In the beginning...

This is something I have been working on for years.  It's in a third rewrite and it still isn't finished, not all the way.  I keep coming back to it, cuz I wanna find out what happens.  I intend to sort it out and wrap it up this draft, but when I go back to work it will probably get shelved, again.  But. we'll see.

Comments and suggestions are always welcome. ;->

A.D.

Eureka

     He paused.
     ‘Hesitation…’ he wondered over it.
     For a second, two… forty?  He paused. 
    She was so small, sweet.  Pink and yellow flowers tucked under her chin.  A battered stuffed dog and plush, gray dolphin standing watch at either end of the pillow.  Books neatly stacked on the bedside table.  Horses and wolves and inspirational quotes hovering over her head.  Dark, thick hair cascading over the pink pillow.  So calm and completely trusting.  His heart jumped.  A strange, pervasive, invasive sensation seethed into to him, and he paused.
    Fear bit into his brain.  He felt an odd, cold twisting deep in his bowels.
    From the cold snap erupted a super heated column of anger that carried him forward, moved the hand to gather a fist of hair and haul her out of the bed.
     Silently she thudded to the floor at his feet.
     “Good tits," the ghost voices leered.  “Job’s got its perks.”
     Beyond the angelic face, she was a nice, nubile package.  He gathered a solid choke hold on the over sized MIT shirt and hauled the limp body up.
    She came up faster than he expected, pushing hard with her feet, leading with her head, catching him off balance.  He took it on the chin, teeth clicking, tasting blood.  He reacted on impulse, gun smashing the side of her head.  As she collapsed at his feet the flames of anger lashed at him.  “If she’s dead…”  He dragged the limp body across the room, along the hallway, and down the stairs.
    “Look, what you’ve brought us too.”  He flung the girl down in front of her farther.
    The big, brave man groaned and slithered in his cooling, darkening puddle of blood, sweat, and tears.
     “She’s not supposed to be here this weekend.  Didn’t think I knew?”  He strolled over and placed a sharp kick to an already shattered knee, toed crushed ribs.  Circled twice, prodding the most painful injuries.  ‘Punctured lung’, he appraised the harsh, airy wheezing.  Colonel Nathan Kirkland was an honest man.  The appearance of tough was deeper than skin.  Shock was shutting him down.  Something stronger than personal pain was needed.
     And there was the daughter.
     He squatted over her, coiling tightly.  Muscle and bone primed by focused will. The steady, slight movement of fresh, new breast distracted him.  A lingering finger of fear tickled in his head.  He felt her presence in a deep soft spot and it wasn’t good for that to mix into this cluster fuck.  “No, pops, you’ve got a choice.  Answer the questions or watch me screw this perfect, little ass.”  Staring into the deep green, tormented eyes he lifted the hem of her nightshirt with the barrel of the .38.  “And then I’ll have a long talk with her.”  His eyes dropped for suggestion and snagged on bight, bluish-green bikinis lace trimmed satin, smooth, snug.  Fingers twitched to stroke.
    “I don’t know.  I don’t…  I… hos… don’t…”
    And finally, he was convinced of the man's ignorance.
    But, watching the futile war the Colonel waged; driven by emotion to lunge, betrayed by the broken body.  The sight of the large, powerful man impotently thrashing and sobbing strengthened a tingle of tension.
    “Sorry, wrong answer.”  Desire ignited movement.  What the Colonel coughed up now would matter little in the proceedings.  Surging to his feet, he scooped up her limp body.  She should not have been there.  Her presence stirred turbulent currents of sensation.  Fear itched.  Throbbing need brushed it aside.
    “I… told you,” Colonel Kirkland grated through broken teeth and blood.  “Rafaelli… is…”
    He threw the girl over the back of the couch.  “Tsk, tsk, Nathan, I come to you with a matter of national security and you give me crazy, old academic, who just happens to be one of the five richest men in the world, and fraudulent Mafia rumors.”  She was still unconscious and he was torn.  The wheezing rasp in Kirkland’s chest urged speed.  The awakening beast of desire craved response.  “What is she… twelve?  Thirteen?”  He hovered, fingers twitching over satin.  “And Garett Chesterfield was just a family friend who handled all the business affairs.”
     “It’s… truth.”  Nathan Kirkland flopped and wheezed.
     “And Santa lives at the North Pole.  Come on Nathan, dish the dirt, just what are your in-laws really into?”
    “N… noth… nothing,” Kirkland panted, trying to lift himself off the rug with a dislocated and broken arm.
    His palm slid over satin, fingers seeking the hidden crevice and The Beast cried.  “Wrong answer, old man.”
    “No.”  The broken homunculus roared, gained shattered knees, and crumpled into a writhing, wheezing, mass.
    And waiting was answered.  There was a catch of breath and twitch of muscle in the slender, young body.  She was coming round.  The singular mesh of business and pleasure agitated the cold deep in his guts.
     “Wrong, wrong, all wrong...” the ghost voice babbled in his head.
     But Kirkland's panting moans and grunts boosted the soaring surges of tension and pleasure.  Anger tweaked The Beast.  The Beast cried desire and urge.  He was behind her, hand practiced on belt and pants.
    The remains of Colonel Kirkland growled and heaved and disintegrated into a wasted mass of disjointed bones and flesh.  The broken man whimpered, spiking sharp urgency, teasing desire.
     She moved.
     Gun and Hand crushed her to the couch.  His fingers tangled and tore satin.
     She squalled.  A long, shrill shriek that galvanized the bloody mess on the floor into another flopping heave.
     The agonized sound pierced his head with a sharp stabbing euphoria, and died quickly to choked, gurgling resistance.  He felt her willing an echo of her father’s stoic silence.  He lost to anger, focus driving to break her will…
     Nathan Kirkland, oblivious to the pain, and certain of death; crawled, inched, across the floor.  Blood stained the thick rug beneath him, the slime trail of an unnatural slug.  The shear and over arching instinct to protect drove him to worm his way closer, to drag himself up on broken legs, to stagger, lurch…
     He was slick with her blood and raging frustrated, oblivious to his surroundings, when the vile mass he’d made of Nathan Kirkland hit him with inhuman rage, jarring him back into time, knocking him to the floor.  He heaved the bloody mess off and put two rounds into what was left of Kirkland’s head.
     The little girl was staggering towards the door.  Jumped with the impulse of the chase he lunged after her.
     “Crawling after a girl with your dick hanging out like a dog,” the distant ghost of a voice jeered.
     He snagged her foot.  She hit the thick carpet with a heavy thud.  He hauled on her ankle.  She rolled catching him squarely in the nose with her free foot.  Anger gushed with his blood.  The Beast was free of leash and distraction had his head…
     He was deep in her, hands on her shoulders, staring into her eyes.  She answered his stare, steadily, and he realized he didn’t have her.  The calm, defiant, brown eyes mocked him.  Her queer detachment quelled desire, quenched his rage in a heavy drift of dread. 
     “It’s all wrong,” a clear voice pronounced.  “Clean it up.”
     Hands closed on her slender neck.
     And she smiled.  Her eyes focused.
     His mind snapped.  All he could see and feel and taste was to strangle that victorious acceptance.  To erase the oddity and failure of the moment.
     Her hands surprised him, raking his eyes, grinding his broken nose.
     He sprang back hurt and confused.
     Her foot sank into his groin, shoving him back on his ass.  She used his mass for advantage, pushing off him and lurching to her feet, running away...


