Hi, Oleg!

When you get through this, please?  Let me know your thoughts?

Trisha



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Surely keen the blades of your mind abide as you turn
to the furnace again kindled as if with youths' furious light;
there is raiment now to craft, glittering and
joyfully alive!


Clothe yourself with unquenchable radiance
hands easy and heart light with tomorrows' promise;
know always confident feet that trod a path 
sure to your soul binding, always!

Greatly does graciousness wend you forward
seeker, with dear hearts beating in adieu
without regret joined as you face the new sun;
the way behind warmed with love and pleasures,
the way ahead forever calling.

Myriad unknowns cast no stain or shadow over
a brow smooth with sensual curiosity anon,
no wraith pursuing for ill-gotten gains;
your quest for tomorrows' bounty measures naught
to the scales of presumptuous peers
who languor bleary-eyed in alcoves of repose.

Not for you the comforts and ease of times'
demise; for your heart will always answer
to the waking cry of the peregrine instead of the farm's strutting a-doodle-doo!
Feed on wild hearts and harts,
quenching your mouth in undiscovered springs welling
the worthy repast to a new hero-in-training!
( Untitled entry, Rova's Journa, page 94l) 

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ChicagoI sat on an exquisite china blue and cream upholstered antique French settee that held perfect company with the astonishing and eclectic assortment of furnishings that filled my suite of rooms and sighed, looking at my new watch. It was almost one in the morning, and I was feeling a mixture of fatigue, jet lag, and sensorial overload. The room absolutely quiet, and though I was completely encapsulated in a huge building the air was neither oppressive nor noticeably artificial, a credit to the environmental engineers who had added their skills to the comprehensive design of this suite. Slipping my boots off, followed quickly with my suit I padded across the thick pure white sculpted carpeting in the front room nude but for silk stockings, leaving my clothes laying across the back of the settee. I wanted to explore.

Past the twelve-foot high double doors that led into the front room from the hall that led both to Deirdre's guest apartment and offices lay a rectangular room of some thirty by seventy feet taking up a corner of the Hancock Building's 85th floor. It was glass on two sides, giving a breathtaking view of the skyline and the lake to the North, and East. A semi-circular sweep of teak parquet flooring buffered the transition into the room, its' rich deep gleam testament to how few pair of soiled footwear had ever passed through. There was a beautiful antique English grandfather clock that stood like a sentinel just inside the doors to the left, the settee and small table near by; a coat stand opposing it already holding my borrowed leather trench next to a polished Federalist-period maple bench where one would remove outerwear and boots. A diamond-dust thick beveled mirror in a sandstone frame was above the bench. A full bar followed, it looking like it was taken from a Dodge City saloon, all mahogany and brass, glossy from generations of waxing and polishing, complete with five nail-head leather topped swivel stools mounted within reach of the brass toe-rod. A six-foot wide heavy pine plank boundary floor separated it from the expanse of carpeting and likely kept spills and stains to a minimum. There were brass oil lamp sconces on each side, and another pair with wide nickel-plated shades above it.

With its' back to the bar and well on the carpeting was a ten foot by ten foot midnight blue tuck-and-roll leather sofa elbow finished in brass nails that rested on deeply carved oak lions' heads, with six gold Chinese silk iris brocade throw pillows with heavy tassels on each corner scattered over it. Florentine marble saints held up a heavy beveled plate of glass of some three by eight feet, a coffee table if it could be called such, with an inlaid marble chess board holding Italian brass playing pieces waiting near the corner that held the corner of the sofa. A pair of free-form burl wood end tables held matching Tiffany lamps on each end of the sofa, with discreet drawers under their tops that were empty.

The wall adjacent to the bar carried a new-looking cerulean blue-and-white brocade tapestry that depicted scenes straight from The Rape of the Sabine Women, a spread of thick fabric at least twenty feet wide and floor-to-ceiling.

A pair of forest green, deep wing-backed arm chairs waited opposite the coffee table, each with its' own floor lamp that may as well have been designed by Timo Sarpaneva in the 60's, and matching ottoman upholstered in raw linen. The eight-foot desk in the far corner was a flight of baroque excess, exquisitely carved and completely covered in flawless gold leaf, and I couldn't help but wonder if a castle or museum was wondering where it had gone: there were cherubs and angels chasing each other across and around it, and the top was polished rose wood. A completely contemporary digital cordless phone center was on that surface, as well as a seventeen-inch laptop already connected to the internet with a fiber-optic line. The top drawer held two Mont Blanc pens, a pair of inkwells and some bond paper and envelopes, the remaining drawers containing only a phone book and some wrapped blank discs and cd's.

Some ten feet along the wall behind the desk was another pair of thick double doors, these sliding noiselessly into pockets in the walls.

The room within was glass on the right, covered with sheers and teal velvet drapes that were open to the night view. The remaining three walls were paneled in ship-lapped four-inch oak, with curving post-and-beam construction that gave me the feeling of being on a fabulous cutter from the days of sail, but this was pure fantasy. The white tin ceiling held simple alabaster shades, giving everything a warm, diffused light. The furniture was intimate, a matching set from the Arts&Crafts period, with a long side butler and hutch and a comfortable table with six chairs. The closest wall had two glass curio cabinets that held porcelains and pottery and bronzes that ranged from India to Meso-America to Greece to Peru, all perfect in condition. The far wall held full bookshelves, and the authors and titles made the hard-bound collection sure it was someone's pet project: there were works by and about Kant and Camus, Cromwell and Kafka, histories and biographies, collections of prose and poetry from the Age of Romance to Thoreau, there were tales of exploration from the poles, as well as to the moon! I couldn't help smiling, because one could pass many a long week delighting in the escape that awaited. . .

The hutch and butler held everything needed in matching linens and tableware, and a borderless door between them opened onto a tiny but gleaming stainless steel and white tile little kitchen. The built-in refrigerator was stocked with cheeses, fruit, breads and cold cuts, the freezer on the bottom holding a half-dozen steaks. There was a cappuccino machine, a sparkling percolator, a red enameled tea pot, and a small wine rack that held sixteen bottles of wine, ten of which were reds either from Spain or Italy all on a granite counter that ran the left side of the room, leading to a double sink. Next to it was a small stainless steel stove with two gas burners and a grill atop a convection oven. The narrow and tall little pantry held pasta, condiments, glass crocks of bulk teas, crackers, coffee beans and more. There was a dumbwaiter on the left wall, as well as an intercom with labeled buttons that read "FRONT DESK," "OFFICE", "HOUSEKEEPING," "KITCHEN" and "PRIVATE." I looked at the door carefully, and saw that the little room was also a goblin-proof safe room! The internal hinges gave it away.

Going back out into the living room, I turned right and opened the authentic-looking ship's door and entered my bedroom.

