The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

The return address was smeared, its label badly abraded by rough handling. He had been expecting some deliveries, but by his calculation it was far too soon for any of them to have arrived. Rudy turned the box over in his hands, examining it more closely for any signs of who might have sent it. He could find none. It was a standard brown box, with its only identifying marks being those from the box manufacturer, who provided no clue at all to the sender’s identity.

The box was curiously heavy for its size—not exceptionally so, but more than Rudy would have expected. He shook it experimentally, cautiously. Nothing rattled within it.

Not parts, he concluded. Nothing broken.

Frowning, he quickly surveyed the exterior of the box one more time, but found nothing new to reveal its contents or source. Deciding that the only way to find out for certain was to open it, he placed the box on the table in front of him and used the tip of the ballpoint pen to slice through the sealing tape.

It opened easily. Parting the flaps, he discovered an envelope resting on a well-packed cylinder. On the corner of the envelope was printed a corporate logo that he recognized instantly. It matched the one on the forms he had just finished signing. Eyeing the cylinder with anticipation, he opened the envelope.

Dear Rudolph,

Welcome to the LogicTech family!

I am certain that, together, we can achieve great things. LogicTech has a long history of technical innovation and we are excited to have you join us to help us achieve still more.

Please find enclosed a welcoming gift. We hope you enjoy it.

Best regards and looking forward to long future of great things from you,

The scrawl below the salutation was illegible, but Rudy doubted that it was authentic in any case. Someone in the HR or PR department had probably scribbled it on some VP’s behalf. Still, it seemed like a nice gesture.

Tossing the letter lightly onto the table, he reached into the box and withdrew the cylinder. Held up close, he recognized it as the type usually intended to package expensive liquor. An emblem was embossed on the side and also in the center of the cap on the top. It looked familiar to him, somehow, but he could not immediately identify it.

He worked the end cap off and reached inside. His fingers encountered cool glass. He felt a tingle of anticipation as he gripped it and slowly withdrew it from the container. Turning the bottle so that he could see the label, he paused, letting out a soft whistle. He recognized the emblem now. It belonged to a brand of very expensive, limited edition artisan tequilas.

Lifting the bottle, he admired its contents in the light filtering in through the skylights. Here was something that he never would have indulged in by purchasing for himself, yet his new employer had sent him a bottle before he had officially worked even a single hour for them.

He cradled the bottle with both hands, studying the label. For a moment, he considered that it might be a less expensive knock-off, but everything about it seemed genuine, down to the certification band fastened across its top. Shaking his head slowly in amazement, he sat the bottle down carefully on the table. He picked up the box, checked to make sure that it contained nothing else.

Because, who knows, he thought with amusement. There might be keys to a brand-new Mercedes in there as well.

He was not particularly disappointed to discover that there was not, although he had heard that some of the LogicTech executives did have access to company cars. Pushing the now-empty box aside, he leaned back and studied the bottle again.

He really, really wanted to sample some. While he was not averse to drinking alone, although he tried to limit it to no more than one drink when he did, he felt that a treasure like this was meant to be shared.

Well, not too widely¸ he reasoned. The bottle was not that large, and he wanted it to last longer than a single night.

His son, away at college, would not be home before the holidays. Granted, that was only a few weeks away, but Rudy was certain that he did not want to wait that long before he sampled this incredible gift. Anita was off on a shopping weekend away with some girlfriends. The idea of it gave him a recurring stabbing pain, generally in region of his wallet. He was certain that he could hear the wounded cries from his credit cards every time his credit line was attacked.

Surprisingly, staring at the exquisitely designed bottle made him feel better about that. This was no trivial gesture, although he was certain that he would be working his ass off to earn it. From what he had heard, if the quarterly bonuses were also as generous as their employment gifts, his wife could go shopping on Rodeo Drive, for all he cared.

Okay, he conceded with a faint grimace. Maybe not Rodeo Drive . . .

He glanced at the clock. It was well after two o’clock in the afternoon, plenty late enough to consider having a drink.

Just a small one, he told himself, smiling with silent satisfaction at that compromise.

Rising from the couch, he picked up the bottle, and headed for the small wet bar built into the corner of the room. Adjacent to the large slab stone fireplace, the bar had been custom-built, with additional lighting and plumbing added. The space included a set of narrow shelves, constructed to be flush with the regular surface of the wall, and then finished to match the appearance of the bar itself. He carefully surveyed the short rows of neatly arranged sets of glasses there, trying to decide which of them would be an appropriate vessel for this fine nectar. It certainly deserved better than cheap shot glass.

His eyes lingered on a trio of small brandy snifters, passed down to him from his paternal grandfather. It had once been complete set of four, but one had been lost during the great Loma Prieta quake of ’89. They were not, perhaps, the proper kind of glass for that kind of liquor, but far more fitting.

Putting the bottle down, reached up and remove one of the glasses from the shelf and appraised it critically. A thin film of dust coated it, but he was pleased to see that it had not acquired any new cracks or chips. He rinsed it quickly in the small sink and then wiped it dry with one of the towels that he was certain was clean. Holding the glass up to the light, he inspected it again and then, satisfied, placed it carefully on the bar’s polished surface.

He looked at the arrangement of the glass and bottle, wondering if it were worthy of a picture.

That’s Anita’s thing, he decided with a shrug, and reached for the bottle.

Holding it once again, he found himself reluctant to open it. Once opened, it would not be long before it was gone.

Well, if this job turns out to be everything it looks like it will, I’ll just buy more, he decided with an expanding grin, and began to work the stopper from the bottle.

#

He sniffed at the open neck of the bottle, feeling only slightly foolish. That was something one did with fine wines; he had never seen it done with other kinds of spirits before.

It smelled, well, like tequila. After a moment, though, he detected in its aroma a richness and complexity typically absent from the mass-produced brands. Although he had only inhaled its aroma, he could sense its flavors on his tongue.

There’s a name for that, he remembered. A flower? No. Something to do with Bible? A woman’s—

He stopped, convinced that his mind was heading down some ridiculous path in the desperate hope of finding the right answer.

Not import—Esters!

He did not recall all of the details, but knew that was the right word. That was what—whatever it was—that helped carry the taste and smell of the alcohol.

Feeling rather pleased with himself for remembering that small fact, Rudy poured a small amount of the pale transparent liquid into the snifter. Watching as it ran down into the glass, he admired the refraction of colors along its surface.

He replaced the stopper immediately, hoping that might deter him from more than this single sample of the fine liquor. Lifting the glass, swirling its contents in the reflected light as he might a fine brandy or exceptional petite syrah, he studied its color and viscosity. The memory of its scent still lingered on this tongue, but was fading quickly. He lifted the glass to his lips, wondering whether he should savor or, as should really be done, down it all in a single swallow.

In the end, he compromised. He took the entire contents of the glass into his mouth at once, but allowed it to linger along his tongue before it made its way down his throat. It burned slightly going down, as he expected it would, but the overall effect was smooth and wholly satisfying. A soft burst of warmth radiated from somewhere within his abdomen, spreading outward like a patch of early autumn sunlight. The sensation faded slowly, lengthening the moments of its passage.

When it was gone, Rusty glanced wistfully at the bottle. He reminded himself of his silent pledge, and tried to convince himself that, while subsequent tastings might be nearly as extraordinary, none would have the same impact as the first.

With a quiet sigh, he rinsed out the glass and left it in the small sink to wash later. He moved the bottle to one corner of the bar, against the wall, out of immediate sight. He planned to lock it away with some of his other prized liquors, but did not have the key to the locking storage cabinet. Taking one more yearning look at the elegant bottle, he turned and headed for the stairs that led to his master bedroom.

#

By having a chance to linger in his mouth, the special blend of toxins begins to enter his bloodstream more quickly, like a pill dissolving on one’s tongue. He barely notices its taste, mixed as it was with the strong flavors of the aged tequila. As he climbs the stairs, his heart rate increases slightly, speeding the toxic elixir’s dispersion throughout his body.

He dismisses the mild, almost imperceptible tingling sensations as an effect of the tequila. He does not realize that it is his capillaries weakening, his nerve cells dying. The odd haze that lurks at the edges of his mind he attributes to intoxication, although he is mildly surprised at its intensity for so small a sample.

Need to watch out for that stuff, he tells himself.

As he completes the thought, the words threaten to separate themselves from it, and then from their own meanings.

And not on an empty stomach, he adds, amending his previous caution.

The self-imposed warning comes too late—much too late. The consumption of solid food might have delayed what comes next, but it would not have prevented it. In fact, it might likely have made it far worse.

He stops in mid-stride, wincing. Someone unseen has driven a slender molten spike into his belly. The pain astonishes him. It is unlike anything he has ever experienced before. He stumbles, reaching for the bed. His effort fails. His muscles, receiving scrambled and incomplete instructions from his brain, fail to respond as they should. He tumbles to the floor, barely able to roll onto to his back in time to prevent from smashing his nose against the carpeted floor. The effort required to invoke that basic reflex seems incredible.

Lying on the floor, he stares at the sloped ceiling many feet above him. Its details seem fuzzier than he remembers them being. Moisture at the corners of his mouth makes him believe that he is drooling. Only when he tastes the tang of salt does he realize that it is blood. He wonders whether he hit the floor harder than he had thought . . . or perhaps the bed.

He struggles to understand, to bring some kind of comprehension to what it is happening to him. His thoughts dart and dissolve as he attempts to gather them.

A stroke. I’ve had a stroke.

He tries to turn his head, to locate a telephone, but it barely moves. That small motion is enough, though, for the room spins wildly around him. It lasts only a moment. He is surprised that vertigo was not the result, but his body seems incapable of responding normally to any sensation.

Anita. Peter.

No one will come. Not for many hours. He is alone.

He is not even certain that he is still within his body, for he could feel almost nothing. The tingling is gone. It has been replaced by . . . nothing. He can still feel the pain within him, but even that now feels distant and muted.

