared back, but I didn't say anything.

The server went away. Claude lifted a sharp knife and sliced into his meat. He lifted a dripping chunk into his mouth.

"Umm, umm, hmm," he said as he chewed and swallowed. "That's the stuff!"

"What were those people talking about?" I asked him again.

"Like I told you on the tube ride here," Claude spoke in between biting and chewing. "There's a limited gene pool down here, so they need some people like yourself to supplement it. You're lucky that Brent approved you for that. You don't know how lucky you are—believe me."

"But it sounded like they expect to breed me to whomever they want. Like I won't have any choice about it," I said. "What if I don't like that? What if I decide I want to leave and go back to the surface. Is that going to be a problem?"

"No! No problem at all," said Claude. "No one's going to make you do anything against your will. But just give it a chance. You haven't seen everything yet. I'm sure you'll want to stay here after you get the tour. After that, if you still want to leave, that will be fine."

I knew without the slightest doubt that he was lying, but I made myself act reassured.

"Great!" I said with a big smile.

He smiled back at me and kept chewing. I looked around the room again, noticing more familiar faces. Famous people I'd seen on TV. Actors, musicians, and heads of corporations. Governors of US states and the elected presidents of other countries. But they all looked younger than I expected. I asked Claude about that.

"Mattie and Brent looked so young for their age," I said. "I thought Mattie was in her sixties when she was president four years ago. But now she looks like she's in her thirties, and Brent too. Is that from plastic surgery or something? I've seen people who had face lifts, but they never looked that good—always stretched out. Do they have something more advanced down here?"

Claude chuckled around his last mouthful of meat. He swallowed and then answered me.

"Of course they have something better!" he said. "After a hundred years, don't you think medical science would come up with something better than the old-style cutting and stretching you people have up on the surface?"

"I'd think so, but they say there's no money for medical research or expensive medical treatments. So that's why there's been no advancement," I said.

"Right. There's no advanced medicine for you, but there's state-of-the-art medical treatment for people who have the money," said Claude. "The top medical researchers are down here working for the people who can pay for it. And they've come up with rejuvenation treatments you people have never dreamed of. Youth-restoring medical procedures that don't just cut out fat and stretch out skin. Life-extending treatments that prevent death. We can live forever down here."

"Are you serious?" I asked, truly shocked.

"Sure I'm serious," said Claude. "In fact, Mattie and Brent have been alive for nearly 200 years. Brent was a president back then. And the other two over there—your current president and your president before Mattie. There's about twenty politicians who take turns running for office against each other using different names every fifty years or so. They change their skin color and facial features so none of you will recognize them, of course."

"No. That can't be right about the elections," I protested. "That's not how it works. We the people choose who we'll vote for. We don't just take whomever someone rich and powerful tells us to. The people decide. I learned that in school."

Claude guffawed long and loud between bites of meat. More heads turned to look our way. Finally he stopped laughing and spoke.

"Right. You people think you make the decisions, but you vote for whomever these people with money and power tell you to. No one runs for president unless they have a ton of money to go on TV and run social media ads. So the people with the money decide, not you. We give you some choices, but they're always working for us. They're all actors. We reuse the same ones because they're experienced, with a proven ability to convince you. And you always vote for one or the other you see on TV, don't you?"

"I didn't vote in the last election," I said. "I was too young."

"Well, it wouldn't have made any difference anyway," said Claude. "Whoever got elected would have represented the people down here. That's the way it should be because they have all the power, not you. They have eternal youth and eternal life. Most of the people you see here have been alive for more than a hundred years. Me too."

He gestured around the room. I looked. Most of the diners were still staring at me, but I was used to that now.

"That doesn't seem fair," I said. "These people will live forever while everyone else dies younger and younger because there's less and less food, and the air and water are contaminated. The ozone layer is destroyed. The politicians tell us it has to be that way, and they're lying to us!"

"Yes. It's fair because we're privileged," said Claude in a calm voice that one might use to explain things to a child. "Because we're superior to the lowly mobs. We're willing to do what has to be done to keep what we have and thrive. Survival of the fittest and all that. That's why we live here in spacious apartments in the lap of luxury—he waved a forkful of meat up at the railed levels above our heads—while the rest of the world lives in the decaying slums."

I looked up where he gestured.

"Do you live up there too?" I asked. "With all the politicians and rich people?"

"Sure I do," said Claude. "I'm valuable to the people down here, and my job has great perks. I've got a two-bedroom spread up there."

"Wow!" I said.

This information was a lot for me to take in. I had more questions for Claude, but he was wiping some bloody meat juice from his lips and chin with a linen napkin.

"Time to get the show on the road," he said.

I recognized the expression an old movie I'd seen on TV.

_Maybe he is really old_ , I thought.

## 

Claude stood up and pulled out my chair. It felt strange to have someone moving my chair while I was sitting in it. Another ancient chivalrous gesture from days gone by.

I stood up too, and Claude picked up both my coat and his jacket from the backs of our chairs. He draped them over one of his arms, and the chivalry ended there when he gripped my arm tight again in his free hand and yanked me out of my chair.

As we walked together toward the elevator, we passed a few people walking in the opposite direction toward the dining area. Claude nodded at them, but he didn't let go of my arm or stop to speak.

But I wasn't silent. I kept asking him questions, knowing that I might not have much time left to get answers after we reached wherever he was taking me.

"Why don't they tell people who live aboveground about this medical treatment, so they can stay young and live forever too?" I asked.

"Well, for one thing, it's expensive," Claude answered me. "I told you the wealthy don't want to waste their money on the masses. But the main reason is logistics. What would happen if everyone up there started to live forever? There's already too many of you now. The population would swell and swell. It would be hard for the people down here to keep you under control. So they don't use this procedure on less worthy people, only on the most deserving. But we know people up there would make a big stink about that if they found out, so we keep it a secret."

We reached the transparent elevator and walked inside. I watched Claude press one of many numbered buttons on the large panel, -147. I noticed it was positioned far below the number 3 level we were on.

The elevator doors closed, and the floor sunk down under my feet. I felt the dip, then my body adjusted to the rapid speed of descent. I could tell we were speeding downward because the buttons were lighting up fast down numbers that grew increasingly negative: -20, -21, and so on.

I asked Claude another question. "What about me? "If I stay here, will I be able to get the rejuvenation treatment too?"

He looked at me and laughed. I stared back at him waiting for his answer.

"No. You can't get it if you're being used for breeding," he said.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because we keep breeding stock free of any kind of hormones or chemicals to get the best results," he answered.

"Oh," I said.

I paused for a moment. Something was growing in my awareness. The feeling of Laz that had been with me since he left Club Cain with Claude was getting stronger.

_We're heading toward Laz!_ I realized.

Then I thought of another question for Claude. I noticed that he seemed to have no problem answering my questions in detail and mostly truthfully. I knew that must mean he thought I'd never leave here to tell anyone. But I kept asking more anyway.

"Why are we going down in this elevator? I thought you said you lived in the apartments up above the restaurant."

"That's right. I live up there," he said. "But I don't take people like you to my personal residence. I'm taking you down to where we keep all the breeding stock. You'll love it there."

# Chapter 22

About a minute later, the elevator came to a stop. Its doors opened on a long bare hallway. Chill air wafted into the elevator. Claude pulled me out onto the scuffed vinyl floor.

"Hey, what about the drugs you promised me?" I whined. "Don't we have to go to your place for that?"

Claude dragged me down the hallway.

"Don't worry. You'll get your drugs," he said. "After you pay for them first. You can do that down here."

I didn't say anything else.

My plan had been to take a look at whatever drugs he offered and then say something like, "That's not really what I need, but I have some of my own."

Then I'd pull out a needle and inject him instead of myself.

Maybe it wasn't the greatest plan, but it was all I'd thought of. If Claude wasn't going to give me drugs right away, I'd have to play this different. I hoped that whatever it was that had been in my mind lately—directing my actions—wouldn't abandon me now.

"I don't think I want to live in this place," I said. "I don't like it. It looks just like the rundown hospitals we have up there. Why would I want to stay here?"

"This is just the hallway," said Claude. "You'll love it inside the room you'll be staying in. Believe me."

I shivered in the cold, but he didn't offer to return my coat, and I didn't ask for it.

I didn't think he could grip my arm any tighter, but he did. I'd run out of questions. I looked from side to side as we strode along at a fast pace. Except for some wheeled gurneys with straps parked at intervals along it, the hallway was empty. Some open waste bins. Others that were closed. Not much else.

Even the ghostly swirls I'd seen up above seemed to be absent from this place. But my awareness of Laz was strong and growing stronger.

_He's down here!_ I thought.

The sound of my heels echoed in the emptiness along with heavy thumps from Claude's boots.

We passed windowless doors, all with keypads. Most were double doors wide enough for a gurney to fit through.

"This place is creepy," I complained again. "If people live down here, where is everyone?"

"No one's here at this time of night," said Claude. "They'll show up for work in a few hours."

_What work?_ I thought, but I didn't ask that question.

Claude stopped in front of a set of two blank doors. Without loosening his grip on me, he lifted his other arm that held my coat and his jacket and began typing numbers into the door's keypad.

Time slowed again as I watched his thick forefinger press each number in turn. The sequence was the same twelve numbers I'd memorized when we came in the door from the subway.

After Claude had pressed the last number, time sped up again.