It was a filigreed fantasy of the High Renaissance! The bed was enormous, with pierced and carved posts at each corner that reached almost to the ceiling, taking corners of watered silk sheers of honey and pearl. The cover was cream-colored leather, with the cotton sheets showing snowy borders of Spanish tatting that dripped to the floor of clear polished granite. An ivory inlaid cedar chest was at the foot, holding a complete change of bedding and an extra blanket of the softest sapphire wool, as well as two extra pillows. A huge armoire stood to the left, against a wall of Carerra marble tile. It held my clothes, already unpacked and apparently cleaned , so I went to the matching highboy and chest of drawers opposite it next. Everything was there, perfectly clean and in sensible order. The floor was gently warm to my bare feet, indicating a radiant heating system that would be unobtrusive, as I'd seen no obvious signs of the air conditioning system.

By the left-hand side of the bed was a carved cabinet that contained a compact cd system and a shelf that held about 50 titles, some of them familiar, and all female artists. A phone was on top, just a satellite handset to the phone in the front room.

In the middle of the left wall was a marble fireplace that may just have well been from Venice, with a tidy and ample stack of clear fir and maple. A hammered-copper pail held resinous pine heartwood kindling next to elegant iron fire tools. I noticed an inconspicuous touch-pad that controlled the flue, the gas burner to start the fire, and the circulating fan by the right side of the brass grate, and smiled at the way such a luxury had been integrated into the high-rise building.

Further to the right was the door to the bathroom, and I steadied myself on the marble jamb as I looked inside. The entire space was as large as our living room back home, with a wonderful oval jacuzzi tup on a raised platform that was centered in front of a window that looked out over the city directly in front of me. To the right of the tub was an oval, freestanding Finnish sauna, as evidenced by the brass label screwed into the spruce sill above the door. The walls were mostly floor-to-ceiling mirrors! To the left of the tub was an enclosure of translucent glass block that contained three showerheads and controls, the floor of the shower done in a replica of a sea serpent from Pompeii, the thousands of tiny tiles holding brilliant colors. Outside of the glass block, a completely modern toilet and bidet were given privacy with a curving sweep of more glass block. Back to the tub, I looked to my left and saw an arched entrance to a large free-standing copper sink-and-pedestal with a petrified redwood counter, complete with make-up mirrors and a satin padded wrought iron stool.

My spare assortment of toiletries and cosmetics was already laid out.

I was dazed.

I found my way back to the little kitchen and brewed a pot of chamomile tea, taking the tea and a Russian glass mug in its' cloisonne holder out to the front room on a simple pine tray found under the counter, some to escape the layers I had traversed, some to simply stretch out in the large room and try and get comfortable.

The clock chimed once: it was one-thirty in the morning. I sipped tea, letting my eyes become unfocused. . .

It had been different to leave Park County in a limousine!

The ride to the airport took just under an hour, and when we pulled up to the charter gate and were simply waved through I knew a sense of a page turning somewhere in my soul. Deirdre was quiet the entire time, finding a PDA with a wireless internet connection waiting on the small folding table when we entered. She immediately settled in and worked off the little device the whole time, the only sound an occasional passing smile or chuckle as she probably got caught up on business that been held for her the week past, or the sound of her writing with the scribe. I was content for the space to unwind, and after two failed attempts to reach my love on the phone, I resigned myself to simply letting go and enjoying the ride. We were handed out by the driver, a quiet but cheerful man in his thirties, and he brought our luggage straight to the waiting jet on a cart.

The jet.

I had never even been this close to a Citation before much less any corporate jet, and reading the flowing lettering by the door, I saw it was a CJ1, delivered to the leasing company in 2001. There was a yard-long, narrow hump that marred the perfect line of the top of the fuselage, likely an antenna array of some sort. The interior was small but hardly cramped, as there were only a pair of platinum-colored deep leather swivel seats that faced each other along the right side separated by a folding table, with a 6 foot long narrow cabinet on the other side. An attractive, efficient, petite young stewardess with the infinitely deep Delft-blue eyes and cornflower-blonde hair of the Dutch took our coats and saw us belted in with a genuine smile, and then retreated to a seat by the toilet at the back, her head bowed to accommodate the low ceiling of about four-foot ten inches.

We were almost immediately cleared for departure, and the jet felt like it was literally eager to return to the air. I almost believed I heard a fierce cry from the engines as we accelerated down the runway. We banked to the West, circling away from DIA's traffic pattern and climbing, we straightened out in an ENE direction into the newly-fallen evening. 

"Good evening. My name is David Halverston, your pilot. We'll be at our cruising altitude of 30,000 feet in about twenty minutes, en-route to Chicago's O'Hare airport at a speed of 325 knots. The forecast is for clear skies all the way; and we are due to land at about six pm Chicago time. Your stewardess' name is Alta, and she'll do whatever she can to make your flight pleasant and comfortable. Enjoy!"

The intercom had come on noiselessly, and sounded like I was listening to him in person. The noise from the engines was noticeable but neither loud nor intrusive. Alta came forward, and unfolded the top of the cabinet opposite us, pulling a plasma screen television up and rolling pleated wood doors from the front to display champagne on ice with flutes, and a tray of finger-food. She arranged the tray and flutes on the folding table and knelt aft of the cabinet, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Deirdre and I toasted each other just as the fasten seat-belt sign on the cockpit bulkhead chimed and turned off, so she came to her knees and we kissed, the taste of the Tattinger heady on her mouth. 

"To a wonderful adventure, my love! I hope with every fiber of my heart that you'll really find pleasure in my world!"

I couldn't help but smile at her earnestness.

"Do you travel like this often?"

She nodded, swallowing champagne and sneezing.; that sending even Alta to join us in warm laughter.

"Miss Alexander is a regular customer, Rose;" she said, fighting to recover at the wild look in Deirdre's eyes as the red head fought for calm and a measure of self-control - so to acerbate her trials I delightedly began to mime her expressions. That sent the three of us off again!

I saw her looking desperate, so I relented, and she recovered with only a pair of hiccups punctuating her return to a semblance of normalcy. Alta passed around delicacies that included black fin sushi, and smoked ham and brie, with a tiny cup of caviar and dry crackers.

Deirdre fastened a playfully black look on me "You know that makes twice! You better be sure you're up to being on the receiving end, girl!"

I calmly said, "Anywhere, anytime; you know that, right? I won't tempt fate, but. . ." I drained my flute and handed it to Alta who, sitting on her knees was looking at each of us with just her eyes, that playful smile present accentuating them.

She reached for the armrest of my seat, and pointed out the controls for the television built into it. I turned it on, and found a Denver television station.

The headlines were of a fire in a downtown high-rise.

Monica's building.