Dark patches form within the haze that now inhabits his vision. He sees only vague shapes now. There is almost no color. There is agony in his chest. He thinks he should cry out, but the pain . . . the pain . . . it evaporates almost as he feels it. Each moment brings it back anew.

He cannot breathe. No amount of mental effort he exerts can overcome that. His heart no longer beats; he is certain of it. Agony is only companion as his awareness fades.

The darkness devours him.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Samantha stared back at her for a long moment, but Sabrina could see that her thoughts were elsewhere.

She’s probably trying to figure out how to explain this to Alex so that we don’t both look like total idiots.

Sabrina silently wished her friend luck, as she had no idea how to manage that feat either. She was fairly certain that, if she were not so deeply and directly involved in situation, she would have little trouble believing that they were not.

She could hear Samantha’s heavy sigh over the speakers.

“It’s like this . . .” she began, turning toward Alex. “Bree has this friend . . .”

Sabrina listened as Samantha recounted the key parts of the story. She injected a few corrections along the way, and kept herself from offering at least a dozen more. At least twice, she felt her cheeks tingle with the glow of mild embarrassment. It took longer than she expected and, despite her interest, she had to fight back yawns. Her eyes felt dry and swollen. Despite her worry, she felt a swell of gratitude when Samantha reached the events of that day.

“And then,” Samantha finished, gesturing toward the screen, “he sent me this.”

Sabrina could not see what Samantha was showing Alex, so it seemed a little strange when Alex moved in closer and peered hard at the screen. She knew, though, what Alex was looking at it. She could see it with unsettling clarity in her own mind.

Alex’s expression shifted from one of irritated skepticism to puzzled uncertainty. Her eyes turned toward Samantha and then, for a brief moment, toward Sabrina.

“It’s a receipt,” Alex stated flatly. It was clear that she expected more of an explanation. When neither Samantha nor Sabrina provided one, she added, “For gym bags.”

“Yes,” Samantha agreed. Her voice was barely audible.

“A dozen of them.”

“Yes,” Samantha repeated softly.

A hard lump of sympathy formed in Sabrina’s chest for her friend.

“I see.”

Alex’s head turned as she regarded each of the women. Her expression became one of an exasperated parent.

“Does he have a criminal record?”

Samantha and Sabrina exchanged a glance. Sabrina shook her head. She did not know that he did, but she would have found herself deeply surprised to discover that he did have one—at least one with anything more than the occasional speeding ticket and parking violations.

“I don’t think so,” Samantha admitted.

“You. Don’t. Think. So.” Alex echoed flatly.

Sabrina watched the play of emotions across Samantha’s face, sharing most of them. She wanted to be embarrassed, angry, and defensive. But most of all, right now, she just wanted to be able to stop worrying.

Alex looked from woman to woman. After a moment, she shook her head, expressing obvious dismay.

“I’ll try to do some checking,” she offered. She sounded, Samantha thought, surprisingly sincere, even if a bit skeptical. “But Sam . . . ?”

“Yes?” Samantha’s voice was hesitant and soft.

“You really need to screen your clients better.”

Sabrina heard the faint acerbic tang of accusation in Alex’s statement. Even before she saw Samantha’s expression, her stomach tightened. Samantha had said nothing—not yet—but Sabrina was almost certain that she had released a sub-vocal growl that she had not heard, but had registered with her subconscious.

“Get . . . out.”

Samantha’s voice was cold, with a biting edge that made Sabrina very glad that she was not in the same room with Samantha.

Alex responded with something that Sabrina could not make out.

Samantha did not turn as she repeated, “Get. Out.”

Sabrina heard her breathe over the speakers.

“Now.”

Alex raised her hands in a gesture of exaggerated surrender and began to back out of the room. On her face, though, Sabrina saw an expression of surprise and uncertainty.

Samantha sat silent for several moments, not making a sound. She did not turn to ensure that Alex was gone, having apparently decided to count to ten before speaking. Or she might also have been listening to Alex’s fading footfalls, for all Sabrina knew.

As she looked back up at the screen, Sabrina muttered several things that sounded like obscenities, but Sabrina could make almost none of them out clearly. A few, she suspected, were in [Italian], which she guiltily realized that she should have recognized.

Those weren’t exactly on the national language exam, she grumbled in her own, silent defense.

Sabrina watched with a mixture of patience and growing exhaustion. When the next yawn came, she was unable to stifle it completely. She was not sure whether or not Samantha had noticed, but Samantha seemed to have calmed down enough to try to speak with again.

“Now what?”

Samantha stared at her. At first, Sabrina thought she saw a defiance spark in Samantha’s eyes. It faded quickly, replaced by the same dull look of fatigue that possessed her.

Samantha sighed. “I guess,” she said, sounding surprisingly resigned, “we try to get some sleep and try again tomorrow.”

Sabrina nodded slowly in agreement. She was still worried, and could not shake the prickle of foreboding that had haunted her all day. But, she had no better recommendation, and her desire to be in a warm bed with her husband did much to drown out that voice. She just hoped that its whispering would not bring her nightmares as she slept.

“Tomorrow then,” she said, blinking against the fatigue.

“Yeah,” Samantha agreed, and ended the connection.

Sabrina sunk back in her chair. It creaked loudly in the still night, but she barely heard it as she yawned. She stared at the glow of the computer screen for a moment, and then closed the lid. There was truly very little that either she or Samantha could right now, but she knew that she would be up all night trying if she did not stop now.

She reached up and switched off the overhead light. Darkness descended, but it was far from complete. She sat for a moment, listening to the tinkling splash of the waves against the hull, feeling the very faint swaying of the boat on water.

Yawning again, she rose, and headed for the bedroom cabin. Morning would be here soon enough. The new day it brought, she ventured as she made her way down the narrow steps, was not likely to be any better than this one had been.

#

Seated before the keyboard, he is filled with rage. Once again, his recommendations, logically presented had been rejected. Not rejected outright, he acknowledges, but deferred for reasons enough that the end result was nearly the same.

Idiots. Short-sighted fools, he snarls silently within his own mind. And they wonder why their plans continue to fail.

He closes the message and returns to the task at hand.

Staring at the list again, he studies the name shaded now in red. It is too soon for him to learn of her fate. It might be several days, he knows, depending on when and how it is reported. He has deployed searchbots across the web, but none has reported back as yet.

He ponders the list, awaiting insight or inspiration as to who he should select next. One of the names sparks the recollection of something . . . something . . . something he has read recently. He remembers then and locates the announcement. Reading it again, he smiles. The corners of his mouth curve slightly upward as he considers the information, trying to summon forth the best—

Yes, he decides with considerable satisfaction. Excellent.

The smile almost becomes a grin. He almost laughs aloud at the delicious irony behind the idea.

Perfect.

#

Rudolph Montenegro sat on the edge of his living room couch, peering down at the sheets of paper arrayed before him on top of the polished mahogany coffee table. He smiled with satisfaction as he checked to make certain that he had signed each one where it was necessary. Once again, he had managed to score a new position before the funds from the previous severance package had been wholly exhausted.

This was his third new position in four years. Ever since he had been let go from the Holden-Pritchard Corporation, after more than a decade there, none of the subsequent positions had lasted much more than a year. The economy was in the toilet, and he had a son in college, and just could not afford to be forced to keep jumping around like that.

“I guess I was lucky,” he mused aloud, considering how many of his colleagues had not managed to land even one worthwhile position during all that time. “I certainly was this time,” he grinned, looking once more at the generous starting salary listed on the offer letter.

The memory of that dismissal still stung. It was bad enough that he had been let go. What had continued to chafe at him, when he bothered to think about it, was that the one employee that he had intended to see ousted with him had, in the end, been spared. Someone higher up in his management chain, he was never certain exactly who, had overridden his request, protecting that employee’s position. Worse yet, he had that employee had become quite successful since his departure.

Well, Rudy considered, not allowing the memory to dampen his good mood, he’ll never work for me again. Or any company I’m ever part of.

Taking one final look at the papers, he spied one place he had neglected to initial. He scrawled the three letters in the space provided, checked the sheet again, and then gathered them all back into a single neat stack. He was reaching for envelope in which to return them to the company when the doorbell rang. It chimes echoed loudly in the otherwise empty house. He let the envelope, still empty, drop to the table, and went to answer the door.

Opening the front door, he was greeted by a delivery man dressed in a chocolate brown buttoned shirt and matching shorts. Wordlessly, he passed Rudy a small brown package, slightly larger than a shoebox, along with a pad for his signature. Rudy used the stylus to scribble something that roughly resembled his signature and passed the tablet back. The delivery man looked at the signature, tapped a few places on the tablet, and then nodded, apparently satisfied. He turned around and headed back for his truck without saying a word to Rudy.

Rudy let it go with a shrug, more curious about the package than the lack of polite manners from the flunky who had delivered it.

Probably shoes for Anita, he concluded, looking for the shipping label.

He located it on the other side of the box and, to his mild surprise, discovered that it was addressed to him.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

John’s throat closed tight and his eyes went wide as he also froze in place. Something slender and dark extruded itself from the patch of shadow. It moved slowly, gliding cautiously outward. There was no doubt in John’s mind what it was.

Fuck, he realized. A snake. A goddamned snake.

He became aware of just how locked in place his body had become. He attempted to move, to back carefully away, but his muscles refused to obey his brain. Able to slowly shift his eyes, John saw that the older officer had not moved.

“Randall,” the older man said calmly, his voice barely above a whisper. John was certain that he heard just the faintest quaver in it.

“Yeah, Sergeant?” he answered casually, evidently unaware of that anything unusual was taking place within the interior of the automobile.

“Draw your weapon.”

A prolonged silence answered him.

“Sergeant?” Randall’s tone clearly conveyed his puzzlement.

“Draw. Your. Goddamned. Weapon.”

Although the older officer never raised his voice, John was certain that he would have obeyed on its tone alone.

“Okay . . .” Randall replied. “Done.”