## 

The door made a buzzing sound. Claude pushed down on its metal handle and then pushed the door inward and open a few feet. He shoved me inside roughly, almost throwing me, but I was relieved that he let go of my arm.

I stumbled on my spike heels and landed against something hard and metallic. One of four gurneys lined up on the side of the room. I looked down at the gurney's bare metal—no mattress or sheets but lots of complicated straps. The metal rim around its sides dipped to form a gully similar to the edges of an autopsy table.

There was nothing else on this side of the room except some locked cabinets built into the wall above the gurneys.

I turned and saw that Claude had followed me in. The double doors shut automatically behind him. They made a click sound as if locking, and I saw another keypad on this side of them.

I looked around the room. It wasn't much of a room, more like a short hallway. A long counter spanned the wall across from me. A few metal stools and a waste bin sat under the counter. More locked cabinets on the wall above the counter. That was about it.

Another double door at the far end of this short hallway-like room also had a keypad.

I turned back to look at Claude. He tossed our outerwear on the counter and sat down on one of the stools facing me with a smirk on his fleshy face. He spread his legs open and reached to unbuckle his belt.

"It's time for your payment," he said.

_It's time!_ I told myself.

"Right," I said out loud.

_Now would be a good time for whatever's been helping me to help again_ , I thought.

I waited for whatever it was that had been guiding my actions and even slowing time—for other people—to do something. But nothing happened except that Claude's zipper was all the way down.

"Come over here," he said.

_Can you help please?_ I mentally asked the unknown power.

There was no answer, and I felt like nothing was there except me.

_Was there ever anything else there?_ I wondered. _Was it me all along? Have I just been crazy like people have suggested?_

"Now!" Claude ordered.

I forced myself to walk toward him.

_I'll just have to inject him however I can_ , I thought.

But I looked at him and knew how hard that would be. He could easily overpower me when he saw me pull out a needle. He was many times stronger than me, and he was probably fast too.

The room was cold, but I dripped sweat when I stood in front of Claude. And still no sign of whatever had been helping me up to this point. He reached up a hand to grab me again.

_Time! Slow down!_ I said with insistence in my mind.

I felt foolish to be ordering time, but I was grasping at straws.

Claude's hand seemed to stop in mid air, left open in a partial grip around my arm. The grip was closing ever so slowly. I pulled my arm away and stepped back.

While Claude's other hand moved super slow in the act of pulling down his underwear, I whipped off my pink crop top and dropped it on the counter behind him. I pulled out the needle from the left side of my bra. Then I shoved it into Claude's thigh and pushed in the plunger with practiced care.

In his state of slow motion compared to mine, he didn't have time feel the effects or make a noise by the time I'd injected the second needle into his tight t-shirt-covered chest.

I stood for a moment—fast to him but slow to me—and considered whether I should use the last two needles.

I decided not to. Pierre had assured me that two would be more than enough, and I didn't want to kill him, even though he'd probably killed so many people.

Still in slow time, Claude started to make a long, drawn-out grunting noise and begin to sway toward me. I jumped back.

Ever so slowly, he fell forward. Inch by inch as if floating, Claude dropped downward toward the floor. I waited.

Eventually, in my time, he landed on the hard floor, which started to make the sound of a long echoing thump. Then he lay there unmoving, face down on the stained linoleum.

_Will he suffocate like that?_ I wondered.

I squatted down next to him and turned his head sideways. Then I stood up and put my top back on. I grabbed my coat and put my arms through it, but I didn't take the time to button it up. Even though time was stretched out and moving so slow, I felt a sense of urgency.

_I have to hurry!_ something in my mind urged me.

# Chapter 23

My awareness of Laz was strong in the direction of the double door on the other side of the room. And there were other people back that way too, I realized. A lot of other people.

I walked over and pushed down on the handle between the two doors. It didn't budge. I reached a hand to the keypad above the handle and began entering numbers. The twelve numbers I'd memorized and seen Claude use twice.

The door buzzed long, deep, and slow in stretched-out time. I waited for the slow click sound of its lock and then pushed one of the two double doors wide open. I walked through, and in slow time, it began to close incrementally behind me as I moved away down the hall.

This hallway looked almost exactly like the first hallway I'd entered with Claude when we came out of the elevator. Long, cold, and bare except for gurneys parked against the walls and two sets of double doors across the hall from each other. And at the very end of the hall, another single door.

I felt Laz behind one set of double doors, but I knew he wasn't the only one down here. I'd have to check behind all the doors.

Just as I was about to do that, I noticed a row of four tall cabinets against the wall. These metal cabinets were taller than my head. I really didn't want to look inside them because I was afraid of what I'd find. But I knew I needed to be thorough.

So I pulled on the handle of the nearest one. It didn't budge, but I felt a button inside the curved handle, and I squeezed it in. The door swung open wide. The matching door on the other side opened too. Within the dimness, I saw several long dark shapes hanging from a pole under a shelf at the top of the cabinet.

I reached in and pulled out one of the hanging shapes. It was a one-piece work suit with a hood, attached gloves, and foot coverings. The hood zipped up all the way up to the eyes. What looked like a breathing vent covered where the mouth and nose would be.

I stood on my toes and looked up at the shelf above the hanging suits. Goggles. These cabinets held full-coverage bodysuits. I decided that I didn't have time to look in the rest of them, and I turned back to the double doors.

# Chapter 24

The sense of Laz's presence was strong now. It drew me to the next set of double doors down the hall.

_He's in here!_ I told myself as I keyed in the twelve numbers to open the door.

Again, in its slowed-down time, the door began a slow buzz and then a slow click. I pushed it open and strode in. This room was warmer compared to the artificial coldness of the last two rooms, but it still held the chill, close air of structures underground.

_Kind of like the subway_ , I thought.

The mingled smell of urine and perspiration reminded me of the subway too. Only one small ventilation fan circulated meekly above my head.

I looked around where I stood. One wall of the bare entranceway held only a few metal stools perched beneath a thin counter with a built-in sink. A square metal towel dispenser was attached to the wall above the counter. Locked cabinets lined the wall above the dispenser.

Across from the counter, an enormous coiled-up hose hung from a hook on the opposite wall. Several large unmarked sacks were lined up on the floor next to the hose. A large scoop stuck out of the open top of one sack.

But the rest of the room caught and held my attention. About ten feet away from the door, floor-to-ceiling metal bars lined both sides of the walls. Behind the bars, there were people—young people. Each in what looked like a separate narrow cell or cage. And Laz was in one too.

The floor in the narrow walkway between the cages curved down toward its center, where a long drain grill stretched for the entire length of the cages.

In their much slower time, those people who were awake in the cages started to notice that the door to the room had been flung open. Some reclined on the hard, thin cots that filled most of their cells. They lifted their heads ever so slowly.

Others stood at the bars of their cages. Some with mouths open in the slowed-down motion of talking to each other. Some just stood there. Others sat on their cots and stared into space. Heads and bodies began to turn fractionally in my direction.

But I was already moving to unlock the keypad on the first cage.

A small card attached to the door of the cage was hand printed with a six-digit number and, below that, a date from about six weeks in the past.

_That was before Chloe disappeared_ , I thought. _Is she in here too?_

But I looked up the length of the room and didn't see her.

I noticed the large bottle attached to the cage's bars. A water bottle with a spout that went through the bars and into the cage at about face height. It was clear and half empty.

Next to the bottle, also inside the cage, a plastic bowl held greyish-green pellets. The bowl was attached to the bars beneath a horizontal opening in the cage that was just high enough to pour the pellets through. And it was also about half full of pellets.

I looked at the teenage boy in the slowed-down act of rising from the narrow, stained cot inside the cage. Brown curly hair partly covered his pale face. I didn't recognize him, but I was shocked to see how plump he was.

I'd never seen a young person who wasn't thin or even malnourished. Steve had a belly, but he was thin overall, and he was older. This young man wasn't muscular like Claude, and he was even heavier than the well-fed people I'd just seen in restaurant.

Next to the wall behind the cot, a small toilet had a facet positioned above it—a jail-style toilet.

Now the door to this cage was open.

_Stop staring and keep going!_ I ordered myself.

I remembered to take pictures of everything on the bars of the cage and inside it, including the young man. I stepped back into the isle between the cages and took more pictures of the entire room.

Then I moved on to the next cage.

_Can they see me in my sped-up time?_ I wondered. _Or do they see me as a blur?_

One after the other, I unlocked about eighteen cages on both sides of the room. Six others were empty. All were exactly the same except for different dates on the cards. The teens in the cages with more recent dates were thinner. Those with dates farther in the past were heavier. But all of the dates were two months ago or less.

Some powerful feeling that I didn't recognize flooded me when I reached Laz and opened the door to his cell, but I didn't pause there. I kept going until I had all of the doors open.

None of the prisoners except Laz were my former clients from the clinic, but I thought I recognized a few I'd seen there. It was hard to be sure because they'd all put on weight since then. They'd been other counselor's clients, and then I hadn't seen them again.

A wave of guilt hit me now because I hadn't paid attention to that at the time—only to my own clients who disappeared.

These people's clothes looked grimy and worn as if they hadn't been changed in a long time. Tight and with seams bursting open on some of the heavier ones. Jackets were wadded up on the ends of the small cots like makeshift pillows. Some of them had socks on, some had bare feet, but none wore shoes.