On-scene cameras were showing a mid-level floor with smoke billowing out of broken windows; spotlights from the live shots giving a surreal feeling to the tableau, and the ticker at the bottom of the screen reported that the fire was completely contained to the main filing area of a prestigious law firm on the 17th floor. Further, there was no prediction of when phone service would be restored to downtown as all circuits were completely jammed with traffic resulting from the fire.

I felt empty, flat, absorbing everything.

The public was being asked not to come into the area, and to refrain from using the telephone. There was only one reported victim of acute smoke inhalation, with thirty-one others having only minor injuries. A live shot swept over the emergency equipment at staging, and everyone was looking pretty relaxed. Five engines were there, as well as at least ten ambulances. Police were everywhere. . .

Deirdre handed me her phone. I got the same mechanical message. I called Rescue base, and got Wiley on the first ring. He took my number and promised me he'd call Incident Command to try and locate Monica. He told me that downtown was in complete gridlock, with no guess as to how many hours before anything would return to some degree of normalcy. I thanked him, and hung up.

Deirdre was white, shaking, staring at the flat screen.

The station was replaying tape from earlier in the day. Alarms had been recorded as going off at two thirty-five, with building sensors pinpointing the source immediately. The fire was being called 'suspicious in origin,' and the ticker stated FBI and ATF teams were being called in to assess the possibility of arson, due to begin the following morning. The tape showed a substantial crowd of several hundred being directed away from the building by police to a waiting area that already held a couple hundred. The numbers were hard to determine as the cameraman was on the street chasing a very tense young male reporter.

Deirdre's cell phone rang - and she started so badly she dropped it.

I got it. Wiley, reporting that IC was working with Monica to act as co-ordinator for her floor to take a head-count and verify that everyone with her company was accounted for. She had been in the foyer when the fire alarm went off. She was fine, and would get in touch with me when she was free - expect that either very late or tomorrow - she was fine.

I jumped when the red-head suddenly pointed at the screen.

"There! Look - she's standing across the street! That's her, I'm sure of it!"

The young reporter had made his way to the onlookers on the other side of the street, and there, calmly smoking a cigarette in the background, looking focused and laconic at the herd of mindless civilians around her - there she was.

I sighed, and laughed a little, the tension falling from me like steel plate that was protecting my heart from fear. 

"Yep. That's her.

"It does explain why I couldn't get in touch with her, though." I shook my head and laughed a little easier, taking a full champagne flute from Alta. "She'll have her hands full the rest of the night."

The engines changed pitch, softening, and the powerful little jet leveled. I turned off the television, and as her cue, Alta dimmed the cabin lights I turned my seat to face the window.. The night was absolutely beautiful, and I gave myself a moment to release all my thoughts into the darkness as I sipped champagne.

After a few minutes or so, I heard Deirdre's voice.

"You two are remarkable.

"You face events that would reduce anyone else to a primal ball of nerves and you are all but completely unruffled."

I focused again, seeing my face reflected in the plexiglass.

"Panic is a weapon; and like any adversary you have to counter it with your mind first, lest it strike the body deeply and create a wound of opportunity where a sly foe could find weakness and claim an advantage;" I said, the words coming of their own accord.

I swallowed, blinked my way back to the moment and turned to face her. The lighting went up more, Alta perfectly attentive. She took my flute and handed me in an easy reciprocal movement a mug of coffee. I exchanged smiles with her, and she went to her seat at the back of the plane.

Deirdre was looking at me with a puzzled look overlaying basic stress from the newscast.

"Dear girl, I guess I see much of life as a tactical exercise. I've been hurt, and badly, when I was without my focus, without my guard up to the challenges a given time or place tossed my way.

"Survival makes one appreciate life, and guard it very jealously!"

I yawned abruptly, and began simple breathing exercises to relax. Alta moved to my side, and with a heart-felt look had me touch a control on the chair. The wide back of my seat lay back completely, leaving me sitting on the edge of a lounger of platinum leather. Intuitively I went into the lotus position, and felt the slight woman kneel behind me, her hands moving my hair aside. I reached and shed my suit coat, and began unbuttoning my blouse.

Deirdre took both and folded them carefully on her seat, moving to sit in front of the cabinet, taking my coffee from the table and refilling her champagne flute. She opened the side and a small touch-pad appeared, which she worked briefly.

Beethoven's Symphony Number 3 began, the loved 'Allegro con brio' sweeping into the cabin, matching both the focus of the events and the absolutely unique, exotic platform of that tableau as Alta's hands began to seek out the muscles in my back and neck. . .

I surrendered to the hungry, powerful music, and thought; "That I am far into the dark sky, leaving all I have known, alone and yet completely trusting my life to anyone other than my love, I will be balanced and completely open, guileless, for there is so much to discover, so much to learn. . ."

Alta was skilled. She demonstrated technique and insight without being mechanical, and I remember feeling her reaction to the depth of my build as she adjusted to go deeper, like a competent chiropractor would.

She laughed quietly. "Miss Alexander, that's the first time I've ever worked to that particular music! Why that selection?"

I opened my eyes to see Deirdre abandoning herself to the ephemeral, open hands of the conductor beseeching the orchestra into 'Marcia funebre,' and our eyes met. Hers were so dilated as to have no color at all. . .

"Rose is very much like looking into a perfectly still lake in the mountains she loves so much: she has endured the fury and the glory of the wild places, and her depths are forever unknowable. To the visitor, she is only a reflection of her environment; while to the pilgrim she is a source of renewal.

"To any who have the will to stay, however, her mystery might be understood after generations of love."

Her voice was a whisper above the engines, her thoughts coming without the censorship of full consciousness.

I smiled, feeling Alta's curiosity deepen and then pass like a feather of a breeze. I drowsed, letting her indulge me, and the Citation arrowed through the night.

My thoughts went to Monica, and I found a sensation of focus and impatience - and her sending of caution. . .

I stretched, as "Adagio asai' opened, and the woman ceased her ministrations. Deirdre stood and headed for the lavatory, and I began dressing, sitting once more on the edge of my seat as Alta arched and took to her feet. She came to the table and looked me frankly in the eye, tossing a nod to the back of the cabin.

"You're different." Her eyebrows went up, and a quirky smile tugged at her mouth.

I shrugged back into my suit coat. "Thanks! Where did you study massage, anyway?"

The eyebrows went down and her look got a little cautious. "Be on your toes around that one, will you? She doesn't farm potatoes; she trades in art, in rare artifacts casually, a hobby."

In the fore of my mind a bar graph of alert went instantly to the top. I heard the door to the lavatory open, and fixed the woman with a calm clear look of understanding, and then I deliberately blinked slowly in acknowledgment.

She beamed, and said, "You wouldn't believe how many times I get asked that!" 

Deirdre sat down and cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

"The '5 mile-high Club' question."