Portland

I

     It all started in her eyes.  ‘Puppy dog, bedroom,’ dark, deep, her eyes fascinated him.  The girl with the come hither look.  He gazed into her eyes and saw the flash point, the gas station...  Her eyes on the security tape, her smile as she handed bills to the clerk...  Why had they stayed so fixed in his memory?
     His mother's face, his sister's coffin, Topper his German shepherd, his father's belt, Niagara falls, Lindsay's naked body, his father's pasty, dead face, Rain Whitecloud's eyes, Carver's sneer, Amy Finny's small body stuffed into a garbage can, Pearson's disapproving frown, camera's and flashes, the smooth blonde man with the even white teeth, Carver's limp body, microphones shoved in his face, her eyes staring at him form the photos spread on his desk...  Few were the images he could recall so vividly.  Those images flashed through his mind in the park.  Not his whole life, just images strobing through the seconds that he had waited for the bullet, the knife, the final blow…
     Images, a snippet of light guitar, a steady beat, a deep mellow voice intoning...

 'Won't you look my way once before you go

and my eyes will say what you ought to know...’

     There had been no bullet, no killing blow, only her eyes staring down into his.  ‘Where did the song come from?’  Daniel wondered.  He wasn't musically inclined, didn't even listen to the radio while driving.  But disjointed snippets of a song were stuck in his head.
     "AD?"
     She smiled.  "After Death," her dark eyes flashed.  "Ahead of Death--”
     "Angel of Death?"  Daniel interjected.
     "That's the romantic, noir, selection.  Angle of Death, Afraid of Death?"  She titled her head to the side and arched an eyebrow.  "Amanda Darling.”  She smiled sweetly.
     "And the correct answer is C none of the above."
     "Very perceptive.”
     "Do I get the prize?"
     She stared at the glowing end of her cigarette.  "Up for the quest?"
     The air was filled with a strong, cloying scent of burning cloves.
     "This is a quest?"  Daniel sipped his drink.
     "'Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.'"
     "Quotes now?"  He stared into his ice.  "'Security does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men experience it.  Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than exposure.'"  Daniel met her eyes.  "I thought that was a film cliche, that bit about professional killers spouting Bible verses and poetry."
     "Impressive, the whole thing right.  It's a philosophy."
     “Philosophy?  Does that make the killing easier?"  He studied her intently.
     "No.  For awhile it made the living bearable."  She stared back at him.  "The killing has always been easy."
     "Real rush, huh?"  He leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table.
     She leaned in close.  "Better than sex."
     "You haven't had good enough sex."
     "Ohh, cliche, touche.  Are them fighten words?  Think to led to the path of redemption with physical prowess?"
     "It can be a religious experience."
     "There are lots of religions in the world."  She leaned back and glanced at her watch. "There's free time.  Got condoms?  Have to keep it safe, right?"  She smiled wickedly as his jaw dropped.
     There was that moment of shear male reaction when he was all for the idea.  Reality hit hard and slapped sense into him.  "You can't be serious?"
     "Always serious."  She shifted in her chair.  "What's a matter not man enough for the follow through?"  Her hand slid up his leg.
     He jumped  "Whoa."  He tried not to twitch as she felt him up, glanced nervously around the dim bar.
     "Umm... it might be a religious experience."  She said softly.  "How about it Daniel?  Seem to be up for the proposition.  Want to walk on the wild side once?"  She laughed and leaned further, giving him a full view down the front of her shirt.  "Want to give it a try?"
     "Uhh.”  All mental activity crashed.  He had a difficult time sitting still and keeping a straight face.  He focused on the intricate blood red, Celtic, collar tattooed around her neck, saw the thin, faint line of white scar it covered.
     Reality stepped up to bat again and delivered a solid hit with a vivid image...  The big, clean cut, blond man, in the expensive, black suit stepping into his office...  Kane.  The NSA guy, with the long pep talk, about national pride and duty.  The short, that's sensitive information, talk about the professional, international terrorist and how Jackson Carver's killing was a crucial part of a plot against national security,   'And well, you don't need to know the whole story, just be a good American, do your job, and protect your ass.'  The man who exuded an air of hair trigger psychoses.  Kane gave him the creeps.
     "Yeah... that is a very attractive proposition.”  He grabbed her hand, breathed deeply.  “But why don't you tell me what's up with Kane?"
     "No fun."  She leaned back with her arms crossed, indulged a playfully protesting pout, before continuing.  "Once a major player, now, not.  Has trouble letting go."
     "And you used to play with him and now you don't.  What's up with that?"  It was a guess.  He had learned to trust hunches.
     "Like a less structured life style."