I looked around and watched the beginnings of shocked expressions bloom slowly on young faces. Those who'd been sleeping stirred, but no one had moved more than a few inches since I'd entered the room.

But something else had been triggered by my actions. The start of a loud blare blasted my ears. A security alarm.

I pushed down the panicked feelings that told me to go faster and considered what to do next.

_I have to slow down to their time now_ , I realized. _I have to lead them out of here or else tell them how get out_.

I decided that it would be best to give them directions, so they could get going. I wasn't done down here. There were still more rooms to check.

Laz was slowly moving toward the door of his cell. I crossed to him and stood in front of his open door.

_Time, go back to normal!_ I mentally ordered time again, still feeling foolish.

Time sped up, and Laz reached the doorway at normal speed.

"Myrna? Myrna! What's going on?" he shouted.

Confused and dazed, Laz raised his arms to me and yelled above the now faster blaring sound of the alarm.

The urge to throw myself into his open arms was almost overpowering, but I resisted.

"There's no time to explain, Laz," I said. "You have to go. You have to get these people out of here fast before someone comes."

The others were crowded around us now.

"How?" someone yelled.

Laz stared at me. They all stared at me, waiting for my answer.

"I'll tell you where to go," I yelled at Laz.

I gave him directions from this room to the elevator.

"Push the button for Transportation Center, New York Subways," I continued. "Then take the car to the Bowery. You must remember."

I looked around at all of them.

"That's how you got here, right?" I yelled at them.

"Yes, but Claude used a code to get through all the doors," Laz yelled over the blaring alarms.

I felt a terrible sense of urgency, The ear-splitting noise of the alarm grew louder and louder as we stood there talking.

"I'll tell you the code," I screamed back at Laz. "Can you remember twelve numbers?"

"No. I can't!" he screamed.

_Now what?_ I thought. _If only I could take them all into sped-up time with me, but I don't know how to do that_.

"OK. I'll tell some of you three numbers each," I said. "Can you do that?"

"Yes," yelled Laz.

"We can do that too," some of the others yelled.

I quickly gave three numbers each to four groups of teenagers.

"Now go!" I yelled. "Run as fast as you can!"

"Wait! What about you?" Laz yelled.

"What should we do when we get out?" Someone else yelled the question at me.

"Don't worry about me. There are more people I have to find down here. Just go!" I yelled back at all of them.

I waved my arms insistently toward the door.

"Go to Steve for help," I yelled at Laz.

I hoped that would be a good idea. It was all I could think of.

They all took off. Laz brushed a quick kiss on my lips on his way out of the cage.

## 

In the instant that I felt Laz's kiss, something irresponsible took hold of me. Without thinking, I ordered time to slow down, and I turned Laz's fast kiss into a much longer, deeper one—in my time anyway.

I pressed my body up against his and wrapped my arms around his waist—pulling him tight against me.

_This might be our last time together, but it's not the same if he can't kiss me back because he's in slow motion!_ The thought came into my mind.

I looked around at the other people in the room. None of them were looking in our direction.

_I could speed his time back up to normal for a minute or two, and then we could have one last real kiss where he kisses me back_ , I thought.

But just as I was about to order time to go back to normal, the need for haste blared through my love-fogged mind.

_Guards must be coming to investigate the alarms_ , I realized.

In each second that passed, they'd be that much closer. Even a few seconds might decide whether these people got away or not.

_No! I can't be so selfish!_ I told myself.

"Goodbye," I whispered in Laz's ear.

But I still had to give him some Then I moved away from him before I ordered time to return to normal. Now Laz looked back at me—dazed but passionate. He reached out and pulled me back in. Even tighter than I'd just been holding him.

My desire fought against my determination, dulling and almost overpowering my ability to think straight, or at all.

_No! There's no time now!_ I fought back. _Even more time is passing while we're standing here!_

I pulled up the images I'd just seen into my memory—dead bodies hanging from the ceiling, body parts wrapped up, bodies in drawers. And my mind won.

I wrenched myself out of Laz's arms.

"Go!" I screamed at him.

I mashed my lips against his one last time—hard and fast. Then I shoved him away with all my strength toward the door.

## 

In a split second, before any of them had reached the double door, the loud blare of the alarm changed from ear-hurting to nothing.

The doors burst open, and two of the biggest humans I'd ever seen stood there. This man and woman were both over six feet tall. Their bulging chest and arm muscles and thick corded necks that were almost as wide as their faces made Claude look thin in comparison.

Each brandished a huge meat cleaver at the approaching crowd of much less muscular teenagers. The teens froze.

_Time, slow down!_ I ordered time in my head again.

Now the two giants seemed to freeze in place too. Each with a foot paused in the act of lifting to rush into the room. Cleavers held high. But in slowed-down time, they kept moving forward by fractions of inches.

I rushed over, stood there for a moment, and looked at the menacing slow-motion guards.

_How can I stop them?_ I wondered.

Then I remembered that I had two more hypodermic needles.

_Of course! Why was I so slow to think of that? Am I losing my sharpness?_ I worried, but I knew there was no time to dwell on that.

I pulled out one of the needles from the center underwire of my bra and injected it into the back of the nearest giant, the man. It didn't visibly affect him—yet. Then I injected the second needle into the woman's back.

Their mouths began to slowly open as if they'd just noticed the sharp sting. But I needed to know if the drugs were enough to knock them out.

I stepped back several feet and sped time back up to normal. The guards' mouths opened wide, and roars came out. They both started to whirl around to see who was behind them, but they didn't make it to the full circle.

Both dropped their cleavers and sunk to the floor, moaning in protest. Then the enormous guards lay still.

I looked down and saw that their faces were turned sideways. Drool leaked from the man's mouth onto the floor.

The woman's leg had landed on her cleaver. Blood was leaking out. I knelt down and pulled the blade from her leg, but I didn't have time to do more than that.

Even though time was back to normal again, I looked up to see Laz and the others standing frozen a few feet away, eyes wide. I stood up and yelled at them, even though the alarm was off, and that wasn't necessary for them to hear me.

"Go now!" I screamed.

They jolted out of their shock and moved forward. I slowed down their time again. Then in my sped-up time, I took off running out the door.

# Chapter 25

Another set of double doors faced the door I came out of. I crossed the hall and entered the code to open the doors.

What was inside was almost identical to what had been in the room I'd just left. Almost, but not quite.

Instead of holding both male and female teens, the cages in this room held only females. Many of them appeared to be in various stages of pregnancy. I looked down the row and saw that Chloe was there too! Whether pregnant or not, I couldn't tell.

Just like the people in the last room, when I'd entered this room in my much faster time, the girls began to make the slow motions of people who'd just noticed the unusual occurrence of the door bursting open. Heads started their slow turn in my direction.

Like the people in the other room, some stood at the bars of their cages as if talking to each other. Some were lying in bed, and some were sitting up. Again, each cage had a card on it with a date and a number.

Instead of wearing their own clothes, all these teenage girls were dressed in what looked like tan medical gowns, sleeveless and hemmed above the knees. None of them wore shoes.

_They can't go out in the streets of New York dressed like that!_ I thought.

Near its doors, this room also had cabinets built into the wall above a counter. I stepped over to one of the cabinets and pulled on its handle. It was unlocked and opened easily. I hoped to find the girls' clothes, but that cabinet and the others contained only odd medical equipment and other things I didn't recognize.

Apparatuses with large suction cups on one end of a clear tube neatly lined one shelf. On the shelf below, large glass bottles had openings about the same size as the other end of the tubes.

I closed the cabinets and pulled open the doors of a large metal box that stood next to them. Cold air began to waft out in slow time. Inside, labeled glass bottles of white liquid that looked like soymilk packed rows of wire shelves.

I didn't know what I was looking at, but I took more pictures and then closed this refrigerator's door too.

_I'll have to find clothes for all these people_ , I thought. _But where?_

I remembered the uniforms out in the hallway, and I ran back there. I opened the tall cabinets and pulled out the long plastic bodysuits. Enough for the twenty girls I'd counted. Then I went back to the room with the pregnant girls and piled the uniforms on the counter next to the door.

Just as I was about to start freeing the girls, I paused. I knew that an alarm would go off again soon after I started opening cages, and more guards would probably show up. So I had to give Laz and the others time to get out first. I went back and put a hand on the door that still hadn't closed behind me.

_Time go back to normal!_ I mentally ordered time again.

In regular time, the door to the room Laz was in burst open. I heard the sound of voices and pounding feet as Laz and the others rushed out into the hallway. Laz looked my way, questioning. I waved him urgently toward the double door at the end of the hallway.

"Go!" I shouted. "Get them out of here!"

Laz stared at me for a just moment. Some unrecognizable feeling jolted through me. But I didn't have time to analyze what it was. Then he turned and left with the others.

In the room behind me, I heard the sound of startled female voices.

"What's happening?" "Who's that?" they shouted.

But I didn't turn around to explain.

I followed Laz and the freed teens through the second pair of doors at the end of the hall. Then I stood and watched them reach the elevator and take turns typing in the numbers of the code until all twelve had been entered.

The elevator door opened, and they all crowded in. Then the door closed, and they were gone.

I slowed time down again and went back to the room where the young girls were still in their cages.

Then I rushed down both sides of that room and unlocked the cages one by one until I had them all open. As I'd expected, just as I unlocked the last one, an alarm began to blast a slow but ear-splitting blare.