She grinned. "Why that's such a big deal escapes me, really!"

Deirdre shrugged.

I fixed her with a look of calm reproach. "Sure, and you didn't think making love under the stars would be a big deal either, right?"

I think the red-head blushed clear down to her toes, while Alta fixed a determined glare on her and I almost got a case of not-so-innocent giggles.

With my seat back up, the Dutch woman pulled a bottom drawer from the cabinet and spread out small plates of spinach ravioli in clam sauce, and small bowels of spumoni, opening more champagne. I turned the plasma television on, looking for news.

The three of us ate, Alta sitting on the floor with a club soda, and we waited for updates to the fire. It had gone national, the major services picking it up, but everything was either hype or speculation or mindless repeats of the tapes we'd seen earlier.

Clearing the folding table and pouring fresh coffee, Alta picked a DVD from a binder, and we began the wonderful 'La Luna' concert, with Sarah Brightman.

The credits were rolling when David's voice came over the cabin speakers.

"We're cleared for landing in fifteen minutes. Alta, please secure the cabin."

The descent had passed unnoticed, but when I looked out the window I saw a completely foreign landscape below. I could no make sense of the glittering tracery of lights and the inky darkness of Lake Michigan as proof of the millions who inhabited that land; a hundred-fold times and more the entire population of Park County lay below the wings of the descending jet!

I saw the skies were crowded with other aircraft, and seeing the flaps on our winds stretch and open, I turned away to watch Deirdre. Warmth and simple happiness were in her eyes, and we both shared the bump and squeal of the landing with a smile, and I sighed.

"Where, in the midst of all these people do you feel like you have a home?" I wrinkled my nose as the ventilation system switched to ambient air: Chicago smelled of the lake and much thicker air!

She laughed, seemingly lighting up as the jet taxied to a stop and the engines wound down. Alta was opening the door. "Let me keep a few surprises, OK? For now, just think of home being a castle in the sky. . ."

Giving Alta a hug, which brought dimples to her cheek and a rising blush, I snagged my leather day pack and followed the red-head out and down the steps. I took a deep breath and got a little dizzy from the huge increase in oxygen. Looking around I saw that we were in front of a private hanger, and my guide to this strange land was already entering the office door at the side. Private aircraft, including executive helicopters were parked near by. It was incredibly noisy!

Through the thick glass door, I found Deirdre at a curved mahogany desk talking with an amicable, sunburnt man in his late 40's, with a neatly trimmed goatee and a denim shirt with a simple dark grey tie who was hanging up a phone. "We're cleared, whenever you're ready, Miss Alexander. Pad two. Mike will fly you over."

He nodded, seeing me. "Miss McAllister, pleased to meet you1 Everything's already been loaded, so if you're both ready?"

I looked at Deirdre, who grinned at me and nodded. "Let's go home, Jack!"

She hit the back door and the three of us walked through the brightly lit hangar and back out the far side, going past another pair of executive jets, past a flawless black Dodge Viper to three helipads. On one waited a white Agusta A109E Power, with the cockpit lights on and the side door open wide. Pad marker lights were on, and I could see one pilot running through pre-flight. Another man with wands stood beyond the nose, at the boundary of the pad, waiting.

We were handed in, an easy step, and the man from the desk smiled and secured the cabin door. Deirdre sat facing me, facing the front on the pair of bench seats upholstered in dark green leather. As we buckled in I heard the engines start with a whine of gas generators and turbines, but the soundproofing was remarkable!

I was beginning to feel overwhelmed, and it must've showed because the girl nudged my foot with hers and smiled. "Just a few minutes and we'll be home, I promise! What do you think of my way to escape traffic?"

My jaw must've dropped at least a little.

"This is your helicopter? My stars, girl; Monica and I must seem like hicks compared to you!"

She looked at me earnestly, just as the bird took to the air, hovered a moment, and then I felt the collective bite, the throttle winding up and we rose like some fantastic elevator into the night.

"I only bought it last year. It's become almost irreplaceable in my everyday work! I've already put something like 810 hours on it."

She saw my stare. "Rose, it's just a business tool, that's all."

I took a deep breath, looked for my center, calmed somewhat, threw her a game smile and looked out the window at the rapidly approaching skyline of Chicago. It was a fantasy of towers and lights that reflected against seemingly millions of panes of glass, with glowing streams of roads and traffic all against the backdrop of Lake Michigan. I shivered a little, wondering if anything grew wild down there beyond artificially manicured lawns and gardens. My breath caught again, and I coughed in the thick air, but I couldn't tear my gaze away from the developing panorama.

We were slowing, heading to an unmistakable landmark, one whose name even I knew:

The Hancock Building.

The twin transmission towers soared above us as the Agusta came in to land on the platform at their base with a precise poise that spoke volumes about the pilot. Three men appeared on the platform immediately, one opening the door, another holding crossed wands at the nose of the helicopter, the third pulling our three bags from the side of the fuselage.

The rotors were at idle, making a powerful blast as the door opened, and Deirdre and I hurried to the far side of the platform and down the steps to a waiting elevator. No sooner had we stepped inside than the helicopter again took to the air, and my breath was taken away at the sound!

Our bags were handed to us by a smiling man in his thirties in a blue jumpsuit with reflective tape at the arms, legs and shoulders, and the elevator doors closed.

In the sudden silence I looked reproachfully at the smiling face framed in wildly tousled hair. "You do this all the time, eh?"

"OK, no, I usually drive. That was my Viper in the hanger. I just couldn't resist, hon! It's a bit of a pain to get clearance to do that, but I really wanted this to be special!"

I threw her a dirty look and laughed. "After everything this evening, you felt like impressing me? That's been accomplished a hundred times over!" A thought came to mind, and I looked at her sharply as the elevator stopped and the doors opened.

"You couldn't feel a need to compensate somehow, could you?" I looked at the display at the top of the elevator. We were on the 87th floor! What seemed like an acre of pale ash marble floor spread out in front of me, with 25-foot high recreations of doric columns regularly spaced along the boundaries of the marble, rising to meet a guilt coffered beam ceiling. The walls were covered in frescoes in the style of the Quattra-cento; scenes of long-lost hillside villas and vineyards making me feel as if I were about to see a Tuscan Senator or something, anything in fact, but there was Helen, Deirdre's bodyguard in a crisp midnight blue serge suit and sensible pumps looking every bit the executive assistant!

Deirdre was running her fingers through her hair, and she stumbled as a foot stubbed against the luggage. She leaned against the doors and grinned. "Hardly! I just wanted to show off a little! Helen, it's good to be back!"

The blonde, her hair in a tight, if perfect braid walked forward and shook hands, a warm and courteous, professional smile matching the tone of her voice. "Miss Alexander, Miss McAllister, hello! I'm glad your trip was uneventful! I'll see to your luggage. You'll want to have dinner in two hours?"