     ‘No I…”  The lack snagged in his thoughts, dredged the growing flow of half noted occurrence.  She had a pronoun problem.  ‘You’ came hard and ‘I’ was totally absent.  This one was Different, and different from the Different he had known so far.  His skin tingled from the subliminal stimulation that charged the air around her.  "Ahh, free agent, the only way to go.  So why doesn't tall, blond, and testosterone poisoned cut the apron strings."
     Her eyes lit up.  She laughed.  "Testosterone poisoned?  Like that."  She sipped her soda.  "Likes security."
     "And you just don't worry about that?
     She tilted her head and shot him a serious, speculative look.  "If it mattered, might worry you're wired."
     "Wired?  Me?"  He asked with a chiding tone.  "You can frisk me if you want."  He opened his jacket a bit.
     Her look was hungry, honest, and provocative.  She radiated the energy of her intent.  "Only if the feeling is mutual."  She laughed, low and musical and focused elsewhere.  "Have a fairly safe place in the food chain.  Select clientele, highly specialized services, satisfaction guaranteed."
     ‘The absent I,’ he noted and wondered if it was just a vocal habit.  “Sound business practices, I see."  He pulled himself back into the here and now.  "So Kane's cheesed off that you took the plunge and he didn't."
     "Mostly."
     "Mostly?  That implies something more.  You and Kane were... frisking each other?"
     Her laughter bubbled into the quiet bar.  "That's the natural conclusion.  The interruption of that conclusion may be part of the problem."
     "Conclusion interruptus can be a drag."
     "Yeah, well, His problem."
     He silently noted the emphasis  "Seems he’s trying to make it your problem."
     "Tries, there are reasons for the lack of success."
     "And that would be?"  Daniel prompted.
     She sighed.  "Guess it's not as obvious from outside perspective."  She straightened up in her chair and was all business.  "Kane's letting personal issues cloud professional judgment, can't do anything official, directly, trying publicity for a flanking maneuver."
     She dropped the pronouns as easy as breathing.
     "Where do I fit this scheme?" 
     "Gave him an opening.  Facing a murder charge that seems solid, Kane's betting on desperation, talent, natural tenacity, and faith in justice to crack the shell."
     "Talent?"  ‘Justice?’  Daniel’s thoughts snorted.  ‘He don’t know me very well.’  He found irony comforting.
     "Well yeah," she nodded in his direction. "Solved The Green Trail murders.  Had Carver nailed, flawless investigation.  Then the eyewitness disappears.  Would have arrested him, eventually"
     "I had no evidence."  Until they found the stash behind the fireplace and the closed off windowless nook at the back of Carver’s basement, behind the kiln... the large garbage can tucked between a deep stainless sink and the industrial stove...  Until they found Amy Finny's butchered body.  Daniel shivered…  Bone china...  Racks and stacks of it lining the neat hobby space...  Brightly colored flowers and birds blooming and flying over pure, simple, elegant lines… pitchers, cups, bowels…  The stunning intricacy of the jade dragon on the work bench, forever more half finished… roles of wire: gold, sliver, bronze… tray after tray of superbly etched Scrimshaw… the finely carved forest of bone animals… precious and semiprecious stones neatly arrayed in stacking bins… tools meticulously placed in drawers, on racks, finished products pinned to soft blue velvet, a single, delicately wrought, white eye of bone set with a slightly flawed tiger's eye that followed him… a single milky, blue tear drop, clutched in a tiny white hand...
     "Carver would have provided rope."
     "And someone else would be dead."
     "Motive enough to blow him away."  She said simply.
     "That's not my decision."
     "'That's not my department says Werner Von Braum.'" she said with a suggestion of a German accent.
     "Huh?"
     She shook her head.  "Ignore the little person behind the curtain."  She waved away the occurrence with a graceful hand.  "Once Carver was dead the case was supposed to drop.  Not liking the veiled suggestions… turning stones.”  She paused for a deep breath.  A searching look flashed on her face  “Transmit the picture, it pings, first a no match response.  It pings Kane.  Triggering a friendly visit from the sensitive information fairy."
     "What's the point?  I can't touch you."
     "That's where faith in justice kicks in.  Kane fans the media flames a bit and yer off on a crusade to preserve the good name."  She twirled the little, red straw from her Pepsi.  "Limelight is murder on a girl's complexion.  Killing an FBI agent is a tricky proposition."
     Inwardly he marveled at the verbal gymnastics she effortlessly preformed.  "So you're supposed to kill me?"
     "It's not necessary to the success of the plot."  She replied dryly.
     "So you're not going to kill me?"
     "Rather not."
     "Then why are you here?"  Now he was confused.
     "Heads up?"
     "So this is merely an informational meeting?"
     "Worth a try."  She shrugged.
     "What was worth a try?"
     "Common sense."
     "Common sense?"  Daniel nodded.  "How much did you get for Carver?"
     She shook her head.  "Good Samaritan gig."
     "Public service?"
     "A favor."
     "For who?"
     She smiled.  "That would be telling."
     "And you don't tell?"
     "Discreet is in the company mission statement."
     "Common sense is for me to turn my back and let you get away with murder?  Let my life and career vanish in a puff of vindictive smoke?"  His tone heated with a surprising spark of anger.