I took pictures of this room too. Then I went to the door of Chloe's cage. She'd been standing at the bars when I'd unlocked it, and now one foot was raised in mid-air as she began to step out in slow motion.

From my experience in the other room, I knew that after I sped up other people's time again, it wouldn't be long before more goons would come bursting into this room too.

I organized my thoughts and planned the instructions I'd give. Then I returned time to normal. The double doors that had been slowly closing in their slowed-down time now slammed shut.

Chloe jolted when she saw me suddenly standing in front of her, but she didn't scream. She and the others stared at me with wide eyes. I knew I couldn't waste any time, so I started talking.

"Chloe. It's me, your counselor Myrna. You know me. I'm talking fast because there isn't much time. I'm going to tell you how to get everyone out of here. Listen, everyone!" I shouted.

I explained where to go in the elevators, and I gave four groups of them three numbers of the code each to remember.

"Aren't you coming with us?" Chloe asked me.

"No. I can't. You have to go on your own. I'll give you clothes to wear. And I'll catch up with you if I can. You might see some big guards coming at you with axes, but I'll take care of them," I said.

I hoped that was true.

"What!" some of the girls exclaimed.

"Don't worry about that. Just go! You have to go now!" I shouted insistently at the young girls who were all crowded around me.

At that, they stirred themselves and started heading toward the doors, some pulling the arms of others who were still in a state of shock—mostly the ones with the biggest pregnant bellies.

Before they reached the double doors, the alarm went silent again, and the doors burst open. This time, three huge people lunged in with meat cleavers held up and ready. A gigantic pale-skinned man and a tanned woman—and Claude, whose face was set in any angry scowl.

_Time slow down!_ I shouted in my mind.

Everything and everyone slowed except me. I moved quickly to the group of aggressors who were now moving by millimeters into the room toward the frightened teenagers who were creeping backward at the same slow rate.

I was out of needles, so I had to think of some other way to stop them. But they were all many times stronger than me, and there wasn't much in the room. I opened the cabinets above the counter again.

There were some hypodermic needles and what might have been drugs in some marked bottles of liquid. But I didn't know what they were and whether they'd have any effect or be fatal to inject.

Despite all I'd seen in this place, I didn't want to kill anyone. The idea of killing people turned my stomach.

_That's not who I am_ , I thought, although I didn't know exactly who I was anymore.

But I had to stop them somehow. Just like in the other room, a metal towel dispenser was attached to the wall underneath the cabinets. Made of hard metal, it looked heavy but not too heavy for me to lift and swing.

I tugged on it with both hands. It gave a little. I tugged harder. It broke away, leaving small holes in the wall and exposed screws sticking out on the back of the dispenser.

I stood behind the three giants for a moment in my sped-up time. My inner resistance was strong. I did not want to do this.

_I have to! Now!_ I told myself.

Then I swung the metal dispenser hard against the back of the largest man's head.

Bile rose in my throat, and I pushed down the nausea and disgust I felt from what I'd just done.

The impact made a sickening thunk sound, and the man's mouth began to open and release the start of a yell. But in his slowed down time, it was hard to tell how much effect the blow had.

The sick feeling inside me grew stronger. But I kept going. I swung the dispenser again on the backs of the woman's head and Claude's. Again, they made the beginnings of slight movements, but I couldn't tell what impact my blows were making.

I waited in my much faster time for the three people I hit to react in their much slower time. During what felt to me like five, ten, or more minutes, but would have been seconds to them, mouths opened to release slow, angry roars.

Eventually, all three, who were still standing, spiraled around to look at me standing behind them. Angry eyes slowly narrowed at me, and three axes started to lift in three sets of powerful arms.

During this time, continuous drawn-out screams came from the young girls huddled together several feet away inside the room.

_I didn't hit them hard enough!_ I realized.

The guards were so huge and powerful that my blows had only aggravated them. I circled back behind them again, hating that I would have to do what sickened me a second time. But there was no choice. I had to knock these people unconscious, so the young girls could get away.

Again, I swung the metal dispenser against each of the three huge heads. Harder this time but not as hard as I could. Something in me resisted that and held me back. Again, I waited to see the reactions of the people I'd hit.

This time, my blows seemed to have more impact. The three of them were dazed. But they shook themselves and turned toward me again.

With growing disgust and resistance, I repeated the same process over and over. I could tell that my repeated blows to their heads were starting to have an effect.

The three huge people were moaning now in their super-slow time. They'd dropped their cleavers and grabbed the backs of their heads. All three were swaying but still on their feet.

_Almost there_ , I thought. _I hate this, but I need to finish it. Too much time is passing in real time while I've been waiting to see what happens. I'm wasting time again, and more guards might be coming to see what's going on_.

The growing revulsion I felt was almost mind numbing. My body felt weak and numb too. It seemed like an enormous effort to move at all.

_I have to!_ I told myself over and over.

I pushed back against the feeling and swung the metal dispenser as hard as I could against each of the three heads. I'd never been so sick and disgusted in my entire life. I knew I might be killing them, but panic spurred me on.

Then I waited again in my time. I took deep breaths of the stale air, trying to recover from what I'd just done. Finally, three pairs of eyes glazed over, and all three gigantic bodies began to make a slow descent toward the floor.

And then, without my telling it to, time sped up.

The bodies of Claude and the two others hit the ground with loud thumps. Some of the teenage girls bunched behind me screamed in normal time. Others cheered. Then the girls started moving toward the door.

_What's happening to me?_ I wondered. _Am I losing my only advantage now?_

I acted calm, so the girls wouldn't see how terrified I felt.

"Take the uniforms on the counter on your way out," I told them. "But don't stop to put them on yet. Wait till you're in the tube car."

I frantically ordered time again in my mind. _Time slow down!_

The girls moving past me slowed.

I drew in a ragged breath of relief.

But then the girls picked up speed again. They smiled at me as they passed me standing frozen next to the three still forms on the floor. Each grabbed a uniform on her way out.

"Thank you," said Chloe, as she stepped on dainty feet across the body of Claude. "But what should we do when we get out of here?"

"Go to Sandra at the clinic," I said. "You'll make it. You'll be fine."

I acted confident, but I was worried now. About myself. I still needed to check out one more room and take pictures there, but I took my phone from my small pocket and handed it to Chloe. She took it.

"Give this phone to Sandra," I said. "It has the pictures I took in here. Evidence. Tell her to send the pictures to all the news stations she can think of."

I told her my phone password.

"Good luck," I said.

"Thank you," she said, and she smiled at me. The biggest smile I'd ever seen on her face.

Trying to look positive and calm, I smiled back at Chloe as she turned and followed the others out the door. But I was terrified.

I walked out the door too and followed the girls through the second double door at the end of the hallway.

_Time slow down!_ I ordered again in my mind.

The girls kept moving toward the elevator at what looked like normal speed.

_What's happening to me!_ I wondered as I watched them all crowd into the elevator.

I knew something was wrong, but there was still one room I had to see before I could leave too. The elevator door closed, and I headed back to check out the last room.

# Chapter 27

A lone single door, the only door I hadn't entered yet, was at the very end of the short hallway. I approached it.

As I entered the code in its keypad, a sick feeling coursed through my entire body. Worse than what I'd just felt when I was pounding on the heads of the three guards.

_I really don't want to go in here_ , I thought.

But I pushed the door open anyway. In real time, ice-cold air wafted out at me. I saw bright lights in a pristine room where nothing moved at all.

This immaculate narrow room was empty except for six strange-looking chairs lined up against the wall on one side. The bottom and back of each chair were enclosed in half of a clear plastic dome. At the top of that, the other half of the dome was attached like an open lid.

I stepped closed to one and stared at it. The chair itself had hard plastic arms, seat, and back with attached straps dangling from the arms, legs, and chest area.

_What is this for?_ I wondered.

As soon as I thought of that question, my vision blurred. In my sight, the room swirled and then solidified again. I swayed on my feet and then got my bearings and looked at the sight now in front of me.

Three of the chairs held teenagers, all strapped in. Claude and two other guards were standing in the room in front of them. But none of them appeared to notice me. Three gurneys were lined up on the opposite wall.

In my altered state of consciousness, I didn't question how the three goons could be standing here when I'd just left them lying unconscious on the floor in the other room.

"What's going on? Why did you put us in these chairs?" asked a brown-haired young man who looked a bit older than the others—at least eighteen.

"It's time for you to leave now, and these are your transportation modules," said Claude.

"Yeah! I'm ready to leave," said one of the two younger girls next to him in the other chairs.

"These chairs don't look transportation to me," said the first teen. "Why don't you take us back in the tube?"

"Oh, that's because the tubes are limited to a certain distance, but you're going much farther than New York," said the blonde female guard I'd seen in the room with the girls.

Then all three chuckled.

"Where?" asked the second girl.

Claude said something but it was drowned out by the young man's shouting.

"No! You lie! Let us out of here!"

He kept yelling and struggled against the straps the held him in the chair, but it was no use.

"OK. I've had enough. Let's get this over with," said the dark-haired male guard.

The giants stepped forward, and each one closed the lid on one of the chairs. The young man's yelling was muted, but his efforts to escape grew more desperate.

The two girls began to shout and struggle too as a white mist began to fill their egg-shaped containers. Then all three slumped back in their chairs and became silent. The mist thickened until only a thick white cloud was visible.

"Just a few minutes to go now," said the female guard. "A feisty one this time."