“Get back, son,” the older officer whispered to John, his eyes never leaving the shadow of the serpent emerging from underneath the seat.

John inched slowly backward, grateful that he now found himself able to move. He kept his eyes on the passenger side floor, trying to decide whether or not he would leap forward if the snake lunged at the officer.

Slowly, the older officer carefully extended his baton toward the snake. John realized that he positioning it near the snake, not aiming at it.

The snake paused, its tongue testing the scent of the baton. John guessed that it must have tasted the officer’s perspiration on it. Unhurriedly, the snake slid itself onto the baton, wrapping its body around it as if it were a tree branch. It continued to glide upward, moving toward the sergeant’s blue-gloved hand. John suspected that the thin vinyl would provide the officer with next to no protection from the serpent’s fangs, should it decide to strike.

When the snake’s head reached the baton’s grip, John saw the sergeant’s shoulder tense. Instinctively, he backed further away. He did so with only a few seconds to spare. The sergeant suddenly rose to his feet. At first, John thought he might have been attacked by the snake. Then he sergeant hurled the baton across the garage.

Randall, although he probably had no real idea what was going on, began firing. The sergeant drew his his pistol from its holster in a single, smooth motion. He fired two shots, and then lowered his weapon.

Josh stared. Five small chips of concrete surrounded the now-dead serpent. Two additional bullets had struck the name: one just an inch or so below its head, and one almost directly in the middle of its head. Granted, it was almost unrecognizable as one now. John had no doubts from whose gun those two bullets had come.

Randall strode over and stared down at the dead creature. His gun remained in his hand. A look of disgust passed across his expression and then he stepped back, holstering his weapon.

“I guess we know what happened here,” Randall said.

The sergeant grunted in response, frowning. He turned to look at the blanket shrouded figure on the ground.

“I suppose we do,” he agreed, although John heard a lack of conviction in his tone.

“What do you mean?” Randall asked, heading back toward John and the sergeant.

The sergeant walked over and nudged the limp form of the snake with his boot.

“Unless I’m mistaken,” he said, looking down at the deceased serpent, “this kind isn’t from around here.”

John realized that he was shaking. He probably had been since the older officer had pulled the snake from the car. Now, though, a sick, hollow feeling joined it.

What he had assumed had been a rather unfortunate (and messy) accident might very well have been murder.

#

Sabrina fought to keep from placing her head in her hands when she heard Alex’s voice come from the computer speakers. There was a long pause before Samantha answered. Sabrina could understand why. She was not sure that she could explain the problem without it sounding like a bad joke, making her seem like a total idiot—or both.

“Sam . . .” Alex said warningly.

Samantha looked toward Sabrina for support, but all that she could provide was a slight shrug of her eyebrows.

“It’s . . . it’s okay,” Samantha said.

She did not sound convincing, even to Sabrina. Sabrina was certain that Alex would not be fooled.

“Haven’t discussed this before?” Alex asked. Although Sabrina could not see Alex clearly on camera, the tone of exasperation was clear.

Before?

Sabrina tried to think whether she might know what Alex was referring to.

Oh, she realized a few moments later. That.

“It’s nothing like that,” Samantha protested, sounding more certain this time. “This is nothing like the thing with Victoria.”

Sabrina let out a slow breath, remembering that incident.

Samantha’s right, she silently agreed. This is nothing like that.

She considered the comparison for another moment.

It’s worse.

“So there is a ‘thing’,” Alex persisted, sounding just slightly victorious.

Damn, Sabrina thought. Then, with some resignation, she added, Well, Alex is a lawyer . . .

Sabrina waited while Samantha decided what to do. She found that she actually had no advice to offer. There were too many unknowns.

Which is why we were discussing it in the first place . . .

She suddenly realized that Alex had moved closer to the screen and was staring at her. Sabrina doubted that her expression revealed much, particularly given the crappy connection, but she still felt like she was being scrutinized like an unwelcome lab specimen.

“Maybe one of you would like to start at the beginning,” Alex suggested. “Just to make certain that you two get your lies straight.”

Sabrina bristled slightly at this. Neither of them had lied to Alex—certainly she had not. They simply had not been particularly forthcoming with details about the truth. Sabrina suspected that Alex was going to make it difficult for the two of them, or at least Samantha for certain, since they lived in the same house, until some believable answers were given.

And that could be a problem, Sabrina considered, for the truth might not be wholly believable, particularly given the few facts that they currently had.

“It’s not like that,” Samantha tried again. “There’s nothing you can do right now.”

“I can keep your ass out of jail,” Alex snapped coldly.

Samantha looked toward Sabrina pleadingly. Sabrina wished she had something persuasive and rational to say, but everything she thought of sounded either petulant or hostile. Neither of those attitudes was likely to gain her any favor with Alex.

“Fine,” Samantha conceded with a sigh. She glanced toward Sabrina for support.

Sabrina raised her hands, palms up, gesturing her surrender. She did not like it, but she could see no immediate alternative. She needed to go to bed soon, assuming that she could actually sleep, and did not want this to drag on all night.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

John expected him to try to open the passenger door next, but his partner waved him back over.

John inched silently closer, trying to get within better earshot. When his young partner returned to his side, the older officer waved his hand vaguely over the dead woman’s face.

“Doesn’t look like an assault,” he said. “More like some kind of sudden hemorrhage.”

The young officer stared down at the woman. John thought he looked a little pale. He could understand that. Being that close to a dead body made his own stomach twist.

“Don’t you have something else to do?”

John glanced up guiltily, realizing that the older officer had been talking to him. The older man had risen now and was looking expectantly at John.

“Sorry,” he replied, trying to sound confident. “Company policy.”

It was not exactly a lie. Nothing in the company’s regulations stated that he had to remain present after the police had arrived on site. There was also no mention that he was required to leave either.

The older officer grumbled something that John could not hear, and then added, “Fine.” He took a few steps back from the body and surveyed the scene. “Just don’t touch anything, kid,” he told John gruffly. “Not unless I say it’s okay to.”

John prickled at being referred to as “kid”. Although he was now twenty years old, he knew that sometimes people took him for as young as sixteen.

Glancing toward the younger officer, John gauged that he was perhaps only two years older than himself.

Well that, John acknowledged silently, along with a stint at the Police Academy.

From the corner of his vision, he was sure he caught a smirk from the younger officer’s expression. He fought back the urge to snarl. Instead, he moved in closer. He immediately regretted it as he caught a new whiff of fresh feces and urine. Swallowing back the small wave of nausea, he forced himself to look to the body of the dead woman.

Based on the strength of the odor, and the still moist surface of much of the blood, John guessed that she had not died very long ago. The two officers seemed to agree with his deduction, at least based on what he could overhear of their discussion.

“Give me some gloves,” the older officer told his partner.

The younger one opened a pouch on his belt and pulled out two blue disposable vinyl gloves. The older officer slid them on with practiced ease, flexing his fingers without looking to get a proper fit. He reached down and lightly touched a streak of blood on the woman’s face.

Raising his hand, two of his fingertips came away coated with a thin film of crimson. He studied it for a moment and then lifted it toward his nose, taking a thoughtful sniff. When he lowered his hand, his expression gave away nothing. John guessed that he had detected nothing interesting or unexpected.

“Doesn’t look like she was all that healthy to begin with,” the younger officer observed.

John quickly swept his gaze over the dead woman’s sagging form. He found it difficult to disagree with the younger officer’s assessment.

“I thought you liked them on the large side, Randall,” the older officer remarked. His tone seemed more distracted than either sarcastic or teasing.

The younger officer, apparently named Randall, shot his partner with a sharp glare. The older officer appeared to ignore it completely, although John thought he saw the quirk of a faint smile on the man’s lips.

John felt his cheeks tingle with sudden warmth. He looked away, hoping that neither of the two men would notice. It was no secret that he also preferred his women to have some noticeable curves to their form. He doubted, though, that he would have found the dead woman to have been appealing, even if she had not also been at least a decade older than he was.

“We’d better check out the car,” the older officer said. His tone was very matter-of-fact. John wondered if he would ever be able to achieve that same level of detachment when dealing with a messy and unpleasant death like this one.

“Have the kid help you move the body,” he added.

John froze. Quickly, almost frantically, he mentally reviewed the security company policies for something related to dealing with dead bodies. To his silent horror, he could recall nothing. Sure, there were general rules about “observe and report”, as well as guidelines for providing necessary assistance law enforcement officials, but it lacked any real specifics at all about the handling of corpses.

“Wait a sec,” the older officer spoke up. John felt a swell of relief that he might be off the hook. “Let me get some photos first.”

John sighed and closed his eyes for moment, realizing that his imaginary reprieve would be short-lived. He stepped back, leaning with his back against a concrete post for support, and waited while the two officers took photographs of the scene. He spent most of the time trying to convince his stomach that he really did not want to revisit his dinner.

#

Randall made the situation worse by toying with him, trying to convince him that they did not have enough gloves for all of them. He even showed John his empty belt pouch as evidence. This rattled John enough that it took him several minutes to wonder whether they might be some in the emergency first aid mounted next to the elevator.

Without any real expression of sympathy, the older officer retrieved a box of gloves from the trunk of the patrol car and tossed the container to John. John gave the older man a grateful look and mumbled his gratitude; both gestures went unacknowledged.

Removing the body from the car was even more awkward than he had anticipated. He had thought they could just slide it out off of the seat the rest of the way, lowering it to rest on the ground. That basic idea was good in theory, but was complicated by the fact that, in slipping out the door in the first place, her foot and ankle had gotten wedged underneath the driver’s seat.

John was relieved when Randall, having discovered the problem, chose to deal with it himself.

“Too bad the ‘Jaws of Life’ don’t really work as advertised,” he muttered.

John failed to get the joke. As Randall already had his head inside the car, he did not even bother to fake a smile. He was once again grateful that it was Randall and not himself. John could only imagine what the smell must be like up close.