"We will. There are a few errands to run first, though," Deirdre said.

"Certainly." The bodyguard turned to me and handed me what looked like a credit card. "Here's your card-key. It'll give you access to elevators that run to this floor as well as the garage, and your suite, two floors down."

I took it and saw only three black-and-gold lateral stripes on a white background. Ditto for the other side.

She smiled, catching my eye. "Don't lose it."

Deirdre took my elbow and steered me to a partitioned side door of heavy oak and produced her own card, with only one black stripe, I noticed, and passed it over the otherwise unremarkable glossy jamb immediately to the right of the curved brass handle, cast to the likeness of a swan's head-and-neck, and opened the door to her private rooms.

It was unmistakably her space.

The floor was impossibly thick midnight blue sculpted pile that led the eye onward, following a design that reminded me of Native patterns from the Pacific Northwest tribes. American Federalist period benches were along each side of the door, coat racks too and the girl took to one and shed her boots and socks, so figuring that this really wasn't a place one trudged 'round in anything but bare feet, my own boots and socks were abandoned immediately, and what a relief! I hung Monica's trench coat and my day pack and set off to stretch my feet.

It wasn't until then that I looked around:

The lush, barely cool carpeting was forgotten. There was a 12 foot-long refectory table surrounded by state-of-the-art ergonomic leather and carbon fiber chairs to my right, with the Chicago skyline a backdrop through windows that saw the traverse of one of the famous external beams. Ahead was a simply delicious and unapologetic powder blue raw silk sofa set easily 10 feet on the short end, the elbow much longer, with ottomans on each end and a modern solid marble black coffee table within reach. The walls were stark white, with Art Deco torcheries reaching towards the ceiling, their alabaster and onyx lifting my eye to a continuance of that coffered ceiling found in the lobby, this being simply lacquered oak, where the other was gold.

A spectacular crystal chandelier hung there, with a decidedly Russian feel to its' barely restrained passion, found in the strong yet almost playful sweep of its' layered support arms and graduated cascade of diminishing dimensions as it flowed down a full three feet and swept a radius of twice that in more of an oval shape.

Scattered along the symmetrical room's walls were oils with maritime scenes, including interpretations of whaling and fishing fleets, 19th century yacht races, and lighthouses operating against backdrops that had a scope of the seasons and the seas' unpredictable moods. A single elegant French door, with lace curtains behind the glass stood open on the far wall, with another to my left.

Deirdre arrowed straight ahead.

The French theme suggested was carried with complete abandon and delight! From a sideboard butler to the enormous hutch, to the dining table and matching chairs, all was guilt-and-white on a mirror-polished white marble floor. There was an even spacing of crystal sconce lamps around the room, with a matching chandelier, scaled down to the 20 by 40 foot room, and the lighting was complete, but not overpowering - shadows stood no chance whatsoever! Swaths of pastel silks framed boarders of thick crystal mirrors that reflected the glittering skyline views pouring in from the opposing wall, some of which must have lead to other rooms as they had the same swan's head handles. 

One was open, and I heard the sound of water running.

I can only describe the room as a cauldera of marble and brass and crystal. In the middle of the room was a sunken, oval riveted brass bathtub easily large enough for six, some four feet deep throughout. Flowering tropical plants were conquering each corner of the room, and their scent was heady and fresh. A pair of shoulder-high swans's heads were pouring water into the tub, with the red-head already stripped of her traveling clothes!

Alabaster and crystal sconces poured light upward, as well as radiated a softness to the almost glowing travertine marble tile that covered the walls, floor and ceiling.

The girl laughed at my obvious amazement. "Come on in, lover; the water's fine; and I want the night to last! After all, we have errands to run before dinner, so lets get the miles scrubbed off and unwind a little!"

I could only start undressing, still almost compulsively looking around, taking in the plate brass partition to the toilet and sink with a comfortable patina to the fixtures, the tall, freestanding mirror, and the racked towels.

Puzzled, I noticed a tile-fronted steel cabinet towards the front of the room, and, with an armful of clothes I asked; "What's this?"

"Just toss everything in! It's part of the CO2-based dry cleaning system I had installed; everything will be ready in about half an hour! Me, I want to dive in and get something fresh from the closet for tonight, but you're perfect! C'mon silly!"

The tub was within inches of being full, and the faucet stopped without Deirdre doing anything as I sat down and slid in, sighing. It was a perfect temperature, and we played like young otters, soaping down with glycerin soaps and enormous Greek sponges that emerged from rising cabinets that rose to a touch on the surrounding tiles. Soaps, shampoos, lotions and more all were arranged within, and when Deirdre stroked a finger down the neck of the right-hand swan, the water swirled out in minutes!

Lifting the head from the neck of the left-hand swan she produced a flexible shower-head, and we rinsed off to a tingling spray before getting out. A soft bell rang briefly from the direction of the cabinet, and I padded over to investigate.

All our clothes were within, neatly folded, with just a trace of warmth from being pressed. My suit was absolutely perfect, the fabric seemingly renewed and smelling crisp! There was no awareness of fragrance, just clean cloth. Even my old silk stockings were perfect, glistening softly in the light, their dusty blue hue even, the touch of them sending a shiver up my spine.

I got a reproving, if somewhat mischievous smile from Deirdre as I dressed; she heading with eagerness through a concealed door to the left. The steam from our extended bath had never been noticeable, nor had moisture even accumulated on any surface!

She called, "Katria does a wonderful job, don't you think?" My blouse unbuttoned but tucked in, my jacket over my arm I sought the girl out. 

She stood in front of a modest dresser, a floor-to-ceiling mirror the entire wall of the little room, with mirrored sliding doors behind her; one stood ajar. I nodded mutely. The girl had clothes - some 14 feet of hangar space, and all of it in use!

Grinning like a school girl, she snatched out a black crepe wool suit and creme blouse with french cuffs. I looked at her and sighed.

"Somehow, I feel like I should've expected something as amazing as all this; but," shaking my head wryly, "you are really a piece of work! I take it Katria is your maid?'

She was inspecting the contents of the walnut dresser critically, second drawer, third drawer, and back to the second, taking a pair of black tap pants and an ivory spaghetti-strapped camisole, and a pair of black thigh-high stockings.

I leaned against the doorjamb to watch the show. She was in here element, obviously, and the changes in her were getting less subtle by the moment! I could recognize a perspective of almost deliberateness to the pattern of her when she was a guest in the mountains; something I could not have measured with the baseline of the girl in her own environment. . .