     "Not meant to be Lee Harvey."  She assured him.
     "I take some comfort from that."  He managed the spark.
     "Heartily sorry for the inconvenience."  She said slowly.  Looking him in the eye.
     She was sincere.
     "There’s no lasting damage to the career, matter of fact," her expression shaded to wicked mischief.  "This will probably open up some very interesting opportunities.  Keep an open mind."  She sobered.  "Life?  Not much happening there.  Not responsible for lack of focus."  A flick of fingers indicated that she was the nonresponsible party.
     "Lack of focus?"
     "Focus, lack of, yes.  Worked long and hard to get into the bureau and now finds it a bit stifling.  Too much X-Files."
     Her accuracy was stunning.  "Not enough if I believe you."
     "Haven't seen any little, green, cigarette smoking men."
     "Maybe you're just not looking hard enough."
     "Hey, truth hurts, but it's a good hurt."
     "You're talking to me about truth?"
     "Yes."
     "Tell me the truth then, what's your name?"
     She held his gaze steadily.  "The truth is, don't have one."
     He knew she was telling him the truth.  "There's truth in killing people for money?"
     "Truth is, it's a necessary service."
     "Necessary service?"
     "Think this didn't come from somewhere?  Think it sprang fully formed from an Immaculate Conception?”  Her voice shaded into southern tinged, gun-ho military tones.  “Truth is, it was created by the good 'ol US of A to meet a need, perform a specialized service, a very valuable commodity.  Truth is there are more where it came from."
     Daniel knew she was right.  He had to glance away from her intent stare.  "How can you do it?"  He hit the pronoun hard.
     She cocked her head, eyes glassy.  "I enjoy it."
     And that was a programmed response, if ever he had seen one.  ‘Not a good sign.’  He slumped back in his chair and studied her.  Medium height, slender, athletic, she was a Mary Ann, the cute, wholesome, perky, brunette.  He had been immediately attracted to her.  ‘That's why I remembered,’ he admitted to himself.
High forehead, big brown eyes, full lips, upturned nose she should have been talking about cooking or gardening, working out at the gym, knitting or, and this idea appealed too much for comfort, sex.  She looked more like a teacher, or nurse or secretary, than a professional killer.  He was still off balance with the disparity of appearance and person.
     Kane was a very efficient sensitive information fairy.  Daniel knew that she had murdered Jackson Carver.  He knew she was telling the truth.
     "Just forget it and ride out the propaganda hurricane."
     "Just keep my mouth shut and live with being branded a murder?"
     "Hey, not all bad," she shrugged.  "Compensation can be afforded.  There's marketable talent, someone will turn up with an offer soon."  She smiled.  "Just let it go."
     "And if I pursue the investigation."
     "Honestly?  It's a big world, lots of places to hide and strings to pull.  Digging’s just gonna make it deeper."
     "So I'm screwed if I do and screwed if I don't."
     "The choice is between a good screw or a bad screw."
     "Don't see anything good coming out of this."
     "Were talking about religious experiences."  She sighed with exaggeration.  "Depressed."
     He slumped further into his chair.  "You can't be held responsible for a preexisting condition, remember?"
     "Really lost it?"
     He gazed into her eyes and knew the sympathy was real.  She was talking as honestly as she could.  ‘How much have you lost?’  "I'm loosing something."  He confessed.  Wondering what would happen if he challenged her on the pronouns.  Would she shut down?  ‘Probably slip to another mode.’
     "Could see the ebbing all day."
     "You were watching me?"  He marveled at how she could nail the feeling with one word.
     "Had to know the competition, must confess a certain… admiration."  She leaned forward and fiddled with the napkin under her drink.
     "Admiration?"  He perked up despite the overtones of the situation.
     "Professional respect.  Hunter, natural detective, impressive record, the dossier intrigued."  She paused and squarely matched his gaze.  Shadows stirred in the black-brown of her eyes.  "Know yer not…  'Happy’."  She was circling the problem, working on it.
     And that made him wonder more.  "How?"  The dark stare sent a full-fledged shiver down his spine.
     She shrugged.  "Been… 'not happy', like that."
     Her empathy disturbed him.  "So what did you do to be ‘happy’?"
     "Embrace change."
     "Change is a pain in the ass."
     "It's all a state of mind."  She stared into the darkness.  "Pain is good for the soul."
     "You'd know?"
     "More than ya think."  She signaled the waitress for a refill, sat back, elbows on the arms of the chair, fingers steeped in front of her.
     ‘Retreat, barrier…’ half consciously he read the change of posture.  Noted the slang.  She was treading close to her limits.  "OK, you're the expert, what would you do?"
     "Want is the path to follow.  What do ya want?"  She asked watching him closely.
     "Not to wake up and have to deal with all the crap tomorrow."
     "Can swing that."
     He sat a little straighter as the implications swamped him with a wave of anxiety.  "That's not my final answer, Regis."
     "Interesting reaction to a simple statement."  She nodded thanks to the waitress.  She pointed at him to punctuate..  "Negative personality."  She pouted.