“Got it,” came Randall’s muffled voice from inside the car. “Try it now.”

John took hold of the dead woman’s right shoulder, while the older officer assumed Randall’s previous position on the left one.

“On three,” he told John flatly.

When John nodded his understanding, the officer began his countdown.

“Three . . . two . . . one.”

They pulled together. For a moment, the body still did not move. John wondered if it was still caught on something or, perhaps even more likely, Randall was having another bit of fun at his expense.

Before he could decide, the body surged toward them. John stumbled backward, nearly losing his footing. He recovered rapidly, glancing quickly over to see whether the older officer had noticed. He did not seem to have, nor did he appear to have suffered from the same sudden lack of coordination. Together, they worked to pull the body free. It was damned heavy, giving John a new, and all too real, appreciation for the term “dead weight”.

Finally, they had it resting completely on the concrete surface of the parking garage. They had moved it several feet away from the car, making it easier for them to get at the vehicle later. John looked the body over, discovering that, seeing it in its entirety, as what had been a real person, quieted his lingering nausea. The older officer retrieved a blanket from the patrol car and, with surprising solemnity, draped it over the body. He stood quietly for a moment, and John wondered if he might not be whispering a prayer.

“All right,” he said, shifting suddenly back into earlier mode. “We’d better check out the car.”

It took John a moment to realize that the officer was including him in that invitation, as Randall had already gone back around to the passenger side of the car. John tried not to smile, but was unable to stop it.

It faded immediately as he looked inside the vehicle. Blood spattered its interior. Dark crimson streaks and nearly black splotches dappled the steering wheel and seat. Although he could not see it clearly from where he stood, John imagined that the dashboard probably looked the same.

The older officer slid his flashlight from its holster and turned it on. Crouching in front of the doorframe, he played the flashlight’s beam around the car’s interior. He made a soft sound like a tuneless hum while he did this. John assumed that it meant that he was thinking, carefully assessing the scene. He leaned so that he could see over the officer’s shoulder, watching to see what the flashlight revealed.

A briefcase rested on the passenger seat. It looked slightly worn. From what John could tell, it was a nice one, but probably not very expensive. It did not have that polished leathery look of a high-priced attaché case.

The officer moved the beam to the left slightly, illuminating the carpeted floor. On it lay what appeared to be a half-opened gym bag. A loose stack of papers was visible just inside it.

“Probably her kid’s homework,” the officer said softly. “Poor bastard.”

John’s lips tightened into a grim line. He heard the younger officer reappear behind them.

“Better tag them, Randall,” the older officer said. “And then check the trunk.”

He reached over and pulled the briefcase to him. After giving it a cursory inspection, he passed it to John, who then handed it to the young officer.

To John’s surprise, the older officer did not just lean further in to snatch up the gym bag. Instead, he pulled out his baton and then used its grip to grab the bag’s straps and then lift it toward him. He passed both the baton to John, with the gym bag still dangling from it. John assumed that he had a reason for doing it this way, even if he did not understand why, and accepted it that way.

“You’d better search and inventory it,” the older officer toward his partner.

“Sure,” Randall agreed. “Got it.”

He removed the bag and passed the baton back to the older officer. Rather than slip it back into his belt, he held onto it as he leaned slightly forward, trying to aim the beam of his flashlight into the space under the passenger seat. He had to twist his body awkwardly to manage it. Behind him, John leaned further forward to get a better look.

The older officer suddenly froze, his body becoming as rigid as stone. John hesitated, puzzled. He could see nothing but a collection of shadows and—

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Exiting the main lobby, he cut through a wide floor of identical cubicles before coming to that corridor that ran along the internal perimeter of the building. Garage 3 was on the far south side of the complex, but it was favored by many of the employees because it provided easier access to the freeway when they left for the evening. There was a more direct route, a narrow concrete path that lead from the rear of the lobby to the rear of the parking garage. Taking it, though, would have required that he travel outside through the expansive inner courtyard. As the temperature had now dropped to thirty-eight degrees, he was more than willing to spend the few extra minutes.

If they’re stupid enough to lock themselves in their own car, he considered with increasing irritation, then they can wait a few more minutes.

He took the stairs down to the garage level, rather than waiting for the elevator. By default, they all homed to the fourth floor when not in use. He had been told that it was a security design, to make it more difficult for anyone who had managed to breach the first floor to get to the upper levels. The real reason, Jonathon suspected, was that the overpaid muckety-mucks who had offices up there hated to wait for elevators.

Unholstering his flashlight almost automatically, he opened the door that led into the parking garage. He paused there, gasping for an instant as a blast of cold air greeted him. The garage level, while somewhat sheltered from the weather, was not heated. Large ventilation fans filled alcoves at wide intervals along the concrete walls, but they provided nothing in the way of warmth in this kind of weather.

He aimed the beam of his flashlight across the broad, low-ceilinged space. Although the garage was illuminated, even at night, its lighting placement left wide swathes of deep shadows. Filling those pockets of darkness with light made the space feel just less claustrophobic. When traveling through the parking garages at night, he always felt as if their ceilings were closing in on him. It did not help that the rough, cement-covered were within easy touch if he stretched his arm upward.

Four cars were immediately visible, each parked at seemingly random distances from one another. Blinking in an attempt to adjust his eyes to dim lighting, Jonathon searched out the light-colored one he had seen on the monitor.

There.

He spied it parked next to one of the large concrete pillars. Seeing it, he was surprised to see that it was an older Japanese import. He had expected it to be one of those new European models—the kind that he could not imagine ever being able to afford on his salary, no matter how hard he saved for it.

Moving toward it, he played his flashlight beam into the gap between the vehicle and the post.

Just to be safe, he silently reminded himself.

The space was empty, showing nothing more than a few small scraps of debris. Approaching the car, he shone the flashlight into its windows, hoping to spotlight whoever the idiot was who had managed to lock themselves inside.

He paused, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. There appeared to be a large, pale form pressed up against the driver’s side window. A thin film of moisture coated the window, but not as much as he would have expected for someone trapped in their car for any length of time. He swept the flashlight beam along the ground, but saw nothing more unusual than some old fluid stains in the immediate vicinity of the vehicle.

Holding the flashlight beam fixed on the shape in the window, he began to approach the car cautiously. As he got closer, he saw what looked to be a mass of tight sandy brown and gray curls pressed against the glass. He swallowed against a sudden hard lump, dismissing from his mind the images from a dozen old science fiction movies.

No way it’s alien parasites. . . . Or whatever.

Peering closer, he was more certain now it was the top of someone’s head, with their hair pressed against the window. From where he stood, he could not see their face. Reaching the door, he pointed his flashlight directly into the window. The layer of moisture on it prevented him from seeing clearly into the car’s interior. The light played across diffuse shapes, but revealed no details.

Jonathon looked down at the car door. The handle was a traditional one that lifted to unlock and open. That reassured him that he could probably manage to forcibly unlock it with the Slim Jim. He was not at all certain that he could have had it been one of the new expensive European models.

Still aiming the flashlight at the interior of the car, he tugged lightly on the handle. He stumbled back in surprise, nearly dropping his flashlight, when it lifted completely and the door began to open. It stopped, revealing about a three-inch gap. Jonathon took a deep breath and willed his heart to stop racing. It started to obey, and then stopped again an instant later as the door began to move again.

It seemed to happen in exaggerated slow motion. A large, formless shape pressed against door, forcing it slowly open. The mass seemed to almost ooze through the ever-widening gap, stopping just before it reached the concrete surface of the parking garage. Looking closer, Jonathon saw that it had apparently once been a person.

Its head hung downward from the bottom frame of the doorway. The graying sandy brown hair that he had seen pressed against the window now rested less than two inches above the ground. It neck arched forward, exposing the full length of its throat. The face, covered with streaks of clotting blood, was thick and bloated. Jonathon wondered for a moment whether it had always looked that way, or if whatever had caused her death had done that to her. From what he could tell, she looked to have been overweight for her size, probably pushing close to three hundred pounds.

More blood trailed from her nose. Dark splotches dotted her pleated white blouse. Her eyes, Jonathon realized, remained partially open. The whites were deeply tinted with crimson. That was unusual, he knew.

A stroke? he wondered. Some kind of aneurysm?

He had heard of both of those things, of course, but had never encountered a victim of either one.

Take a step closer, he stopped abruptly, catching a whiff of several unpleasant things. He managed, successfully, to neither cough nor gag, but it was a near thing. He knew, from things he had read, what involuntary reactions the human body had upon death. It was quite another thing to experience it first-hand.

Stepping back, he looked away. While trying not to breathe too deeply, he pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt and activated it.

“Trev,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “I think you’d better call this one in.”

#

“They’ll get here as soon as they can,” Trevor reported back. “So don’t touch anything.”

Jonathon fought the urge to roll his eyes, and then surrendered. It was not like Trevor could see him anyway.

Duh.

He glanced toward the periphery of the car, not wanting to look directly at the dead woman.

It’s not like I’m going to go anywhere near her, he retorted silently. Not without gloves.

He considered that condition for a moment.

Not even with gloves.

“The coroner can’t make it for at least two hours,” Trevor’s voice sounded again over the handset. “There’s some kind of huge smash-up on the Loop.”

Oh. Great.

He hoped that the police would make it there in a lot less time. The thought of having to stay near the body for another two hours made his stomach roil. He swallowed down the taste of bile and tried to think of something else—anything else—other than the fact that he stood just a few feet away from a dead body.

Belatedly, he realized that a small crowd of about a half dozen or so people had started to gather behind him. Putting on his best on-duty expression, he turned, raising his hands for their attention.

“I need to ask you to not remain here,” he told them, seeing their curious and uneasy expressions. “The police are on their way and they need us to keep the area clear.”

The small crowd began to break up, but not seemingly in any hurry to do so.

“Please,” he politely implored them, although he really wanted to allow his irritation to show. “I need you to clear the area.”