"Yep," tap pants went on, with a lovely bend-and-stretch "she is meticulous, though a little withdrawn sometimes. She comes from the outskirts of a little town called MaalisMaa" tousling her hair and straightening the straps of her camisole, fingering tiny buttons, "in Northern Finland. I found her in Helsinki, a student at the big University there selling coffee on a street corner. I was there for a convention, and I brought her back with me!"

She was fascinating to watch in that set of mirrors. "Ah, the joys of new perspectives;" I thought.

Stockings went on in a flash, and I idly remarked, "You're an eyeful, you know that?"

Slacks went next, and zipping them up in back, I got an armful of fresh, warm girl. "Glad you're happy, baby. This must seem almost like Disneyland to you."

I held her a little closer for a moment and let go, looking her in the eye. "I've never been there; and I'm not sure I'd like it. I don't feel like I have much in common with gross commercialism as a resource for entertainment. I'd rather go for a hike back home!"

Slipping into her blouse, she looked a little worried. I stepped up and chucked her under the chin, catching her eyes fully. "Home is where the heart is, and I think I may know something about your heart. This, all this, as completely different as it is from my world, this is where you've chosen to build your home, to create most uniquely your own space. Because of what the three of us have shared, I can trust and love you; and that gives me something to hold as I learn."

She got very still, and her eyes dilated.

"You're speaking differently."

"Probably more than I'm aware." I grinned. "As my world changes and I function alone, so many varied inputs challenge me to achieve new concepts, build comprehensive pre-verbalized ideograms of perception that contain more subtlety. I work a little harder to communicate."

The girl was breathing a little more slowly, a little more deeply. . . She shook her head, grabbed me by the arm and snagged a pair of low black boots off a closet shelf as we headed for a different door and emerged into the front room.

"Lets go have some fun before dinner, then! I get to buy you a watch, remember?"

Taking our respective benches again, I noticed her new boots were gone, likely as not already in her closet, taken by the unseen Katria.

Slipping on Monica's leather trench I caught the scent of the forests and for a moment my breath caught. "I miss you, lover. . ." I whispered silently. The catch in my throat passed, and I stood with a cautious smile as Deirdre held the door open, unabashedly excited to take me out. I left my day pack, taking only my phone and checkbook, both going into familiar leather pockets.

The elevator wasn't too unlike the ones in Monica's building. We changed elevators on the 44th floor and continued down, emerging at the ground floor soon after and I grinned, looking around.

"You could tuck my home into one corner, you know?"

Deirdre dimpled and we passed the security desk in the residents-only lobby, making it to the street through revolving doors that acted like little air-locks.

And the sights and sounds and smells of Chicago at night hit me like a body blow!

A new black Cadillac Seville pulled up and we jumped in before the driver, a fit, grey-haired man who moved like a boxer had a chance to reach us.

"The Mallers Building, please;" DeeDee said.

We headed due South about two miles, past skyscrapers and through an overwhelming crush of traffic.

DeeDee winked at my bewilderment. "It's a company car, lover. It'll be at your disposal anytime!"

"I didn't see you ask for one!"

She grinned. "I have to specifically not request one whenever I hit the lobby."

I could only stare, blinking in amazement.

"It's the card-keys, OK? Your movement it picked up almost anywhere in the building as long as you keep it on you - elevators, stairwells, and so on."

I smiled; but looking back out he window, a little chill went through me. "It sounds like a prison. . ." I thought.

We arrived at a twenty-something story building that reminded me of a school of sorts, the kind of place seen in old sepia prints made after the turn to the century where everyone wore reserved school uniforms and horse-drawn carts and wagons still competed for space on the streets.

The gently vaulted lobby was warm with pale terra-cotta marble and gold-rimmed circular ivory-colored lamps set up high. People were still shopping and chatting; stores and shops were open, displaying a truly wondrous star-fall of sparkling wares. DeeDee took my elbow and led me to the second floor and down a hall to a plain door that bore the legend, "Stuyvestant & Sons, Watchmakers."

Opening the heavy pecan door I saw a hand-full of display cases standing on a teak parquet floor. A pleasant man about my age with wavy brown hair and piercing blue eyes, wearing a double-breasted grey suit came up to us.

"Miss Alexander, you're prompt as usual. You're looking well!" 

He took my hand and unselfconsciously kissed it. "You are the Miss McAllister she spoke of?"

I nodded, seeing a twinkle in DeeDee's eyes at my treatment.

"I am Theobold Stuyvestant! It is pleasure to make myself at your disposal to help you purchase a watch tonight."

We walked to the display cases.

Within each I could see lay some ten wristwatches, evenly divided into styles and sizes suitable for men, and women. Mr. Stuyvestant walked behind the displays and knelt down. I heard the sounds of keys, and a small lock opening.

He stood, holding a black velvet tray with three watches.

"These I selected, based on the criteria Miss Alexander listed for me when we spoke earlier: rugged, self-winding, nitrogen-purged and highly water resistant, and of uncommon style for a no-nonsense woman."

I think my eyes had widened a bit too far, as DeeDee nudged me in the ribs. "Remember, my treat, Rose; pick whatever one you like"

One caught my eye immediately, though I had never seen one made in a woman's size before, nor had I ever dreamed of it having cardinal diamonds on the rotating bezel.

It was Swiss, with a flawless indigo blue face, tritium gas markers instead of numbers, with all three hands also carrying tritium glass vials. The case looked to be titanium with a gold bezel; the gently tapering band a two-toned titanium-and-gold link that carried a clear influence to Art Deco, the clasp secure with a triple-lock. Quarter-carat yellow sapphires, bezel-set to protect them were inset into the top and bottom of each link, making a total of forty stones.

Speechless, I lifted it from the tray and slipped it on my wrist. There was an unaccustomed weight. I held my wrist into the full-spectrum lights in the ceiling and studied the watch. The bezel had a one-way mechanism that clicked clearly to every position I turned it, and the cardinal diamonds were smaller at the lower three stations, the North one a full carat also marked with a gas bead below it.

The total effect was one of a fusing of Art Deco jewlery and precision timekeeping and it worked perfectly to my eye.

To my ear, I could hear a symphony of precision - and I looked at the two of them and smiled.

"Tell me about this one?"

"The movement is a limited-production 21-jewel mechanism, guaranteed without qualification for life. The case and band are my design and manufacture, with the assembled watch having been certified in Switzerland as a Chronometer, accurate to 1/10 second a month over a +80 to -25 degree Celsius range without remarkable or substantive change, water resistant to a pressure testing equivalent to 600 meters of sea water. The tritium vials are warrantied for 12 years, with free lifetime replacement by either myself or the movement manufacturer, along with complete cleaning and re-certification.

"The crown screws in, and the crystal is a synthetic sapphire, all but impervious to damage of any kind. The bezel and case and band are guaranteed for life against breakage, including loss of any of the stones. To keep the movement operating, simply wear the watch - the internal pendulum has a clutch mechanism to prevent damage from over-winding; and it has a kinetic dampening design to prevent damage from the discharge of firearms up to .50 caliber in long arms."