     He tagged the slight physical queues she used to blur the missing parts of speech. "I think the implication was clear."
     "One, implication was clear."  She sighed, leaned forward and sipped her soda..  "Not some two dimensional, media representation, there could be many implications and yet, immediately,” her hand flicked palm up towards him, slight of hand to cover the verbal lack, “the worst."
     The trick worked.  The subtle physical movements indicated her meaning on a sub-conscious level.  In a short conversation he might not have noticed the quirk.
     "Given your profession it is the obvious one."
     "Already established the nonprofessional capacity."
     "Well, no, I'm still unclear on that point."
     "Oh?  Sorry about that.  Not here in a professional capacity."
     "Does that rule out killing me for personal gain?"
     "Really anal."
     "It is my life we're talking about."
     "Whatever Daniel wants."
     He sighed.  "A stray thought does not a decision, make and that's not the way I meant it."
     "So easy to misunderstand things."
     "Exactly, that's why I'd like to iron out the question of personal gain."
     "Jeez, not going to kill you.  Is that a clear enough statement?"
     "That'll do, I guess."
     "Unless requested."  She was more than half-serious.
     "You had to throw that in?"
     "Many would consider it a comfort."
     "In this world I can believe that."
     She leaned forward and crossed her arms on the table.  Her voice softened.  "The world's not all bad."
     Daniel laughed.  "Wish I could remember the quote about devils and scripture."
     "'The devil can cite scripture for his purpose' Shakespeare.  What is it with the scripture?"
     "Did you swallow a book of quotations?"
     "Read a lot.  Was merely offering an opinion."                  
     "You, are going to lecture me about the good things in life?"
     Her eyes widened as she feigned shock.  "Lecture?  Never, not in style.  Just relating an observation."
     Daniel stared into his glass.  "It has been a very long day."  He had run the search on her picture at five that morning.  His motivation, oddly, more personal than professional.  ‘This is what you get for temptation,’ his over active thoughts told him.  He looked at his watch.  It was one fifteen, over twenty hours later.
     "Sometimes things happen fast."  She chewed on the straw.
     "So you hung out all day and watched me?  What were you going to do if I filed a report?"
     "Oh, the computer stuff is all tied up, everything thoroughly checked.  Playing close to the vest.  Had to wait till Kane, and company, packed in."
     "He's watching me too?"
     "No worries, there's a good balance in that dynamic.  Kane’s just bird doggin'."
     "I am so fucked."  Daniel softly defined his current situation.
     All because he had lost control.
     He had worked his ass off to solve a three-year string of violent killings.  He had done the profile, gone over the scenes.  Sat and stared at the mute eyes of the victims as their photos gathered on the board.  Interviewed and interrogated.
     The case was stagnant until they had a victim who got away.  Amy Finny identified his chief suspect, Jackson Wayne Carver.  They had a warrant for arrest.  In the twelve hours it took to track Carver down Amy disappeared.
     He had interrogated Jackson Carver, watched the distant gray eyes.  Daniel Knew Carver was the killer.
The physical evidence was slim and Carver was semi-respectable.  The forty-year-old, small business owner claimed he'd been out of town at his sister's house.  Ms Carver was out of the country and dear brother Jackson was tending her plants and collecting mail.  Neighbors reported seeing his car in the driveway.  The alibi was as flimsy as a single sheet of cheap toilet paper, but the lawyers held it together.
     And it had pissed him off...
     The smirk on Carver's smug, pug face as he walked out of the courtroom twitched his thoughts to blind rage.  He followed the balding insurance agent out onto the courthouse steps, grabbed a pudgy arm.  "You will get what's coming to you, Bastard."  He whispered in the killer's ear...
     He had whispered and no one had heard.  But the cameras had recorded his face, the way his fist raised, the threatening posture.
     The circus fed on Carver's shocked and vocal response.
     He had lost control.  For seven minutes, he had expressed his emotions with out thought.  Seven minutes had destroyed his life.
     First the news swarm, then the reprimand.
     The next morning the cleaning lady found Jackson Carver sitting in his comfy recliner with a single, small hole in the center of his forehead and his brains splattered all over the soft, supple leather.  The tape in the VCR would have been enough to convict him.  The stash behind the fake wall of the fireplace and the contents of the basement were horrific enough to keep the Green Trail killings in the tabloids for years.
     He was the chief suspect in Carver's murder.  Daniel was praying that his substantial alibi would work as well as Carver's had.  He was suspended.  He wasn't thrilled at the thought of jail, was still dealing with the idea of being a media item.  For so long his life had been steady and routine.  This sudden turn unnerved him.
     Kane gave him the creeps.
     He was sitting in a dimly lit bar with a professional killer.