It took nearly five minutes, but finally he managed to get them to all enter the building. He called Trevor had told him to closed and deactivate the gate so no one else could enter until the police were done.

I should have thought of that before, he scolded himself, but then silently cut himself some slack. It’s not like I expected to find a body down here.

The police arrived about twenty minutes later. They brought only a single patrol car, which surprised Jonathon a little. He figured that an explained death would have brought a greater response.

Maybe they’re all at the accident on the Loop, he speculated, using his key to manually lift the gate that lead into the garage.

The police car pulled in, shining its headlights, and then mounted spotlight into the garage interior. It stopped just inside the entrance, blocking it from letting other cars enter, and two officers climbed out. Neither of them, Jonathon noted, seemed to move with much urgency.

Well, he considered. She’s already dead. It’s not like she’s going anywhere.

Jonathon recognized one of them: a young man with short, neatly-cut blond hair. He could not remember his name, other than he had seen him come to the complex before on other calls. His partner was an older man, maybe pushing his late forties. Both of them regarded with barely disguised disdain.

Jonathon recognized the look: the real cop looking down on the make-believe one. He fought back a surge of righteous anger, but still felt his face grow hot with suppressed resentment.

The older officer moved in close to the body, crouching so that he was less than a hand’s width away from it. He did not touch it, though. Still kneeling, he looked over the scene, quickly surveying the area around the car, as well as its shadowed interior. He murmured something to his partner that Jonathon could not hear.

The younger officer nodded and walked around the front of the car to the passenger side. He peered into the window from that side. Evidently finding nothing of immediate interest, he then looked both right and left, checking for what, Jonathon could not be certain.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Reaching the kitchen, Samantha was relieved to find it empty. Although Alex had not bothered to ask her about the situation earlier, she really did not want to answer any questions about it now. She did discover, however, that someone had left a dirty plate and silverware in the sink. Judging from the now-soggy remnants, Samantha guessed that Alex had finished off the last of the apple pie.

We just bought that on Saturday!

Her cell phone was where she thought she had left it. She picked it up, saw that she had received one additional text message, and then the screen went suddenly blank. Samantha resisted the urge to hurl the infernal gadget against the wall.

A small vocabulary of profanity passed through her mind. She constructed two short phrases from it and then, still muttering her way through some of the other terms, slid the phone into her pocket and headed back for the gloriously windowed room that served as her office.

She dropped back down into the chair, still grumbling. It complained loudly, offering her an unpleasant reminder that, yes, she too needed to lay off on the leftover autumn pies.

Logging back in, she sighed.

PHONE DEAD. SKYPE?

There was a momentary pause before Sabrina answered. Samantha guessed that she had stepped away from her computer, expecting an actual phone call.

SURE

Samantha released a slow breath, trying to force herself back into as least a semblance of calm. That state, she suspected, was precarious at best.

ONE SEC. LET ME CLOSE THE DOOR.

Mumbling at her own lack of insight, Samantha rose again, checked to make certain that no one was nearby, and then closed the door. She seated herself a little more gently this time. The chair seemed to appreciate it, as it only moaned quietly.

She double-clicked on the icon to open the program and waited while it sounded what she suspected was intended to be a cheery musical refrain and began shuffling digital bits back and forth across the internet.

Sabrina’s face came fuzzily into view. The connection was terrible. Sabrina looked unnaturally pale, with dark smudges under her eyes. Phantom bits of electronic static pockmarked her expression. Despite all that, Samantha could make out deep lines of worry in her friend’s face.

“You look like hell.”

Sabrina grimaced. “Nice to see you too.”

She turned her head at some unseen distraction behind her. After a moment, she looked back at Samantha.

“Storms here,” she said. “And I’m on dodgy marina WiFi.”

Samantha nodded her understanding. The connection between them was not likely to get any better. Worse yet, it would probably drop completely out without warning.

There was a long pause before either them of spoke again, as if each was uncertain of what to say. Finally, Sabrina broke the silence.

“I want you to tell me that this is a really bad joke.”

Samantha breathed slowly before answering. “I wish I could.”

Growing concern deepened the lines in Sabrina’s face. “You don’t think it is.”

“I don’t know that it isn’t.”

She studied Sabrina’s expression, hoping her guiding voices would provide some insight. They, however, remained stubbornly silent.

“Do you think it’s something he would do?”

Sabrina stared back at her. Pain played across her features. Samantha was pretty certain that it was not a side effect of the connection.

“Do you mean as a joke? Or . . .?” She trailed off, clearly unable to complete the question.

“As a joke,” Samantha answered, hoping to offer at least some reassurance for now.

“We used to kid about it . . .” Sabrina explained uncertainly. The anxiety in Sabrina’s expression was deep and genuine. “But I really was worried about it.”

Samantha frowned, thinking back over her sessions with him. She remembered the topic coming up a few times, but it was never anything they had explored in depth.

Except that one time . . .

The subject had come up at the very end of a session a few months earlier. It had ended in silliness, dampening the sound of her internal alarm system. He had promised her, though, even through the laughter, that he would warn her in just this way.

It could be a joke . . .

Her guiding voices told her otherwise. While they did not scream their warnings at her, as they sometimes did, they were definitely strident in their insistence that she listen to them.

What do we do? she wondered, and then voiced the question aloud.

“I’m not sure,” Sabrina admitted.

“We can’t go to the police . . .”

“Why not?”

Samantha looked calmly back at Sabrina. “And tell them what?”

Sabrina frowned and looked stubborn. Samantha recognized that look.

“Does he have any kind of record? Anything that would make the police want to go looking for him?”

She asked those questions half-hopefully, although she knew the answer.

Sabrina’s defiant expression held for a moment, and then faded as she silently conceded the point.

“Contact the police? What about?”

Samantha’s heart skipped a long beat at the unexpected sound of Alex’s voice. She swallowed hard, not daring to turn around.

“Is this about what happened this morning?”

Samantha still did not answer. At the corner of her vision, she could see Sabrina watching the scene uncertainly, her eyes flicking back and forth between herself and Alex.

Shit. As if this isn’t complicated enough already.

#

Jonathon Reiter was bored. It was only two hours into his six-hour shift and he had already completed four full circuits of the third and fourth levels of the complex. He was grateful that he was not also required to patrol the grounds outside. Autumn already had the nighttime temperatures dropping near the thirties. Add the airborne moisture from the nearby coast and it made for a miserable night of security duty. Staying warm and dry had it advantages, he supposed, but were of only small comfort in alleviating his boredom.

So far, the only interesting thing he had discovered was a software engineer who had fallen asleep at his desk. That incident had not been without its amusement value, though. Upon being awakened, the developer thought he was being arrested and began spouting his innocence about how the weed had gotten into his apartment in the first place. Jonathon had managed to keep a straight face, but only just barely.

He glanced over at the bank of four video displays mounted into the security station. They each cycled at random through the dozens of the security cameras mounted throughout the building and grounds. One screen showed provided a mazelike view of darkened cubicles, another showed the outdoor tennis courts, the third one showed the north end of the main visitor’s parking lot, and the last one gave a view of the interior of one of the basement parking garages. Without reading the label, he could not identify which one it was. He did not truly care which one it was. They all looked the same: dull and gray. Besides, no one had entered the gates for hours. The only person to exit through them in only slightly less time had been the sleep-deprived engineer.

Seated behind the desk, playing solitaire on the computer station, was Trevor McCullen, his shift supervisor. He was Jonathon’s senior only by his additional four months on the job. He was nice enough, but rarely let Jonathon forget it.

Trevor swore softly, and then blanked the screen after another loss to the computer. Jonathon could not remember the last time that Trevor had won a game—if he had ever won.

Trevor stretched, pushing back in his chair.

“Coffee?”

Jonathon thought about it for a moment.

His stomach signaled its disapproval with a quick flash of the acid burn that had plagued him for the past few days. He and two friends had pulled a gaming all-nighter during the weekend, fueled by coffee and Red Bull. His digestive system had proclaimed its rebellion ever since.

“I’d better not,” he told Trevor. “But hot chocolate, if they have it.”

That was one of the nicer perks of the job. They had access to the coffee and beverage supplies reserved for visitors and VIPs, far better than the coffee provided at the other stations throughout the building.

“Sounds good,” Trevor agreed. “Make sure to get some when you bring me my coffee.” He grinned at Jonathon, clearly pleased by his petty show of one-upmanship. “French roast,” he told Jonathon. “Not that House Blend crap.”

Jonathon tried hard not to snarl with annoyance, and mostly succeeded. Besides, having to get both of their drinks might kill, oh, ten minutes—fifteen, if he really stretched it.

“Right,” he said. “French roast,” he repeated. “Light on the cyanide.”

Trevor snorted and Jonathon headed for the executive coffee station.

He returned a little more than ten minutes later, feeling a bit more pleased. Someone had once again stocked the hot chocolate with the miniature marshmallows.

It’s a small thing, I know, he admitted to himself. But it really does make all the difference.

Trevor was studying one of the displays intently. Jonathon offered him his coffee. Trevor accepted the cup absently, without looking at it.

“Something going on?” Jonathon asked, leaning over to peer at the monitor. He recognized the view as being from one of the parking garages.

“Not sure,” Trevor replied frowning, entering something on the keyboard. “I just got a call that it looks like someone might have locked themselves inside their car.”

Jonathon’s eyebrows rose in dumbfounded disbelief.

Inside their car?

Trevor must have read his expression.

“You know these brainiac types,” he said, not bothering to disguise his snide opinion of them. “Big on that college-type learning,” he went on. “Not so much on real smarts.”

Jonathon suppressed a snicker, but only just barely. He moved in closer to the security displays.

“Do you know who it is?”

Jonathon could tell that it was a light-colored car, but that was about it. Trevor adjusted the controls, but it did not seem to help. The image remained gray and indistinct. Zooming in on it just gave them less detail, not more.