He looked at me happily. "Miss McAllister, I am aware of your passion for firearms, and would only request that you not wear this watch if you intend to shoot anything heavier than .454 Casull in a handgun caliber, please?"

My eyes likely as wide as a child's I could only nod mutely.

He beamed.

DeeDee, completely un-noticed beside me all that time, calmly said, "I believe that's the one!"

I looked at her with a few tears of wonder and astonishment plain.

Mr. Stuyvestant said, "The deposit to your account cleared this afternoon, Miss Alexander. If you," turning to me, a single sheet of paper in his hands, "would sign this insurance form and receipt of ownership, our business will be concluded."

I signed, a little surprised at just how calmly, and he disappeared into the back momentarily, returning, handing me the copy which he signed.

He produced a small, flat box.

"If I may, with my compliments?"

I smiled and kissed him on the cheek, slipping the box and the paper into my coat pocket.

"It has been a pleasure, Sir. My prayer will be that you prosper!"

Arm-in-arm with DeeDee, we left and returned to the waiting car. 

Inside, heading back to the Hancock Center, DeeDee hugged me, and I cried a little with happiness, awed at the gift and maybe a little afraid as I was already thinking of it as my watch!

Turning on a small light, she took my wrist and removed the watch.

"Look at the inscription on the back, love."

I did, and wept in astonishment. The engraving was delicate but clear, the style reminding me of someone from decades before:

Westin Pass

"For a night spent without sleep; you kept watch over your Monica and me against any and all in the wild. Your heart, your training, your perfection.

"I could do no less than some token to say 'thank you' from my heart."

All I could do was smile; and we were handed to the sidewalk in front of that magnificent skyscraper.

"Ready for dinner? I'm starving!"

I nodded, walking to the elevators with her, thinking of a cup of green tea.

_________________________________________________

We emerged into her private lobby on the 87th floor, and catching my sweeping look again, she grinned, her teeth flashing.

"I was able to buy fully half of four floors, having structural engineers supervise the removal of the intervening floors for much of the space! I wanted high ceilings and my company had the means, so I did, writing off the cost to set design and development. It cost me a bundle, but we've won some impressive contracts as a result. I think I've recouped the cost some three times over already!"

I was staggered at the thought. Likely as not, the monies involved could've funded all of Park County for at least six months!

I shook my head and saw the girl had already headed through the left door, calling over shoulder; "Dinner is served!"

I walked into a temple, recreated to be sure, but the sight that greeted me was to the limits of my abilities to accept!

There, the towering doric columns stood like sentinels upon the continued expanse of marble floor in a rectangular room easily twenty by fifty feet, with pure white wool draped between them, the backdrop of frescoes teasing the mind and the eye to surrender to the illusion of being in the open air at twilight on some long-lost hilltop of a bygone Age.

An alabaster marble table stood precisely in the center, proportionate to the room where twenty could easily be seated on matching marble benches that held rich gold silk brocade cushions.

Looking up I saw a series of mother-of-pearl lamps cascading in rhythmic spirals from the coffered, gilded ceiling, the effect being of a back-lit cloud. Singly, such lamps were spaced around the room as sconces, too, at the sides of each pillar.

A slender woman, dressed in a white pant suit stood at the rear of the room, her wavy dark hair and wide, dark eyes and generous mouth something that tugged at my memory. Her hair was bound at the back, and she stood the same height as DeeDee as she saw us comfortably seated. 

"They must be nearly the same age," I thought; as I watched her disappear around a fool-the-eye corner at the back of the room.

I felt DeeDee's arm around my waist and we kissed. I saw her eyes sparkling, and dilate.

"Katria is definitely seen and seldom heard! I really don't know how I ever managed without her!"

The young woman emerged, carrying two porcelain platters that held grilled bass and salads of arugula and tangerines and fresh spinach and crumbles of feta cheese, with a small pyramid of green olives. Setting these before us, she disappeared to return with small, crusty loaves of black rye bread and butter.

Heavy sterling flatware and linen came next, with a silver flagon of white wine and cut crystal goblets.

I watched, fascinated. The young woman moved quickly, yet never appeared hurried. She possessed a quiet calm that spoke of much more than I could understand just then, but she smiled warmly, the table set, catching my eye.

"This is Rose McAllister, Katria. Katria, Rose."

The young woman inclined her head, her smile warming.

Impulsively I took her hand and held it. She didn't react, flinching, and that bespoke even more.

"It is a pleasure; and please, ask me for anything I may do for you without hesitation, at any time."

I got a wrinkled-nose smile that held a little hint of mischievousness at that offer to try and reciprocate.

"Then I will, Rose." She returned to the back of the room easily, and I saw DeeDee looking at me with amusement.

"Will you eat, already! If you didn't know, it's considered rude to start before one's guest. I'm hungry!"

I did, and we did. The food was absolutely superb, fresh, and with no inhibition in the preparation when it came to the use of fresh spices the wine was refilled before we were finished.

Katria cleared the table and returned with green tea and glazed pear slices on sweet shortcake still warm from the oven.

We managed every last crumb, and I gave in and lay back on the bench and sighed in absolute bliss. DeeDee giggled, stretching, and took my head in her lap.

Looking up at her I let my face show just how replete I was, and a curtain of her mane descended; and I was kissed on the nose!

"OK, please tell me you don't eat like this every day!" I yawned suddenly, and sat up. Sleep would be a necessity before too long. . .

The girl laughed merrily. "Hardly! This is a design for a client that was completed two weeks ago. That's why I was in Denver last year, silly! All this will be taken to his offices in that cash-register looking high-rise downtown by the end of the week.

"I just wanted to try it out!"

My shoulders slumped and I looked at her from under my eyebrows.

"So you do a complete build-out of a finalized design just to land a contract?" She nodded, dimpling. I shook my head.

"This is the epitome of 'build it and they will come,' you realize that, right?"

She winked. "I rarely lose, and I get to charge a fortune when they sign on the line!"

I yawned again, uncontrollably.

"So, you've just kept the build-outs from various clients when you came up with something you got attached to?"

She yawned, too, bobbing her head. "Absolutely. I bet you're gonna fall in love with your suite!

"Time for bed. I'll get you up if you sleep in too late. I have a deliciously fun day planned, so we'd better get all rested up!"

We stood and simultaneously yawned. DeeDee walked me to the elevator and kissed me good-night. I glanced back at the dining room and saw the marble table was already cleared.

>From behind DeeDee I saw Katria at the door, and her eyes widened suddenly just before she closed the room was lost to my view.