"Yes. It gets old," said Claude irritably.

"But worth the trouble," said the other guard.

He rubbed his belly.

Still unseen and ignored, I waited with them. In about a minute, the mist inside the eggs began to clear. In a minute more, it was gone. All three teens were visible, slumped still and lifeless in their chairs. A ding sounded from each of the three eggs.

"Ready!" said Claude.

As the three guards stepped forward and began to lift the lids, the whole scene swirled in my sight again. When what I was looking at solidified, the chairs were empty, and everyone was gone except me.

I knew that what I'd just witnessed was a vision of the past. It could have been my imagination, but I believed it was real.

_I need pictures of this too_ , I thought. _Did I make a mistake when I gave Chloe my phone?_

All I could do was look around until the images had burned into my memory. Even though the chairs were empty, and maybe no one would believe it what I'd seen in my vision. Then I rushed out of that room.

# Chapter 27

I stopped in the hallway. It was empty.

_All the people I let out must have reached the tubes by now,_ I thought, remembering the speed of the elevator. _I can leave now too._

I started to walk down the hall when my vision blurred, and I swayed. I felt weak. Tired. Dizzy. Hungry. And thirsty! Terribly thirsty!

How many hours had it had been since I'd had anything to eat or drink? I didn't know, but I knew I had to have some water and food now, or I wasn't going anywhere. And both of those things were here. I hadn't wanted to drink or eat anything in this place. Now I had to.

With wavering steps, I lurched back to the double doors to the room Chloe had been in. I typed the code and went in.

Thankfully, Claude and the two guards were still on the floor—out cold. Holding onto the counter for balance, I walked around their still forms and into the first open cage.

First, I put my mouth to the spout of the water bottle and drank gulp after gulp of the brackish water.

_Are there drugs in this water or the food?_ I wondered.

But I kept drinking. I didn't have a choice, and I'd seen that Chloe and the others weren't too drugged to walk out of here.

I drank about a cup of water and stopped. I felt better, but I was still weak. I looked at the unappetizing pellets in the tray next to the water bottle, and my stomach growled.

My hand reached out of its own accord, grabbed one, and stuffed it into my mouth. I crunched the dry, hard pellet. It had a bitter chalky taste, but I kept chewing. I was ravenous.

I ate several more pellets with sips of water in between to wash them down. After a few minutes, my stomach was full, and I stopped eating.

_Will I be able to speed up time again now?_ I wondered.

Now I paused before trying. I was scared that it wouldn't work again.

_Try it!_ I ordered myself.

And I tried. But I couldn't tell if it worked. There was nothing in the room moving.

_Except the guards, if they're still alive_ , I realized.

I walked over to where they lay in a heaped mound on the floor and bent down to get a closer look. But I didn't see any movement.

Then I heard something. A noise coming from Claude's mouth. The beginning of a long, slow ragged breath.

I stood up, sighed a deep, relieved breath of my own, and walked to the door.

# Chapter 28

The double doors had shut again, so I keyed in the twelve familiar code numbers. I waited for the slow sound of the door buzzing open. For some reason, it was taking a while to start.

_It never took this long before_ , I thought. _Have I slowed down time too much?_

_Time go back to normal!_ I ordered in my mind.

Claude let out a complete snore in normal time. Someone else on the floor moaned. But the door buzzer remained silent.

_They must have changed the code!_ I realized.

Panicked, I ordered time to slow down again, and the sounds coming from the people on the floor stretched out again.

_I'll have to figure out the new code number_ , I thought. _I have time—lots of time_.

I began typing in different combinations of twelve numbers in the keypad. Typed and waited for the buzzer. Typed and waited. Hundreds of times. Thousands.

My time seemed to stretch out forever, but the door still didn't open. Even the other people's slowed-down time was passing. Claude had sat up. I kept typing.

Claude looked over at me, but he didn't stand. I kept trying, but a hopeless feeling was settling over me like a fog.

Claude's hand reached ever so slowly into a jacket pocket and pulled out a small square object.

_Is that a phone?_ I wondered.

I stopped what I was doing and rushed over to see what it was. It wasn't a phone. It was some kind of remote control device.

In my much faster time, I tugged the device loose from Claude's grip and tossed it to the far end of the room.

But I was too late. I smelled something just starting to tinge the air. An acrid, burning smell.

_He's gassing me!_ I realized. _I really messed up!_

I rushed to the cabinets and riffled through them, but there were no gas masks or anything else I recognized that I could use.

The gas smell grew slowly stronger. In his slow time, Claude was incrementally lowering himself back down to the floor.

My eyes and throat burned. I coughed. I grabbed a paper towel from the holder and held it over my mouth, but it didn't seem to help. I was getting dizzy and weak.

With blurred vision, I stumbled back to the double doors. I stood there and tried more numbers.

_Open! Open!_ I mentally willed the door the same way that I commanded time.

But the buzzer didn't sound, and even my control of time slipped again. I heard coughs and moans in real time coming from the floor behind me.

I coughed too, and I felt myself fade in and out of consciousness.

My typing hand fumbled on the keypad. Then it slipped off as consciousness deserted me, and I dropped into blackness.

# Chapter 29

When I regained consciousness, my throat and eyes still burned. I was lying on my side. On something slightly cushioned but hard. Everything ached, and I didn't have the strength to move.

My eyes felt as if they were glued shut. I struggled to open them. They burned more and watered in the harsh light, but I forced them all the way open.

At first, I couldn't tell what I was seeing through watery blurred vision. I blinked again and again to clear the tears.

What was in front of me came into focus. Black bars. With more black bars showing through those bars. Cages. I was in a cage!

_No!_ I thought. _I have to get out of here!_

I tried to move, tried to turn, but my body wouldn't obey my commands.

The room spun in crazy circles around me, and bile rose in my throat. I gagged, and that motion brought more nausea. I gagged again and moaned. Gagged and moaned. Over and over.

Then another sound joined in with the sounds I was making. Laughter. Somehow that sobered me, and I finally lay quiet and still.

Heavy thumping footsteps approached my cage and stopped. I couldn't move or turn my head, but I shifted my vision to look in that direction.

The room spun again and then steadied. Claude stood at the barred door. His mouth was shaped in a cold smile, but his eyes glared.

"Awake! You! Awake!" he shouted at me as if he was having difficulty articulating either from having ingested the same drugged air himself or from anger.

Claude's mouth and nose bunched up together and released an animal hiss, giving me the answer to that question.

I was incapacitated, but Claude seemed to be fully recovered. He took a breath and then spoke to me.

"You low scum of a surface dweller," he said in a calm voice laced with hostility.

I looked at him but didn't—couldn't answer.

_Time slow down!_ I tried to mentally control time, but Claude kept talking at the same rate.

"You dare to harm your betters!" His voice rose, and his body shook. "You are nothing but the meat for our tables! A body that produces our meat and dairy!"

I blinked. I tried to squirm, but my body wouldn't obey my orders. I ordered time to slow down again, but it wouldn't obey me either.

"You have dared, and you have harmed. And now you will be punished."

A smile shape curled back up on Claude's face.

"Instead of being painlessly killed and slaughtered in our normal compassionate way to prepare meat animals, you will suffer first."

_I have to do something! I have to snap out of this!_ I told myself.

But I couldn't move a muscle without debilitating waves of nausea washing through me. I flexed my toes and fingers anyway. Took deep breaths and breathed through the nausea. Claude was still talking.

"Death will be your final escape, but first you will suffer for many long months. About nine months to be exact. We also need milk, so you'll have to bear a child. I will give you that child. We need fresh infants too. No produce is wasted. I'm here to get that child started now. And in case you think otherwise, I'll enjoy it, but you won't."

"No," I forced myself to speak. "No," I mumbled in a weak voice.

Claude chuckled, and I felt my mood lift too.

_I can speak! I'm starting to recover!_ I thought.

"That's what I like to hear," he said. "And soon you'll be yelling that, even though you won't be able to move your body."

He was right about that. I could barely move, and my efforts to slow down time still weren't working.

"But first, I'll have to clean you," he said. "I don't rub my body against stinking filth."

Claude left. I couldn't turn my head to watch him, but I heard his thumping boots. And the sound of his voice as he kept talking to me.

"Your dirty surface dweller tricks didn't work, did they?" he said. "We've dealt with you radioactive mutants before. You're a strong one though, I have to admit, but nothing we can't handle."

_Radioactive mutants? What's he talking about?_ I wondered.

Some more sounds I couldn't identify came from the front of the room.

"Conditions must be getting worse up there," Claude said. "The mutations from the aboveground radiation we're seeing are getting worse all the time. Your ability to slow down time is a new one I haven't seen yet. It's a good thing we're working to clear the planet of you people. Except to be used for our food, of course."

Then I heard the thumps of Claude's boots returning.

# Chapter 29

This time, he held the end of the industrial-size hose I'd seen coiled up on the wall at the front of the room. He pointed its metal tip at me.

"Your pain starts now," said Claude.

He pressed down on the hose's lever, and a hard stream of water sprayed out.

The water hit me like a punch in the stomach, shoving me back against the bars of the cage behind me. I tried to scream, but I threw up instead.

Claude pointed the hose away from me and washed my vomit down one of the drains in the center of the floor.

My moment of relief didn't last. He turned the powerful blast back on me and moved it up and down my legs, arms, chest, head, everywhere.

Now a real scream came out of my mouth.