“Nah,” Trevor admitted, expressing only mild frustration. “Can’t see the license plate,” he said. “It’s behind a pillar.”

He turned and tossed Jonathon a set of keys and the Slim Jim.

“You’re on it,” Trevor told him, “Garage 3, Section C.”

Jonathon caught them both easily. He snapped the keys onto his belt with one hand and then held up the long flat tool.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“I don’t know,” Trevor told him with a grin. “Beat whoever it is over the head with it for being a moron?”

Jonathon rolled his eyes. Still, he had little trouble agreeing with the suggestion.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

She could: drive home, and deal with the bag when she got there.

She could: inspect the bag herself, assume that it was the result of a lapse in good manners from someone in her household, although she really did not remember it being there when she had arrived that morning.

She could: return to her office to retrieve her cell phone, which she needed anyway. From there, she could call Security from her office phone before returning to her car.

She then remembered that there was a dedicated Security phone mounted on the wall just outside the elevator. Using it would still require getting out of her car, but it would be a shorter distance to summon help instead of going back to her office. In addition, she realized with increasing satisfaction, she should be able to convince one of the minimum-wage, police academy rejects to retrieve her phone for her. She was, after all, a Director.

Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, she saw it was already well past seven o’clock. Her oldest son would be home from football practice soon, and she was certain that her husband would not have started dinner as she had instructed him to. Even after she reached someone from Security, it would probably take them forever to send someone to her, as it was already after normal working hours.

She glanced over at the dim shape on the passenger-side floor and considered it carefully. It seemed to be nothing more than an ordinary gym bag. That she could not remember ever seeing it before, either in her car or in her home, did not automatically make it dangerous. Still, Cynthia hated mysteries. She liked things precise, well-planned out, and explainable (even if, perhaps, not without a necessary angle to get what she wanted).

Get a grip, Cyn. It’s just a bag, she told herself. When you find out who it belongs to, you can give the kids hell for leaving it in here.

Cynthia reached for the bag, but managed to grab only one of its handles. It dangled from her grip before she dumped it unceremoniously on the passenger seat for a better look. It had not been heavy, but neither had it felt completely empty. On the other hand, Cynthia could not remember what one felt like it was not filled with shoes, knee pads, and other personal athletic gear.

She studied it, perched on top of her briefcase. It just sagged there, resembling little more than a sodden piece of brightly-colored garbage. Tentatively, she checked the handles, and each end of the bag, for a tag, but she did not find one. She found the raised slot where one could be placed, but it was empty.

Sighing with deep annoyance, she reached down and slid open the zipper, certain that something inside would provide her with the identity of its owner. She pulled her hand back cautiously, hearing what she thought was the faint sound of something inside the bag. Leaning into the left edge of her seat, pressed against the gap between the seat and the door, she waited. Her left hand rested on the door latch, ready to release it.

Nothing happened.

Curious now, and more than just a little irritated, Cynthia leaned over and peered into the bag. She spied what looked to be several sheets of paper. That reassured her a bit.

Probably someone’s homework.

The discovery added to her growing list of planned beratements. Not only had someone left their bag behind in her car, but had also been unable to turn in their assignment on time. Her bathrooms were going to be very clean—for weeks.

Satisfied that the bag contained nothing more than probably dirty gym socks and a now-overdue term paper, Cynthia reached over to shove back onto the floor. She could find out who it belonged to, and deal with whoever it belonged to, both when she got home.

Her arm was halfway to the bag when something dark leapt from its opening. She might have screamed, but no one outside the vehicle was near enough to hear it. She never got the chance for a second one, as it came out as more of a strangled gurgle before her vision began to turn crimson.

#

The snake, annoyed at being tossed around, leaps from the opening. Sensing body heat, and the scent of warm mammal flesh, it attacks. Its fangs sink deep into the woman’s outstretched arm. Venom pumps from its glands.

The woman screams, instinctively attempting to fling the serpent away, although she had not yet realized what it is. The snake releases its hold, willingly. Freed now, it strikes again, this time aiming for the large vein it knows it will find on the writhing mammal’s neck. Still stunned by the attack, the prey does not even try to defend itself.

The serpent’s aim is true. Its fangs pierce deeply, warm mammal blood spreading across its tongue and venom flows once more. The prey, of which it has tasted the scent of its kind many times before, stops crying out. Its sounds become something labored and moist—familiar. Tremors seize the prey’s body as the venom begins to do its work.

Releasing its hold, the snake curls between the two large, soft mounds of flesh and waits. Its tongue tastes the air, waiting for the smell of warm death. The scent of fresh blood is stronger now as the prey’s capillaries weaken and burst. The prey makes no sounds now, other than those associated with the final moments of its life.

It makes one last sound: a final, muted cry of rage. Beneath the serpent’s coils, the prey grows soft, almost formless. Tasting the prey’s flesh and then the air, the snake senses the acrid odors of prey’s death. It settles in to feed.

The woman’s body will not be discovered until very early in the morning, when others begin to arrive the next day. By then, it is far too late to save her. In truth, she was doomed almost from the moment that the snake struck.

The serpent, well sated from its meal, slides into the darkness beneath the seat. It coils itself tightly to sleep. It, too, will not be discovered until the next day. Unfortunately, that sumptuous feast will also be its last.

#

It nearly eight o’clock that night before Samantha finally had time to contact Sabrina. Alex, as she half-expected, had never called her from either the car or the office. In fact, Alex seemed to have forgotten that the incident had ever happened at all, never mentioning upon arriving home or during dinner. Between dealing with clients and the kids coming home and getting homework done, the day passed into evening almost before she noticed it. She sat down before the computer, almost afraid to clear the screen.

Bree must be losing her mind by now.

She stalled for a moment, noting that her email inbox was no more full than usual for that time of day. There were, however, more than a dozen unacknowledged instant messages. At least three of them were from Sabrina, spaced out at different intervals from throughout the day.

Samantha took a deep breath and logged in.

Sabrina’s status showed her as still online, but idle.

Probably tucking the kids in or—.

PLEASE TELL ME IT’S A JOKE

Samantha blinked at the sudden appearance of the message. Despite her churning anxiety, she nearly giggled at the mental image of Sabrina pouncing on the keyboard the moment that she saw that Samantha was back online.

The brief moment of amusement faded quickly. She considered her response, realizing how little she actually knew. Sabrina had known him far longer than she had. Yet Samantha also knew that she possessed at least one secret that he had never openly revealed to Sabrina.

“Damn, it’s a slippery slope,” she murmured to herself, tapping her fingertips against the keys.

The knot in her stomach tightened as she thought back to the message she had received that morning. The truth was, she did not know. Her gut, and the voices that guided her insight, both warned her of danger. What form it might take, however, neither could tell her.

She looked away from the screen for a moment to try to gather her thoughts. Despite having had all day to mull over this, she was no closer to an answer than she had been that morning. She hated that; she hated that a lot.

Taking a long, slow breath, she turned back to the keyboard.

I DON’T KNOW.

Samantha waited a long time, but no response appeared. She wondered whether Sabrina had been distracted from answering by one of the kids or her husband.

Either that . . . or she’s freaking out as bad as I was.

Granted, Samantha acknowledged to herself, the answer that she had given Sabrina was not particularly helpful.

HAVE YOU TALKED TO HIM?

Samantha sighed.

NO. HE DIDN’T ANSWER MY EMAIL AND DIDN’T ANSWER HIS PHONE.

HE’S NOT ONLINE.

WHEN DID YOU TALK TO HIM LAST?

NOT SINCE . . . FRIDAY.

So something happened over the weekend? What?

CAN I CALL YOU?

Samantha glanced around the room before answering.

LET ME MOVE TO MY OFFICE FIRST, OKAY?

There was no sense in having either Alex or any of the children overhear her. With most of her clients, it was not really a problem, but this . . .

OKAY.

Samantha logged off and then paused, trying to remember where she had left her cell phone. It was not here on the desk, which meant it might be . . . anywhere.

“Great,” she muttered irritably. “Just . . . great.”

As a last resort, she could always call it using the house phone and locate it by its ring. She just hoped that she had remembered to charge it. Maintaining mastery over her technology, she knew, was not one of her stronger traits.

Rising from the chair, she mentally ran through her movements that day, hoping that one would spark a memory of where she had left the phone.

Grocery bags.

She remembered then leaving it on the kitchen counter, near the stove, because she had answered three text messages while she had put the groceries away.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Samantha was distracted while Beverly described incidents, some in considerable detail, which had occurred during the past two weeks since their last session. She felt guilty about that, and probably should have either cancelled or postponed the session. But, the rest of the week was not looking any better, and Beverly needed to talk.

Focus, Samantha. Focus.

Beverly’s situation was, to put it simply, more than just a bit more complex than that of most of her clients. Not that every one of them was not complex in some way. All of them were human, and so each burdened by their own emotional baggage. Beverly’s load seemed, in Samantha’s experience, a bit heavier than most of the others. As, from what Samantha could tell, was Beverly.

This, apparently, had not always been the case. During the past few years, though, like so many troubled individuals, she had turned to food for comfort. The combination of that, along the unresolved stresses of her life, was now taking a serious toll on her health. Her choices had been drugs and surgery, or getting her head straight. To Samantha’s great relief, Beverly had chosen the latter.

Based on her experience, Samantha suspected that the medical intervention would most not likely provide a permanent solution. If anything, it created a high probability that Beverly’s quality of life it might be even further diminished in the long term. So, Samantha had begun to guide her on a journey of personal exploration and inner healing. It was slow going, with the path littered along the way with pitfalls, snares, and landmines. Still, Samantha felt as if they were making progress.

Trying to refocus her thoughts, Samantha silently reviewed what she knew of the events of Beverly’s life, trying to place the new pieces into constructing the jigsaw puzzle that represented Beverly’s existence. (It both amazed and amused Samantha how her mind produced a new metaphor for almost every new client.)