     "I am so fucked."
     "Really not that bad.  Kane supplied information.  That's the end of the play.  Low level media control is well in hand."
     "Low level media control?"
     "Yeah, leaked a bit of  background: the upright youthful, citizen history, the awards, the accommodations, the Eagle Scout photo, the John Law saga.  Highlighted the standard, .38 caliber, service weapon vs. the sniper bullet that killed Carver, substantiated the alibi.  Quoted yer weapons eval, to enforce doubt of involvement."  She sat back.  "It's all cleaned up, just go with the flow."
     "Why?"
     "Timing sucked this time out.  Simple little favor blew up in a karmic cluster fuck.  Chance cross at that gas station."
     "What do I do about Kane?"
     "Hints to another party that there was a whiff of government involvement," the mischievous smile returned.  "A few choice photos of a shadowy NSA operative lurking about.  Kane's gonna be on the redeye to DC"
     "He won't come back?"
     "No."
     "So why accost me on a playground?"
     "Get so few chances to play."
     He rubbed his jaw.  "We were playing?"
     She smiled and nodded.  "Was havin fun, no?"
     Daniel considered the fading adrenaline rush.  He felt excited, restless.  "It was an intense experience."
     She shifted, stared over his shoulder, looked into his eyes, and glanced quickly away.  "Wanted to talk...  Couldn't very well knock on the door and ask to be invited in.  Tried reason first."
     "I wasn't expecting reason."
     "Expectations can be so disappointing."
     "And this is it?  This is the end of the incident?"
     "As end games go this is good."
     "I'm still on suspension."
     "That's not gonna last.  There will be a statement issued in the next couple of days.  This will all go away."
     "This will all go away and I'll be back at square one."  That thought was depressing.
     "Square one has lots of possibility."
     "Not many of them are attractive."
     "Why not?  What do ya want?"
     He thought and stared into the mystery of her eyes.  Brown, like straight Colombian coffee, deep, soft, sable, her eyes were ideal for staring.  She stared back and reality wrestled with restlessness.  "This is."  He said, mystified, and shocked that restlessness won.  "I mean...  I'm not sure what I want.  I...  I'm not sure of anything."
     The Green Trails investigation had been a distraction from his deepening dissatisfaction with his life, a renewal in his enthusiasm for investigation, his career.  Then the bureaucratic crap started rolling.  The territorial pissing contest had started before there was a collar to fight over.  Each jurisdiction jealously graded their little bits of tragedy.  Each ego stomped its ground.  ‘And the Bastard walked on a technicality.’
     This case had been different and difficult from the start.  He was worn thin.  Something had snapped.  Daniel was still dealing with the crisis, still watching what was left of his life shatter into tiny, sharp splinters.   He had reached the point of philosophically accepting the end of his career with the FBI, just as he had philosophically accepted the disintegration of his personal life years before.  He had spent the day considering options, and hadn't been able to think of too many.  Only one was at all appealing.  He was still evaluating.  "I meant that it's good to actually talk to somebody."
     "Understood."  She held his gaze.  "Not easy to relate."  She looked down at her glass.
     "And things have changed again."
     "Change is good."  She said softly still staring at the glass.
     "But now I can have the status quo back."
     "What do ya want?" she repeated with emphasis on the last word.
     "There's that question again."
     "Desire is an important thing."  She stared into her melting ice.
     "The most important thing?"
     "Not sure yet."
     "What about you?"  Reality wormed back into his head.
     "About what?"
     "You killed Carver."
     "Carver deserved killing."  She replied pronouncing each word clearly.
     "That's not for you to decide."
     "Didn't."
     "Who did?  Who do you work for?  How can I just let you walk away?"
     "Remember expectations and think about those questions.  Really want the answers?  Do… you really want to arrest… me?"
     That question went deeper than the obvious.
     He thought as he sipped the watery whisky.  The questioning, puzzle solving, part of him wanted to follow the mystery to the end.  The deeply buried, lonely, adolescent romantic wanted to follow her to the end.  Remembering the videotapes and souvenirs behind the fireplace he was glad that Jackson Carver was dead.  “I don't want to arrest,” Daniel leaned forward and looked her directly in the eye.  “You."  He breathed deep.
     The gaze lingered until she blinked.
     And the blank look that replaced it worried him.  "So now what?  I walk out of here and you fade away into the night?"  He sat back from the confrontational pose.
     She came back strong.  "Is that what Daniel wants?"
     The repetition of that phrasing tripped something in his thoughts.  He had no idea of what Daniel really wanted.
     Jogging back to his hotel room, packing, pretending to sleep, spending the morning cleaning out his office, dealing with the reporters, flying back to DC...
     He knew what he didn't want.  There was no motivation to move from his chair.  He leaned back and closed his eyes.  "I just want to go to the beach and forget it all."  It was the first thing that came to mind.