"Yes!" Claude shouted. "Now you're clean, and I'm ready for you."

He stopped spraying the hose.

Every inch of my body ached. But I also noticed that I felt more alert. I was able to slightly turn my head without getting dizzy and sick, but I still couldn't move much more than that.

_Time slow down!_ I tried again.

For just a moment, Claude seemed to freeze. Then he sped up again.

My head throbbed.

"I'll be right back for you," Claude said.

He walked back to the front of the room, carrying the hose. Now I recognized the soft sounds I heard—he was coiling the hose back up on its hook. And then the sound of his thumping boots coming back my way.

_Time slow down!_ I ordered time again.

The pain in my head grew stronger, but the sound of Claude's boots slowed down, way down. And then sped up again.

Now the pain in my head was unbearable.

I screamed just as Claude reached the door of my cage.

Claude laughed at me again.

"Yes, scream, surface scum. You're just a coward after all, aren't you?" he said.

He reached up one brawny hand toward the keypad on the door to the cage.

I could barely think through the pain in my head, but I knew I had to now.

_Time! Slow down!_ I screamed back against the pain.

Claude's hand froze in mid-air and then continued its slow incremental movement toward the keypad.

_Slow down! Slow down!_ I kept screaming mentally at time.

I willed time with all the force of the terrible pain I felt.

It stayed slow. Claude's hand hadn't reached the keypad yet. The pain in my head ebbed and faded. Claude's fingers neared the pad.

I knew I had to get over there, but my body, now bruised by the hose spray, still wouldn't move.

_Move!_ I shouted at myself mentally. _Move!_

I shoved myself up a few inches and wanted to scream again. It felt as if every muscle in my body was tearing apart.

Then I froze. Not because of the pain.

_I can't let him see me moving_ , I realized. _But what can I do?_

I groped for ideas and thought of something to try, even though it seemed crazy.

Now I gave mental orders to Claude.

_I'm on the bed. You don't see me moving. You see me on the bed_ , I told him mentally.

Not knowing if that had worked or not, I pushed my body against its tearing pain and stood up. I groaned and stumbled to the door of the cage. When I got there, Claude's finger was on one of the numbers on the keypad.

From inside the cage, I couldn't see what the number was. I reached a hand through the bars and put it on his finger. I felt the pad and the position of the number he was pressing—4.

I kept my hand on Claude's typing finger and again went through the slow process of memorizing the entire twelve numbers. He kept typing and didn't show any sign of noticing that I was there.

After what seemed like eons later, the door's lock began to make the sound of a slow click.

_I'm not here. I'm on the bed_ , I said to Claude mentally again.

Ever so slowly, he began to pull the door open. When it was wide enough, I slipped through and out.

_Now what?_ I wondered. _I could lock him in the cage, but he knows the code. Could he reach through the bars and open it?_

His hands were big, but he might be able to shove one through.

_I need more time!_ I told myself.

I would need time for the elevator and the tube to travel in real time.

_I'll have to knock him out again_ , I realized, and the thought sickened me.

I was so tired of all this hurting people and having them hurt me back.

As I stood there in my sped-up time, a realization hit me. I hadn't known some things about myself before. Things I was able to do and willing to do. But hurting people, causing pain, and being violent were things I never wanted to do.

Now I had to do it again anyway, and there was no time to waste. I ran to the front of the room. Someone had attached the metal towel dispenser to the wall again. I yanked it back off.

I tried not to think about what I was doing as I ran back to Claude and swung it hard against the back of his head. The last time I'd done this, I had to hit him several times before he went down. But this time, I didn't want to return time to normal in between hits.

My second swing of the rectangular box again connected with a sickening thunk.

_How many times did I hit him last time?_ I asked myself. _Was it five? Ten?_

I couldn't remember, but I knew it was a lot.

_Ten will have to do_ , I decided.

I counted and swung the metal holder again and again.

"Three, four, five,..."

The start of a slow moan came from Claude's mouth, and his body began to sink down.

Nausea gripped me, but I kept going, even though I knew I might kill him.

At the count of ten, I dropped the metal holder. It began its slow fall to the floor, and I took off running to the double door at the front of the room.

I typed in the new code and breathed a huge sigh of relief when I heard the start of its buzzer sound. I waited impatiently for the click of the lock opening—several seconds in my time. Then I shoved the door open and ran for the elevator.

# Chapter 29

The elevator car was sitting on the floor I was on, but the wait for its doors to open in real time was tortuous.

Still, I didn't dare speed time back up again until I was in the car, and I'd pressed the button to start it moving on its way to Transportation Center, New York Subways.

When I ordered time to speed up again, the elevator seemed to lurch forward. I leaned back against a wall and adjusted to the change in time and motion. I knew the car was moving fast. It took a rising, curving path.

Finally the elevator car stopped, and its doors opened to a view of the empty tube station. I sped up my time again and ran to find the sign for the Bowery.

_Home!_ I thought when I saw the sign and the clear tube car waiting next to it.

But as I sat down in the car and pressed the same button I'd seen Claude press when we'd come here, I realized that even though I was heading toward home, I couldn't go there now. And nothing would ever be the same for me again.

I slipped back into real time, and the car slipped into the tube it traveled through.

_I can't go back to Brooklyn_ , I told myself. _I can't get Frank and Rita involved in this. I'll have to go stay with Steve again._

That thought comforted me. Our relationship was different now, and it was a relief to have somewhere to go.

Tension slipped away, and I almost fell asleep on the ten-minute ride. Bright lights and the feeling of the car coming to a stop jolted me alert.

I got out of the car and walked to the exit door. I remembered the new code, but it wasn't needed to get out of here, only to get in.

Then I went through the door into the small dark room with its staircase that led up to the subway. I climbed the stairs without bothering to pull the cord of the bare bulb on the ceiling.

The door on the other side opened to my push.

_I made it! I'm out!_ I rejoiced mentally when I stepped out the door into the Bowery station.

The door closed behind me, and I stood there blinking. Bright lights almost blinded me for a moment. I thought I was adjusting to the subway's harsh lighting, but when my vision cleared, I saw people there. People in uniforms with guns pointed at me.

_Time!_ I started to give the mental order to slow it down, but this time I was too slow.

Something sharp entered my stomach and burned there. The subway and the people in it spun around me, and the edges of my vision blurred and darkened. The dark edges grew in my eyes and in my mind until there was complete darkness. And then there was nothing.

# Chapter 30

I didn't mind being in jail. Because I knew Laz had made it out of the belowground place. The feeling that told me he was alive somewhere was always with me. He'd made it out, and the others with him had too. And I believed that Chloe and the pregnant girls had also escaped. I had to believe that.

Some things in jail were a lot like I the underground place I'd come from. My cell had black bars, small hard bed, open-view toilet. But I didn't have to stay in the cell all the time. And the jail food was served on a plate, and it was shaped like food and tasted slightly better.

My uncounted days passed in a blurred sameness. Work in the laundry and kitchen, meals, showers, lights out, repeat. I didn't talk much to the other inmates, and they left me alone for the most part.

Or maybe they stayed away from me because I was a convicted murderer. Sentenced to life in prison. There had been no trial, just a conviction. The government no longer wasted its money and resources on cases of clear guilt like mine, I was told. And where there was a chance that a jury sympathetic to my young age might let me off the hook for my crime.

I accepted the sentence without protest, but I wasn't sure whether or not I'd killed anyone. After a while, I stopped worrying about that.

_I did what I had to_ , I told myself. _I got people out_.

That thought gave me serenity and calmness. And even though I was only eighteen, I felt like my life was complete, over. I'd done the most important thing I'd ever do—accomplished my life's purpose. So my days passed in a mental haze.

Now the only thing that caught my interest was the government news program we were allowed to watch for an hour a day. Each evening, I watched closely, hoping for some sign that Chloe had given my photos to Sandra. That Sandra had given them to the news stations. But day after day, there was nothing.

This station didn't even show the film of Chloe and Claude with pale hair and skin—before his skin color change—walking in the subway.

_Is that because they know she's safe now?_ I wondered.

But my questions weren't answered. All I saw on the news was politicians talking. Asking for votes, although we in the prison would never be able to vote for them.

Today I watched the handsome face of the current president, even more familiar after seeing him in person. The show's split screen view meant that the president wasn't talking from the news station. He was in another location. I thought I knew where that was.

"Crime in this country is out of control. Vote to re-elect me, and I'll continue my good work of putting more of your tax dollars into the most expensive surveillance money can buy," he said.

"But when will we get more food? People are still starving," the news host said.

"We need to stop crime first. That's the reason why there isn't enough food," said the president. "Until we have cameras everywhere, criminals will keep plotting to take more than their share of the food."

"Thank you president," said the host.

The half of the screen that showed the president blinked away, and the newscaster's face filled the TV. Then she looked at a prompt in front of her.

"Speaking of crime, this story is just in," she said. "Evidence of a heinous crime has been given to major news stations. Get ready for a big shock, people. Some unknown group of criminals has been kidnapping our teenagers and using them for food. That's right—killing and eating them!"

The prisoners around me gasped as the photos I'd taken displayed on the blocky old television that hung from the ceiling in front of us.

"Oh my God!" I heard someone shout.

And I heard retching.

The news host continued. "We've been told that the person who took these pictures, a former drug clinic counselor named Myrna 627114, is now in New York City Prison charged with murder. For killing someone connected with this story," she said vaguely.