Beverly had suffered a miscarriage during her fourth month of pregnancy—a traumatic event, Samantha knew from personal experience, even under the best of circumstances. Then, a few months later, her husband left in what became, in Samantha’s mind, a needlessly long and vicious divorce. It turned out that her then-husband had, at the same time, managed to get his twenty-three year old girlfriend pregnant. Doing the math, however, revealed that he had to have done so when Beverly was slightly more than two months pregnant herself, prior to the miscarriage.

Just to make things even more interesting, Beverly had revealed to Samantha that her now ex-husband had not been the father of the child that she had lost. She was certain that there was no way that her ex-husband could have known this. Although slightly skeptical on that point, Samantha was willing to believe it. Despite all of the other dirty laundry that Beverly’s now ex-husband had felt it necessary to air during their protracted divorce proceedings, that particular revelation had never come to light. Samantha was quite certain, had the man had known, it would have.

I will never again complain that my life is too complicated . . .

On almost any other day, she might have been able to hold herself to that promise—at least until dinnertime. Today, the message she had received that morning still weighed on her mind. Unless it turned out to some kind of misguided attempt at humor (which she doubted, but wistfully prayed was true), her life might very well become much more complicated.

#

Sabrina fretted while she tried to work. Her messages to Samantha had gone so far unanswered.

She’s busy with clients, Sabrina reassured herself.

Every time the taskbar blinked with a new message, Sabrina’s heart stopped for an instant while she checked to see who it was from. So far, none of them had been from Samantha. She ignored all of the rest, afraid that she would be unable to mask her simmering anxiety. Too many of her friends were far too perceptive. She was not sure what she should tell any of them—what she could tell them.

She realized then the other name that had failed to appear in her list. Its absence did nothing at all to quiet her unease. Swearing softly at herself, she scolded herself for not noticing it before now. If what she, and apparently Samantha, suspected was true, then it was yet another sign that something might be terribly wrong. She had other ways to contact him, of course. She wondered, though, whether she should even try before talking to Samantha. Samantha might know more than her terse message let on.

Sabrina sank back in her chair. Its weathered wooden frame creaked beneath her.

I hate this.

She turned so that she could see the view outside the narrow porthole. The sight and sounds of the sea usually calmed her—or at least brought her perspective when she needed it.

Her eyes tracked out among the ripples of the waves. Dark clouds roiled like oily smoke along the horizon. A storm was coming, potentially a very bad one. She had known that. The weather bulletins had been reporting the forming storm patterns for several days. Even on the clearest days, she monitored those closely, relying not only on one source, but several, to form her own picture of what was happening out there. She had learned, not just though her own experience, but also through the experiences of others, just how capricious the mother ocean could be. Clear skies and calm waters could churn into vicious storms within only a few short hours.

She turned back to the computer screen, finding little comfort out along the water. The icon on the taskbar no longer flashed, telling her that she had received no new messages. She wished that was a relief, but it also meant that she had still heard nothing from Samantha.

Damn it.

She reached for her phone, ready to check to see whether she had received any messages there. She nearly dropped it when it vibrated suddenly in her hand. When it did not stop, she looked at its small display and swore under her breath. Her manager was calling her, no doubt to get an update on her already-late project, share some latest management-level absurdity or, worse yet, both.

Sabrina allowed herself one reluctant sigh before answering the call.

“Hi, David.”

She tried to summon up enough of her usual geniality to sound enthusiastic, but knew that she had probably failed to sound convincing.

Oh well . . . she told herself, composing several possible semi-fictional explanations, should he ask.

#

Cynthia Fawkes paused as the elevator doors opened, peering into irregularly-lit space beyond. The cavernous concrete parking garage was nearly empty. Cynthia saw only two vehicles: her four-year-old white Toyota Corolla and a gunmetal gray 5-series BMW that she did not recognize.

Probably one of the Marketing VPs on a call with Asia, she presumed, trying to guess which of them might own a car like that.

He probably leases it, she decided, stepping out the elevator.

The stark fluorescent lighting gave its interior an artificial feel, like a painted stage scenery backdrop—shadows that gave the illusion of depth, but lacking any real substance. It did not help that it felt later than it really was. The shift from Daylight Saving Time had taken place over the past weekend earlier, so darkness had descended an hour earlier than it had the week before.

The wide mesh gate was closed across the entrance, so she felt relatively safe walking alone there to her car. During the two years since they had moved to this site, there had only been one substantiated report of someone being accosted in this structure.—and that one had taken place during daylight. A pair of transients had taken shelter within the garage during a rainstorm. The incident has seemed more like panhandling than an actual assault, but the frequency of security patrols through the structure had been increased immediately afterward.

Nothing like the threat of a lawsuit to get something done, she mused drily.

She tapped the fob of her keychain. Her car responded with a reassuring chirp and the quick blink-blink of its headlights. Opening the driver’s side door, she tossed her briefcase onto the passenger seat and climbed inside. Immediately, before even inserting the key into the ignition, she locked the doors. Surveillance cameras and security patrols or not, there was no sense in taking foolish chances.

Sliding the key into its slot, she paused before actually starting the car. Something at the edge of her peripheral nagged at her attention. She turned toward the passenger seat, expecting to see that her briefcase had slid from the seat onto the floor. Annoying, but it was hardly worth worrying about until she got home.

But the briefcase was on the seat where it had originally landed. It was then that she noticed the soft, dim shape on the floor. Frowning, she tried to recall if she had left something in car that morning. She could remember nothing, particularly as he tried to keep the interior spotless and empty. After all, one never knew when she might have the chance to drive an executive to lunch or an offsite meeting. Having it be filled with any kind of clutter would send the wrong message, after all.

Reaching up, she turned on the overhead lighting. There was definitely something down there. At first, she thought it might have been a lunch bag from her husband or one of the kids, but it was the wrong size and shape. In fact, it did not look like anything that might have belonged to her.

Peering down into the shadowed recess, she tried to make out any details that might tell her what the object actually was. It appeared to be a workout bag, but smaller than the ones that either of the boys used. Her husband did not own one like it, and she certainly did not.

So how had it gotten into her car?

She glanced around at the dashboard, verifying against the absurd notion that it really was not her car. Sure, her keys had opened it, but who knew how reliable that was. Still, the odds that someone else would have one that would operate using the same code, be the same make and model, and still be there at that hour, were fantastically slim. Therefore, there had to be another explanation.

A cold chill passed through her and she turned, cautiously, to peer into the backseat.

Empty.

Cynthia settled back into the driver’s seat with a deep sigh of relief. Urban legends were filled with stories of such things. Still, it did not explain how the bag had gotten into her car or who it might belong to.

It must have a tag, she reasoned, reaching toward it. They almost always did, she thought . . . unless someone didn’t want known who the owner was.

Cynthia hesitated now, wondering whether she should call Security. She could do it without having to leave the car. The cell phone’s right here in my purse . . .

Her hand came up empty. She looked into her purse now, checking to see whether it had fallen from its designated pouch. Not seeing it, she dug through the contents of the purse, failed to find the phone.

Shit.

She swore silently, using a term that she never would have spoken aloud. As soon as she thought about it, she could picture it on top of her desk, sitting next to the notepad she had used during her meeting with the senior R&D manager. That left her with a dilemma—several of them, in fact. With increasing nervousness, she began to consider each one of them.

The Stories of the Wild One

Samantha Morgan settled down at her desk, breathing in the warm scent of her lemon and chamomile tea. Checking the time again, she saw that she had about twenty minutes before her first client of the day. She breathed a sigh, trying to flush the chaos of the morning from her thoughts. Sean had been more difficult to rouse and get out the door that morning, stalling and dallying until he was nearly too late to catch the bus for school.

What is it with him sometimes?

She was willing to attribute some of it to predictable adolescent resistance, but sometimes it lapsed into outright defiance. While that too was often a commonplace trait of mid-adolescence, the expressions and gestures that he exhibited during those outbursts sometimes resonated just a little too much with those of his father. While it was not those eruptions of anger that had caused Samantha to leave him, a chill knifed through her whenever she witnessed them in Sean.

The clatter of something hard against ceramic tile sounded from the kitchen, pulling her from the potentially treacherous currents of that stream of thought. Alex smiled, contented and amused, picturing easily in her mind Alex’s routine to fill a travel mug with coffee—French roast, one sugar, no creamer—before beginning the drive to the law office where Alex interned. The commute sucked, but the opportunity was fantastic. If Alex could secure a permanent position there as a junior partner, it could mean so many good things for all of them.

Samantha clicked over to her e-mail and scanned the scrolling list of messages that had arrived during the night. Most of them, as usual, she saw that she could ignore or automatically delete; a few she flagged for later reading—mainly links to newsletters and journal articles. A small handful, from close friends and clients that she found genial and supportive, she began to read immediately.

The fifth one she came to was from one of her small number of male clients. Unlike some of her clients, he rarely sent her more than maybe two or three messages between their weekly sessions. Those that he did send tended to be, if not insightful, at least wittily humorous. She selected the message, prepared to smile in appreciation.

A cold chill washed through her. She felt the blood drain from her face. Above the keyboard In front of her, her hands trembled. The world took on an odd, distant feel. Sounds receded to distant whispers.

“Sam?”

Alex’s voice penetrated the swirling mental fog that threatened to engulf her.

“Sam?”

Her name was repeated, this time with an even higher pitch of concern. She was aware of Alex’s presence at her shoulder.

“Sam?” Alex repeated, this time almost demanding in tone. “What’s wrong?”

Samantha wanted to the turn away, to look at Alex, at view anything other than the image that she now saw on her screen.

She tried to take a breath, but it caught, coming out as a shudder. Unable to turn away, she willed her eyelids to close, to shutter her away her sight.

Darkness descended before her, although it required a focus of inner strength that she would not have imagined in order to achieve it. She took a short, experimental breath. When she found that she was able to take one, she breathed deeper. Between that, and the self-imposed darkness, her head began to clear. For a brief moment, she wondered if she looked ridiculous. Still, she was unwilling to open her eyes. Not yet.