     "Doable."  She said cheerfully.  "Couple of calls.  Which one?"
     "Which one what?"
     "Which beach?  Caribbean?  Hawaii?  Greece?"
     "Ahh...  Is there something besides AD I can call you?"
     She gave him a measuring stare. A beat of blankness passed over her features.  "Artemis."
     "Artemis?"  ‘Goddess of the hunt?  It figures.’
     She nodded.
     "OK, Artemis.  What are you talking about?  What do you mean doable?"
     "Doable, pick a beach, couple of calls, and lazing in the sun no time.  If that's what Daniel wants"
     "I can't just walk away I've got responsibilities.  What if that's not what I want?"
     "Sometimes walking away is the best thing."  She said fixing him with a meaningful gaze.  "What responsibilities?"  She tilted her head  "Decision impaired much?" she asked sarcastically.
     "I am not decision impaired.  I'm also not sure what you're trying to say.  Are you bribing me?"
     "Again assuming the lowest possible motive.  No, it's not a bribe.  Think of it as compensation for incidental damages."
     "Why?"
     She stared over his shoulder eyes fixed on the door.  "There are reasons, there are resources.  The beach is easy, the least that can be done."
     "The least you can do."  He laughed.  "What about ah...  Borneo?"
     She shrugged.  "Is Borneo what ya want?"
     He chuckled softly and stared at the last little bits of ice in his drink.  "If Borneo is what I want.  Ah, but there is reality.  I have to wrap up the investigation and go back to D.C. for the chewing out."
     "Resources."  She repeated with emphasis.  "Vacation time, use it or loose it.  All nice, neat, and official."
     'Use it, or lose it,' Pearson's voice echoed in his mind.  The ASAC had been reminding him about the back logged leave.  Hinting that he needed a break.  He stared at her and she stared at the door.  "Resources?  Vacation, nice, neat, official?"  He asked slowly.  "The least you can do is Borneo, if that's what I want.  What's the most you can do?"
     "Ah, thinking, finally.  Was wondering how long it would take."  She shifted in her chair and looked into his eyes.  "Could change everything."  She said seriously.
     ‘Be careful what you ask for,’ the thought of her voice teased in his head.  The dark, sad, seriousness of her eyes suggested the warning.  He knew she was telling the truth.  "If that's what I want, and how would you do that?"
     Her eyes dropped to the cocktail napkin she had been absently shredding.  "Come away tonight."  She suggested glancing up at him.
     The raw desire in the glance threw him.  He blinked and closed his mouth.
     The guitar plucked up.  The slow, steady beat sounded in his head.  "I could come with you?  And we'd go to Borneo?"
                                                             ‘something yearns within to grow beyond infatuation...’
     He looked at the table afraid she would see the song in his eyes.
     She inhaled deeply and thought seriously for a moment.  "Could go to Borneo."  She was staring over his shoulder with a slight smile lifting the corners of her mouth.  "A few complications.  Have to clear things off the schedule.  But yeah, could go to Borneo, eventually."
     "Is this a date?"  ‘Eventually?’
     "Umm, date?  Sticky things, those.  Call it an outing?"
     "An outing?"
     "It'd be a change."
     "That it would be."  Daniel pondered and stared at his ice.  'An outing with Artemis?' or living through the next several days of his life?  "What kind of time frame are we looking at here?"
     "Semi-flexible, sliding scale."  She was completely serious.  "Whole deal open ended.  Bail whenever.  No harm no foul."
     "I know that this is a bit redundant, and I realize that this question demonstrates my overly negative nature…”
     "I... won't kill you."  She had to work for that.  The tide of desire shifted higher.
     "Obvious concerns out of the way."  He stared, into space, in her direction, into her eyes and his concerns wavered.  His gaze dropped to her hands and reality hit for distance.
     'She kills with those.'  His gaze leaped to her face.
     "Appearances are mistaken as often as expectations."  She said meeting his gaze levelly.
     "The moon is queen of illusions."  He agreed and breathed deep.
                                                                                                                   'If we try...'
     "Go."  She slid a fifty onto the table and was on her feet.
     "Where are we going?"  He asked as he slowly rose from his chair.
     "The car, hotel."
     She sprinted from the door and he winded himself catching up to her.  She added a burst of speed and left him in the dust.  She was waiting for him on the swings when he reached the playground.
     "Change is good."  She called to him as he pounded into the park.
     "I didn't know this gig came with calisthenics."
     "Easier after this."  She jumped off the swing, walked to the side of the park, and opened the passenger door of a compact rental.
     Daniel climbed in.  "There will be reporters at the hotel."
     "No worries, wild goose chase in progress."  She started the car.  "Pack light, have a Passport?"
     "Yes."
     "Gonna need it.  Local office will clean up."
     A few minuets late she pulled into the lot and parked in front of his room.  "Waiting is."  She lit one of the clove cigarettes.