The picture on my work badge filled the TV screen—me from my life that seemed so long ago.

"That's her!" "That's Myrna!" Some of the women prisoners yelled and pointed at me.

"Myrna! You go!" someone shouted.

Then everyone was shouting and cheering. I sat looking around, still in a daze.

_Sandra gave them the pictures!_ I kept thinking over and over.

A feeling that I hadn't experienced in what seemed like forever flowed through me—happiness.

I smiled. But not for long. A large orange blur came flying at me. A heavy weight hit me and knocked me off my metal chair onto the hard linoleum floor.

An enormous woman landed on top of me and began pummeling my face and head with huge fists. I knew I had to do something, but it was so hard to think.

Meaty hands circled my neck and began to squeeze. I couldn't breathe. My vision grew black with bright sparkles, and I felt myself losing consciousness.

## 

_Time slow down!_ The words came into my mind from somewhere, but I didn't think they came from me.

The squeezing hands slowed to near stillness.

Then the large body fell off me, but I hadn't done anything. I gasped for breath. Just lay there gasping for more breath. The gasps were sharp and painful.

Through the pain, I felt strong arms move under me. Someone lifted me up to a sitting position.

I looked over and was shocked to see the large features of a familiar face. Huge blue eyes. A bigger than normal forehead. This face might have been attractive. Instead, everything was so oversized that it looked strangely out of balance. It was my former psychiatric counselor Gorg.

I looked around the room and saw everyone else moving in slow motion. But Gorg was moving in the same sped-up time that I was in.

_Time speed up!_ I heard Gorg's mental voice again in my mind.

Orange-dressed women around me started moving again. And yelling. But the large woman lying on her back on the floor next to me wasn't moving.

"Can you stand?" Gorg asked me.

I tried to speak, but my throat burned, so I just nodded.

He put his hands under my arms and pulled. I drew in my knees and then pushed myself up with his help. With his arm still around me, Gorg led me out of the room.

# Chapter 31

I sat on the hard mattress of a wheeled examination table in the prison's small medical room. Gorg was taking my vital signs and running some other medical tests on me.

I tried to speak and coughed. He handed me a small box with a straw in it. I drank a few sips of sweet, soothing liquid and then spoke.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I do volunteer work as a counselor at the prison," he said. "And I'm also a medic since they're short on funding for that."

"Oh right. I remember you told me that," I said.

Gorg held one of my eyes lids open and flashed a light into my eye.

"Sandra told me you needed to talk to me," he said. "I'd have made an appointment with you sooner, but I only found out a few minutes ago that you were here in the prison. When I saw you on TV."

"I was going to talk to you after I finished doing some things," I said. "So now I'm done, and we can talk if you want to."

"I wish we could, but there's not much time now," said Gorg.

He held up an electronic device and pointed it at my stomach, chest, neck, and head. It beeped, and he stared at it.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because I need to get you out of here," he answered. "There are people, powerful people, who want you dead. And if you stay here much longer, they'll get to you—easily."

I was surprised that I wasn't worried about being killed. I still felt like the most important part of my life was behind me. But I didn't tell Gorg that.

"How can you get me out?" I asked.

"You've just been choked," he said. "Sometimes people who are strangled don't die right away. They die sometime later. I'll say that's what happened to you. I need you to play dead. Can you do that? Will you trust me?"

"Sure," I said. "But can you answer one question?"

"Maybe," he said. "What's the question?"

"Am I really able to slow down time? I thought I might have been imagining it, but you did it too. Am I crazy, or what?" I asked.

He leaned toward me and lowered his voice.

"No, you're not crazy," he whispered. "You're mutated in the same way that I am, and you came into your power when you reached full adulthood at eighteen. Humans are adapting to the extreme radiation all over the surface of the planet. It's made those who dwell belowground even more anxious to separate humans into two species and to gain total control over us."

"Don't they already have that?" I asked.

"It seems that way because we are starving, and they have all the wealth and resources, but our mutations might be our deliverance," he answered. "But it's best not to talk about this subject, even in this room that I check constantly for bugs."

I nodded my understanding and didn't say anything else.

Gorg put the scanner down on a shelf next to the gurney I was on. He pulled a phone out of his pocket, pressed numbers, and spoke in a bland, toneless voice.

"The prisoner didn't make it. She died from the consequences of strangulation."

A pause. Then Gorg spoke again.

"Yes, I can take the body to the morgue," he said.

Gorg put his phone away. He crossed the small room, opened a cabinet, and lifted a dark green plastic bag off a shelf.

"You need to get into this body bag," he said. "I'll leave it unzipped a few inches, so you can breathe."

Again, I was surprised by my thoughts. I wasn't sure that I entirely trusted Gorg, or anyone, but I was willing to go along with what he asked.

He stretched the bag out on the gurney, and I climbed in. Then he zipped it up. I reached up a hand to check that a few inches were still open. Zipped almost to the top, just like he said.

"Be still now and don't talk," said Gorg.

And I complied.

I felt the table I was on being wheeled away. It stopped at the door. I heard the door open, and then I was rolled out of the room and down the hall. Through more doors. Down in an elevator. Pushed up a steep ramp into a darker space that felt enclosed—like a vehicle.

Gorg didn't speak the entire time. But I heard doors slam. An engine started, and I felt the vehicle I was in drive away.

I thought the morgue was close by, but the drive took hours. We were moving fast and straight ahead, so I thought we must be on a freeway.

I was left alone with my thoughts in the stuffy darkness of the body bag.

_Where is he taking me? Where am I going?_ The question circled endlessly around in my mind, but I didn't have the answer.

Finally the vehicle made some turns, slowed, and stopped. I heard the sound of doors opening. Heavy feet climbing in. Doors closing again.

Then the zipper in front of my eyes was pulled down. My bag opened, and I looked out. Gorg stared down at me in the dim interior light of the van we were in. I sat up and looked back at him.

Gorg handed me some clothes.

"Change quickly. I'll wait outside," he said.

# Chapter 31

I stepped out of the van into a large parking lot. Gorg stood in front of me holding a small travel bag and a big manila envelope. He handed me the envelope.

"Let's go," he said, and he started walking fast.

I followed and kept up with him.

"Your plane tickets and other directions are in the envelope," Gorg said as we speed walked toward a sign that said, "Departures."

"Where am I going?" I asked.

"I'm taking you to the gate for your flight to New Miami. I'll wait to make sure you get on the plane, and it takes off. After that, you'll be on your own. Open the envelope when you're airborne. It's your paperwork for your new identity, directions to where you're going, and what I'd like you to do when you get there."

I was stunned. Wow! New Miami? I hadn't expected that.

I pictured myself lying on the beach, skin baking under New Miami's hot winter sun.

"I'm going to New Miami?" I asked.

"That's just the start of your journey," said Gorg.

The End

Have Teeth, Will Bite  
(Prologue)

by LD Marr,  
a pen name for Trisha McNary

# Prologue

London at midnight, 1886.

The tavern door blew open, letting in chill wind and an even colder customer. Natasha, a voluptuous blonde spilling out of a lightweight black cloak, stepped in. The door slammed shut.

The bartender looked up and frowned. He met Natasha's gaze across the smoky, dim-lit distance. Then he turned away fast and began furiously wiping the rough wood bar.

Natasha sniffed the air, and her red lips curled up. She wove toward the bar through mostly empty tables with a strange sinuous grace for a woman so large.

When she reached one end of the bar, Natasha began to walk along its length. One by one, she scanned the occupants of each stool. In turn, they met her eyes, and she moved on, leaving the mark of varying degrees of nervousness or fear on their faces.

Finally, Natasha found an appealing target. She stopped at the side of a young pale-haired man. A roughly dressed workingman—big-boned, baby-faced, and reeking of innocence and purity. Natasha glanced once at the older man on the next stool, and he silently vacated it.

She sat down and tossed off her cape, drawing the young workman's eyes to flowing blonde curls that brushed overflowing cleavage. Her impossibly tight girdle created an hourglass figure with a tiny waist. Not having to breathe had its benefits.

Natasha stared into the young man's eyes. He seemed nervous, but he couldn't break away from her gaze.

His pale skin became paler and somewhat clammy. She heard his heart rate speed up, and his breathing become fast and shallow.

"I am Natasha," she purred. "And you are?"

"I am Sam," he answered in the toneless voice of a person under compulsion.

"Come along, Sam."

Natasha rose from her stool in one smooth motion and glided out of the bar. She didn't stop to pick up her cloak from the floor. It was just a bothersome disguise anyway. Natasha didn't feel the cold, but her husband, Dr. Vandergreest, insisted she wear it. Why go to so much trouble anyway? It wasn't as if these people had the power to do anything to her even if they suspected what she really was.

Her husband's tiresome rules were hard to live with—or be undead with—so much of the time. Was it any wonder that she needed a little fun in the evenings?

A black carriage waited in front of the tavern. The black-cloaked coachman and two enormous black horses blended into the night's dark shadows.

On Natasha's approach, the coachman climbed down from his seat and opened the carriage door. Sam had followed her out as commanded. Natasha turned to him. Sweat dripped down his face in the icy-cold London night. She lifted a pale, shapely arm and gestured toward the complete blackness within the open carriage.

"Get inside. I hunger!" she ordered.

Now Sam began to moan, but his feet took slow, shaking steps forward as if against his will.