Samantha felt Alex’s hand come to rest on her shoulder. “Sam.” When she did not respond, the hand tightened its grip. “Sam!”

With tremendous effort, Samantha turned in her chair to face Alex. Her eyelids flickered and she could not be certain whether her unwillingness to open them was a conscious one or not.

Alex’s worried face stared down at her. One hand still rested on Samantha’s shoulder; the other held a steaming commuter mug. The acrid aroma of the coffee helped to steady her, although only slightly.

“Sam,” Alex repeated with sharp concern. And then, almost angrily, “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

The quasi-accusatory tone of Alex’s question swept away the last of the paralysis from her. A hollow knot formed in her stomach. She felt as though she wanted to weep with despair, but neither tears nor cries would come.

Samantha swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight and she nearly coughed. She looked up at Alex, but found herself unwilling to speak. Managing a ragged sigh, she turned her head back toward the computer screen. After a moment silent puzzlement, Alex’s tracked along with hers.

They both stared at the bright display for a long moment. Samantha’s gaze glided past the image itself. She was unable—unwilling—to focus on it, fixing on a point somewhere past it.

“I don’t get it.”

Alex sounded genuinely perplexed.

Of course, said a voice within her head. It sounded unlike her own. She couldn’t know . . .

“It a sign,” Samantha whispered. “A message,” she went on, her voice still soft. “A warning.”

“A warning?” Alex sounded incredulous. “It’s just a—“

A sharp blast interrupted her. Samantha recognized it as the horn from the Acura SUV from Alex’s carpool.

“Shit!” Alex’s hand released its hold on Samantha shoulder. Alex moved away quickly, almost stumbling. The commuter mug jiggled unsteadily in Alex’s other hand.

“Look,” Alex said, looking sincerely apologetic. “I’ll call you from the road.” Bending down, Alex placed a light kiss on Samantha’s cheek. “You can explain it to me then.”

Samantha watched, mute, as Alex bustled out the front door, now juggling both the commuter mug and a briefcase.

The sharp tang of a cold autumn morning cut through the room before the door closed again. It was enough to bring Samantha back almost wholly to her senses. Samantha almost cried out for Alex not to call, realizing that she would probably be working with her client by then, but knew that it was too late. She would have to ignore the call, if it came.

Bree, she realized with a renewed sense of horror. I need to tell Bree.

#

Sabrina Duncan glanced at the flashing amber-colored icon at the bottom of her screen, trying to decide whether she should pause in her work to find out who it was. The project that she was working on was not particularly difficult, but it did require a lot of focused attention. It was also already more than a day overdue.

She sighed, lightly rubbed her closed eyelids with the tips of her fingers, and decided that she deserved a short break. As it was, her tea was cold, and she wanted a fresh cup of it. She ran a hand through her short, russet-colored hair—currently sporting a broad streak of deep maroon—and failed to fully suppress a yawn.

Tapping on the glowing icon, Sabrina waited as it restored itself to a standard-sized chat window. Several people had tried to get her attention while she had been working. Most of them she did not want to talk to right now. She was surprised, however, to see that one of the notifications belonged to Samantha.

It was not that she never chatted with Samantha. Since her friend’s business had grown, and she had taken on more and more new clients, it was rare to hear from her during the day. They tended to talk more at night, when their respective family obligations allowed for it. It had been several months since she had consulted with Samantha on a professional basis.

A tight knot formed in her gut when she read Samantha’s message:

SENDING YOU SOMETHING. NEED TO TALK ASAP.

Sabrina glanced at the ancient mariner’s clock mounted into the bulkhead. It read less than two minutes before the hour.

She must have a client right now.

Sabrina resisted the urge to answer anyway. While Samantha was did not always begin her sessions promptly, she did try to be on time. She was not going to be the potential source of her tardiness this time.

Frowning at the short, and fairly cryptic, message, Sabrina brought up her e-mail program. She manually instructed it to check for new messages and waited for any to appear. At first, she thought none were forthcoming, that perhaps Sam’s client had called before she could send it, and then four appeared in her inbox. The second one was from Samantha.

Sabrina opened it, noting that it held an attachment. She saw then who the original sender had been, and, of course, had recognized the name instantly. Something stirred within her as she opened the attached file. It then turned cold, as if someone had plunged an icicle into her belly.

Fuck.

And then, as thought and memories returned.

Finally.

#

He stares at the computer screen. His hands still rest lightly upon the keyboard. He has done what he had promised to do. The warning has been sent. Now, it was up to them to decide to stop him—or decide whether or not he should be stopped. He had finally reconciled himself to the understanding that what he wanted was not justice, except perhaps on a very personal, limited scale. It was revenge.

Tapping on an unremarkable icon, just one among many neatly aligned across his virtual desktop, he brings up the list of names once again. He studies them, reliving for an instant the crimes and sins that each of them had committed against him. Very little of the pain and anger has been dulled with time and repetition. If anything, the wounds feel fresh again each time he revisits them.

From the list, he selects a single name. And then he begins to write.

Emerald Flight: “Star Wing” (continued)

Rusty strode onto the bridge, humming tunelessly. Ahead of him, he guided a cart laden with a portable toolkit and several containers of neatly sorted spare parts. Someone had reported intermittent outages of the bridge's primary life support controls. While they did not seem to be interfering with the normal functioning of those systems, it would make it difficult to adjust the environmental controls, should the need arise.

It was hardly an immediately critical repair. Nor, he suspected, as it likely to be a particularly difficult one. He could have assigned any of a half dozen of the engineering techs familiar with those systems to diagnose the problem and make the necessary repairs. In fact, he already had a pretty good idea what the trouble was. If he was right, then almost anyone on the Engineering staff would have been capable to doing the job.

Still, he had decided to tackle it himself. There were only two places on the ship where he could find out what was going on: the bridge and Cargo One. And he had had enough of the latter for a while. It was not as though he needed a reason to visit the bridge, but having a legitimate task to perform did tend to eliminate (or at least reduce) suspicions that he might be there to eavesdrop on the ship's operations.

As he passed behind the helm station, Pyrafox turned in his chair to look at him. Rusty paused, giving the cart a light tug to stop its forward motion.

“It is tea time, Guv'ner?”

The shape of the vulpine lieutenant's jaw gave the phrase an even coarser, almost incomprehensible, Cockney accent. Rusty still managed to parse it, though. He opened his mouth, prepared with a snappy retort, and then stopped. He now recognized at a conscious level why something had seemed bit off when he had entered the bridge.

“Where is everyone?”

He surveyed the bridge stations again, seeing Owens at the Tactical station instead of Hawkes, and the command deck locked down and vacant. Elizabeth, also, was nowhere to be seen. He performed a quick mental check, and then flipped his wrist around so that he could see his chronometer. It was, as he had thought, not even mid-shift. Everyone should have been at their posts.

Rusty checked his memory again, but certain that he was not missing some kind of briefing he should be attending.

Lizzie would have blipped me . . .

Pyrafox nodded toward the main hatch. “Main Security,” he told the Chief Engineer. “The Lieutenant is 'interviewing' the alien.”

Although there were more than enough lieutenant-grade officers to go around, Rusty knew precisely who the navigator referred to. Almost without exception, only the Tactical Officer was generally referred to by the ship's crew, with the clearly audible initial capital letter, by his rank alone.

“That Old Fossil is putting the screws to her, is he?” he mused, not really expecting an answer. Nor did he anticipate the sudden tight knot in his gut at the thought of magnificent winged creature being subjected to the Tactical Officer's none-too-subtle interrogations.

He turned toward the main hatch, wondering whether he should wander down through the corridors in that direction. The repair of the life support controls could wait, or he could call someone else up here to repair them.

Rusty considered this for a moment.

The Captain'd probably be none too pleased if I showed up. Certainly the Fossil won't be.

Leaving the cart behind, he ambled over toward the Tactical station.

“Hey, Manuel,” he called out with deliberate casualness, his eyes were on the main bridge displays. “Is there a live feed into Main Security?”

Owens checked the console. “They're recording,” he reported. “But the Lieutenant has the external feed locked down.”

Rusty's mouth moved with mild annoyance.

“Aren't you sure you can't override it? Just for a minute?” he asked sweetly, giving Owens his best charming smile. “I just want to a quick peek.”

The young officer met his gaze for only a moment before looking away awkwardly, turning his eyes back down toward the console.

“I really shouldn't, sir.”

Rusty almost smiled as he heard the faint tremor of uncertainty in the young officer's tone.

“Just for a second, Manuel,” Rusty pleaded. “I just want to see what they're doing to her in there.”

He paused, surprised at how he voice seemed to catch slightly near the end there.

“Sir,” Owens replied, almost pleading himself. “I really can't.” He glanced around the bridge and his voice dropped to almost a whisper. “If the Lieutenant found out . . .”

Rusty's eyes briefly studied the young officer's rank insignia, but then decided to let it go. Although the young man also wore lieutenant's bars, Hawkes was still more senior, even if of the same rank.

What is it about that, anyway? Rusty wondered, not for the first time. The man's got at least as many hours in space as I do. Although once again intrigued by the apparent mystery, he dismissed it from his thoughts as irrelevant for now.

He frowned, staring at the Tactical console, then at the main bridge displays. None of them showed him what he wanted to see. What he really wanted, he knew, was to be down there in the interrogation room making sure that Hawkes did not—

“Chief?” Owens' urgent tone penetrated his thoughts.

Rusty looked toward the young officer. Owens answered Rusty's look before he could speak.

“You're needed at the junction panel on Deck Four Section Eighteen Beta,” he reported. “There's been some kind of overload.”

Rusty nodded his acknowledgment, frowning.

I should have seen that coming . . .

“Tell them I'm on my way,” he said, already moving toward the hatch.

As he stepped into the corridor, he wondered if there were any routes to Section Eighteen Beta that might take him past the Main Security deck.