II

     Artemis slowly smoked the clove and didn't worry about what she was doing, really didn't even think about it.
     She followed instinct, the feelings in gut and chest, the tingle at the back of her neck.  Spider sense, the steady hum of sound and sensation deep in the mind, the constant and acute awareness of surroundings that pulsed true in the center of Being.  It had kept her alive so far.
     She didn't waste time or energy questioning actions.  She acted.  When she wasn't acting, she watched.  She watched the parking area; ears tuned to the sounds of the street out the open window, eyes roaming from window to mirrors.  She inhaled the fragrant light clove, sank into the level of the surroundings, alert for change in the atmosphere.
     She wasn't tracking, planning.  The spider sense was a low comforting hum, there was nothing to engage active thought, nothing to manage.
     But the mind was never still…
     Soft nights on the Mediterranean...
     Long baking days in Oz...
     She leaned back and stared out at the damp, shimmery evening, cast an eye towards the sky.  It was a clear night, for Portland.  The almost full moon shone overhead.  There was only a light mist.  ‘Good night,’ she thought.  ‘Head to the Sound and dive’...
     Lost in the kelp forest...
     Looking for devil fish and otters...
     ‘Good night,’ she thought wistfully.  ‘If only...’
     The mind slid off to splash in the stream of consciousness...
     Lazy waving strands green, brown in the small circle of light.  Black pressing round…
     The mind slipped easily to the wild side.  Subconscious off on it's own pursuits.
     Fish running.
     Seals somersaulting lazily in the shadows.
     And a Shark, with green eyes, circling...
     Everything she was flinched from the image.  Conscious control buried the bulk of the iceberg.
The clove burned away.  Artemis stubbed out the butt and realized that she had no recall of smoking it.  She had lost the time of the burning.  The realization disturbed her.  She knew the lapses were occurring more frequently.  They were occurring on the job.  The only solid foundation she was sure of had cracked.  Things were leaking, sneaking in through the cracks.  Things that trailed thick slime, alien things.
     ‘Fear is the mind killer.’
     She shook off the mood and pulled the tiny laptop from behind the seat, fished the headset out, worked through the arrangements, lined up the transmissions quickly and methodically.  Then she hit the speed dial.
     "Ho Light."  Artemis said.
     "Ho Shadow.  What's the word?"
     "The word is…” She had to pause and consider, sorting through vague impressions and allowing the idea to build on it's own.  "Wonderful."  The incongruity of the fear and the summation did not connect.  The prior moments slid into long-term memory, waiting to be recalled and recounted in a mission report that would never be reported.
     "Wonderful?  Didn't think that was in your vocabulary."
     "Amazing what age teaches.  Scratch Portland, shuffle York and Rome."
     "Shuffle?  Problem?"
     "Change of plans."
     "Change?  You know that makes the PTM cranky."
     "'Caveat emptor’ all is copacetic."
     "In the moment."
     "How are the next few days?"
     "Once we do the shuffle there's Dresden and Athens."
     “Keep Friday to Tuesday open."
     "Want to pencil something in?"
     "Still ciphering on it.  Anything on Siberia?"
     "Nope."
     "In bound."
     "Want me to book a flight?"
     "Done did.  Be seeing you."



III

    Packing was easy.  Only what he needed or wanted.  He had one pair of jeans, three casual shirts, still in the bag from his sudden move earlier in the day.  The local office dumped him in a small flea trap on the edge of town.  To keep the press off, so they said.  He knew they wanted distance.  Physical proof of his fall from grace.
     He had three suits and three matching dress shirts and ties.  He folded a dress shirt and the pants from the black suit the others could stay.
     He pulled the small flight bag out of the closet, socks, underwear, everything necessary to his daily life was in that bag, or the shaving kit on the sink.  He packed the pants and dress shirt, threw in a tie.  He freshened up, changed into the jeans and a clean shirt, rolled up the running suit, stuffed it into a pocket and packed toiletries as he finished with them.  He slipped his dress shoes into an outer pocket and zipped it shut.
     He pulled on the black jacket and stared around the room.
     There was nothing personal on the computer, not even an e-mail account.  It weighed more than it's meaning at that moment.  The files and photos were archive material now.  He had his wallet, passport, and keys.  The only personal items left were a couple of books that he had already read and a stack of magazines.
Daniel stared around the room and bleakly reflected that his apartment in DC was just as sterile and vacant.  He debated a moment over his sidearm and badge before slipping them into the briefcase with the files.  He wanted their weight as much as he wanted the computer.  Daniel turned his back on the room, closing it all out of his mind behind the door.
     Artemis was busy with a small laptop when Daniel opened the door and tossed his bag into the back seat.  "Key."  He said holding up the key for the room and waving at the office.
     "Keep it.  Climb in."
     "But…”
     "Consider it the first step towards change."  She rolled her eyes over his hesitation.  "The USA can afford a $10.00 lost key charge, no checking out."
     "I just walk away?"
     "This is the moment."
     Daniel slid the key into his pocket and climbed into the car.  "'The road goes ever on.'"  He closed the door.
     Artemis closed down the computer and leaned over to set it on the floor of the back seat
     ‘Baby powder?’  Daniel wondered over the warm scent.  It wasn't what he’d expected to smell.  ‘And what did you expect?’ his thoughts questioned ‘Obsession, Passion, Musk,’ and answered.
     "'Down from the door where it began and I must follow it if I can.'"  She smiled as she started the car.  "It's a long drive."  She turned on the stereo and adjusted the volume.  "Get some sleep."
     Soft, mournful strings swelled from the speakers.
                                                                                         ‘I’ll be dreaming my dreams with you…’