Natasha sighed her irritation. Her victims didn't usually resist her supernatural charms.

"Can you speed it up? I haven't got all night," she said. "Or you don't anyway."

Finally, after a most annoying delay, he climbed the steps to the carriage and got in. Natasha flowed up after him, and the coachman shut the door behind her.

## 

Later that evening.

In comfortable chair by the fire, Dr. Vandergreest waited with tireless patience for his wife's return. Just after 3:00 a.m., he heard her enter the door to their townhouse, two floors below. When he heard the sound of her attempting to creep past his sitting room, he called out to her.

"Ah, my dear, you have returned. I have not seen you these long hours. Please join me for a few minutes before you retire."

A pause in which he knew she was trying to think of some excuse. The ever-so-light sound of wiping. Then the door opened, and her beautiful blonde head peeked through.

"Come in, come in. I would see your lovely face this night," the doctor insisted.

Natasha approached slowly, her face stained with guilt and microscopic blood cells.

"Tut, tut. There is blood on your face again, my dear! And it is the blood of the innocent!"

He sighed a huge sigh.

"I thought we had reached an agreement about the need to control your cravings. That you understood that preying on the pure of heart draws attention—negative attention that might be hard to deal with. But it appears that you have turned a deaf ear to reason."

Another sigh.

"I have grown sick of your rules!" Natasha answered with spunk and defiance. "I am a powerful being, and I will take what I want. And what I do not want is the foul-tasting nasty blood of evildoers and criminals. I hunger for sweet delicious blood! Why should I starve myself because you are a coward?"

"But my dear," answered the doctor, "you are certainly not starving. You are consuming much more blood than you need."

"Huh! How dare you!" Natasha sputtered and fumed.

"Hark!" said Dr. Vandergreest. "I hear the shuffle of many feet approaching, the sound of shouts, the crackle and smell of burning torches!"

The base of a felled tree boomed against the downstairs door.

"Protect me!" cried Natasha.

"Au revoir, my darling," said Dr. Vandergreest.

Then he lightly kissed her lips and disappeared.

**Get Have Teeth, Will Bite on Amazon:** US UK CA AU

Alien Pets  
(chapter 1)

Xeno Relations

by Trisha McNary

Copyright © 2019 Trisha McNary

Published by Trisha McNary

All Rights Reserved

Cover art by Heather Hamilton-Senter

# Chapter 1

A few short weeks after she graduated from space school, Antaska stood in front of a clear barrier, waiting and hoping to be selected. She held her small gray and white cat Potat in her arms. Energized with excitement and high-strung nerves, Antaska watched the gigantic green alien Verdantes. Crowds of them walked in the curved corridor outside her "viewing room."

The aliens, Antaska's prospective employers, looked in at her and the other humans in similar "viewing rooms" built by the Verdantes to suit their purposes. The walls on the sides of her viewing room blocked Antaska from seeing the other humans and which aliens were taking an interest in them.

Now one of the aliens looked at Antaska and paused. The eight-foot-tall giant approached and stopped right in front of her. Antaska looked up to see enormous slanting green eyes staring down at her. Above the eyes, green curly hair covered an enormous cranium. The alien lifted a large six-fingered hand and waved at her. Antaska waved back and smiled.

_Maybe I'll be selected already!_ she thought.

"Grrrr!!" she heard and looked down.

Potat stiffened in her arms. She hissed and spat at the Verdante in front of them.

The big eyes of the alien got bigger.

"Stop that!" Antaska said to Potat. "Shush!"

But the tiny cat wouldn't stop.

"Rrrowwwwwwwww!" Potat let out an endless angry meow.

The alien shrugged big shoulders and shook his head. He lifted up his hands as if to say, "What can I do?" and walked away.

Potat stopped meowing and settled back down in Antaska's arms.

"What is wrong with you?" Antaska asked the little cat.

She didn't expect an answer, of course, and she didn't get one.

"Are you crazy? You might have just blown our only chance to go to space! My life's dream! Don't you dare do that again."

Antaska talked out loud to the cat. It was a habit she'd got into. Sometimes, it almost seemed like Potat understood what she was saying.

_This had better be one of those times,_ thought Antaska.

She felt a slight movement and looked down to see the Potat cleaning a snow-white paw.

Antaska looked up. Another alien, this one female, was standing in front of the clear barrier. She wore the same bright blue space suit as the males. But she had a smaller, more delicate feminine body and features. Shiny bright-green hair brushed her shoulders. Large pale green eyes crinkled up as she looked down at Antaska and Potat.

_Maybe Potat will like this one better_ , Antaska thought.

Antaska smiled up at the alien and waved. The female alien waved back and then made signals with her hands. She pointed at herself, then at Antaska and little Potat, and then up toward space.

Antaska nodded and gave her a thumbs up.

_Yes!_ she thought.

"Grrrrr!" Potat started growling.

"Oh no! You bad cat! Not again!" Antaska admonished her.

But the cat paid no attention.

"Reyowwwrrrrrooowwwww!" Potat let out her endless howl.

The Verdante female's smallish mouth formed an "O" shape. She shook her big head from side to side.

"No! No! Stop! Stop!" Antaska pleaded with her cat.

But of course, Potat didn't listen.

The alien lowered her chin and closed her eyes for a moment. Antaska read that as disappointment. Then the large green female turned and walked away.

Antaska's hopes took a dive. She turned, walked a few feet back, and plopped down on the couch built into the back wall of the small viewing room.

"Are you trying to stop me from going into space?" Antaska asked Potat as she set her down on the couch.

Potat, now calm and settled, looked up at her with innocent gold eyes.

_Maybe cats just aren't adaptable to new things_ , thought Antaska. _Maybe they're just not that intelligent._

A tiny paw reached out and slapped her leg kind of hard.

"That wasn't nice!" Antaska told her.

"Am I going to be stuck on Earth with a crazy cat?" she said out loud to no one in particular.

Potat ignored her and began to take a bath.

Antaska sighed and leaned against the back of the couch. With dimming hope, she watched the large aliens walking past outside her viewing room.

A few minutes later, the nutty cat jumped off the couch and walked to the front of the viewing room. Potat sat down there and watched the Verdantes passing by as if she were the one they might pick. Then she looked back and stared hard at Antaska.

_I think she wants me to go over there now_ , Antaska thought. _Or maybe this cat has finally drove me crazy._

Grumbling about the problems with cats, Antaska got off the couch and walked over to Potat. She picked up the tiny cat and whispered in her ear.

"OK. You've got your way once again. As usual. I hope you're happy, whatever you're up too."

Potat purred back in her ear.

##

Among the other Verdantes, lanky, thin M. Hoyvil took long strides around the circle of rooms containing Earth humans. It was his second or third time circling around. So many of them! How was he supposed to choose? The humans stood near the front of their viewing containers, watching the passing Verdantes with wide, round eyes. Except at a few of the containers.

_Some have been taken already!_ Hoyvil thought. _I'd better pick one before they're all gone._

He walked past an empty spot to the next one where a male human was performing martial arts moves. The red-haired male was stockier than the usual design for space travel, with cool genetically designed tattoos along his arms and chest.

M. Hoyvil stopped in front of the Earth man and watched him. The man smiled and kicked high in the air.

_Hmm. It might be fun to have someone to practice fighting with_ , thought M. Hoyvil. _Of course, it would all have to be pretend. They're so much smaller and weaker and slower. I could easily kill him by accident if I wasn't careful. That wouldn't be good._

M. Hoyvil stood there watching, trying to decide whether taking this one would be a good idea or not. Out of nowhere, he heard the sound of a small female telepathic voice.

"Here! Over here!" said the voice repeatedly and insistently.

_Who's that?_ he wondered.

He looked around, but there were no female Verdantes close by. And those walking by weren't paying any attention to him at all. They might have been interested in the human male, but they wouldn't approach the container when another Verdante was already there. That rule stopped people from fighting over the same pet.

No. The strange, tiny voice wasn't a Verdante, and it seemed to be coming from the direction of the cube next to him. M. Hoyvil looked over. Now a human female stood there. She held a teeny, tiny gray and white cat in her arms.

_Could that Earth female be telepathic?_ M. Hoyvil wondered. _No. That's not possible._

M. Hoyvil lost interest in the martial arts man. He walked over to stare at the young woman with the cat. The tiny voice stopped.

_Did I really hear that?_ he wondered.

He shook his big green head. The pink-haired Earth female smiled up at him.

_This is the one!_ M. Hoyvil suddenly knew it for sure without knowing why.

He made the hand signs asking the human if she would like to go up to space with him.

She didn't answer right away. She lifted her cat, stared at it, and talked to it.

_Could that cat be sentient?_ M. Hoyvil wondered. _No. That's not possible either._

But the young woman seemed to be asking the cat's opinion. The cat leaned toward M. Hoyvil behind the clear barrier and reached out her paws toward him. Then the Earth female nodded her head and gave him a thumbs up.

M. Hoyvil placed his palm on the pad outside her viewing container to select her.

**Get Alien Pets on Amazon:**  US  UK  AU  CA

A note from LD

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading Club Cain. If you enjoyed this book, I'd greatly appreciate your writing a review. It can be difficult for self-published authors to get reviews. Review services are available, but I'd much rather get reviews from the readers who choose to read my books on their own.

Please email me at PetsAndMastersInSpace@gmail.com if you'd like to be on my mailing list.

May your world one day know peace,

LD