________________________________________________



The young woman stood, disoriented, and then quickly moved to her small adjacent apartment, locking the door.

"The power she carries! If there was no rumor or sign of her at the school, then I may have faded from view - but she is a beacon to a sensitive!"

She undressed rapidly and went to bed, simply letting her mind open without direction. The sensation was akin to floating, to drifting effortlessly in a quiet light that fulled the universe.

_________________________________________________

Katria's Story



I was born to a peasant's life on a small farm some seventy kilometers outside of the walls of Saint Petersburg, under the Hammer and Sickle of the old Soviet Union twenty-six years ago next Thursday.

I grew up a happy girl, barely aware of much of the nightmare of those times with my father, Pyotr and my mother Marika, happy to watch the sun rise on our well-tended gardens and sit for endless hours with our small flock of sheep.

My happiness ended the day the soldiers came and took me away one Spring morning when I was five, taking me by car across country for weary, long hours to a cold, drab school where I was endlessly tested, endlessly demanded to try harder to see people and places far away with a picture file in front of me. The food was bad, what there was; and I had no friends save Tommi, a boy a year older than I who arrived in the dark of a Winter night my first year naked except for a thin blanked and many bruises on his arms and face.

I was kept in that nameless, desolate place for eleven years, transferred twice to stay a week at another nameless place where I was kept underground, where echoes came and went ceaselessly as if the complex went on in many directions for a great distance. I was the charge of a hollow man who wore no uniform I had ever seen before or after, the only badge a single Party pin.

I learned to read space, to see those faces and places in Greenland and Iceland and Stockholm and Helsinki, and my teachers were very pleased; though I dared not displease them as several others there with me simply would not be present at the cafeteria the next meal, and word would travel among us that they had failed. 

In my room I let myself see Helsinki, see and sometimes even hear the people in their homes and businesses. It took years, but I taught myself some Finnish, and American English, and German and I learned to focus, to travel the roads out of Helsinki step-by-step to the place where I was kept. I dreamed of having a life of freedom, a life away.

I never let it be known I had developed the ability to hear the voices of the faces I was told to find, though I earned better rations for acuity in tracking the movements of those I was ordered to find and follow - even through buildings and tunnels.

I was relocated and given a perfunctory education, standard and stilted. Some of us were able to see the lies simply by going to the places and times to see and learn for ourselves! I saw my teachers as being very stupid. My achievements gave me a little privilege and I sought out books, any books, all books.

On my twenty-first birthday I was relocated again, to a formal, artificial place to be trained as a domestic woman to serve someone of wealth and materialism. I was tutored in the English of Great Britain, taught their history and given current newspapers to learn of their society. One morning, without ceremony, the hollow man came, wearing an impeccable dark blue suit from the West and told me; "Today you go to Stockholm to begin your assignment. To speak is to die. To try and escape is to die."

I was given a worn denim jacket and matching denim jeans and a bright yellow cotton sweater, black athletic shoes and plain white Western underwear and socks. I was handed a British passport, from Hong Kong, two hundred pounds in worn notes, a plastic, brightly-colored wristwatch and a small suitcase of black material that contained toiletries and books and other clothes.

I bathed with American soap for the first time in my life, marveling at how soft and clean I felt, dressed rapidly in my new clothes and I was transported to the Border after a thirty-one hour ride in a black German BMW coupe, the hollow man at the wheel then entire time. He removed his Party pin and threw it out the window just as the Guard and the checkpoints came into view.

The Guard were cold and suspicious. I felt afraid, as I had no way of proving who I was if I were held and interrogated for any reason, contrived or real.

Our passports were taken and examined - and we were passed through to the Finns. The procedure was repeated. The Finns used beautiful guard dogs that I recognized as black Belgian Shepherds, the animals checking the car thoroughly. I was even more afraid of the Finns for some reason, sensing two of them had killed drug smugglers a week earlier.

We were passed through, and when we were an hour past and well into Finland I tried something I had never risked before. It was a simple concept, but I didn't know if I was strong enough.

In my mind, I found the coast of Iceland. I found it as it was at that moment, and I made it real in my mind. I held it, overwhelmed with the icy seas - and I sought the mind of the hollow man, my keeper.

I found a loathsome pit of vileness and evil, a realm of sadism and cruelty. In an instant, I exchanged my awareness of the frozen, tortured seas with the hollow man's entire consciousness. The effort was violent, and I think I went mad for a time, falling unconscious as I forced the transplant.

I became conscious, aware of the engine of the car idling quietly, the motion down the road stopped. I looked at the hollow man and saw he was clutching at his chest. I touched him and he was as cold as ice. Dead.

I climbed into the back seat, not disturbing the doors, and flipped down the seat to the trunk space. There was a glowing handle, an emergency release to anyone locked inside the trunk. I pulled it and the compartment opened.

Standing in the flow of the exhaust pipe from the engine, I let my shoes and legs take the hot gasses for several minutes before taking my suitcase, walking in between the shallow tire tracks in the dirt road to an outcropping of rock. I swung the suitcase for momentum and jumped!

I made it! I took off my denim pants and put my hands into makeshift gloves at the bottoms of the legs, taking off my shoes. With hands-ful of wild grasses and plants I did not recognize, from the extent of my reach I scrubbed my shoes, wadding up the ruined plants inside the pants, taking one of the extra pair of jeans from the suitcase and dressing again, including my shoes.

At a stream I found close by, I filled the first pair of jeans with rocks and threw them into a deep pool, and I watched them sink quickly. I found a faint trail marked with animal droppings and followed it till nightfall.

In the failing light, I sent my mind into the night, the picture of how I had traveled to that place clear. I followed the trail in my mind, finding an isolated log home some 50 kilometers North and East directly by the trail where an elderly couple lived. In my mind I went into the home, seeing a Spartan, warm place of spruce timbers and thick plank floors and furs and linen, and blown glass on shelves. Over the fireplace I saw a portrait of a young woman with long, thick wavy hair against a frozen backdrop of tundra; and next to the portrait was a picture of a wild, ferociously happy young man in uniform, holding a battle rifle from many years ago. That portrait was draped in black.

I surmised they may have been the couple's children, or the two were to have been married, but the young man had been killed, serving as a soldier somewhere. The picture of the young woman was more modern.

Satisfied to my direction for the morning, I sent my mind to the larger area around me and found Finnish soldiers had found the dead man. There were dogs of the same kind, but they were all around the car, finding nothing.

I curled up to sleep on a large flat rock and slept, my first night of freedom.

In the morning I awoke to many birds, and I saw a small deer grazing near by. I found flowing water after a few kilometers and drank deeply, returning to my path determined. My sense of the home I set as my destination echoed of warmth and love and peace and determined self-reliance.

I walked, wary but with a growing sense of happiness.

I reached sight of the solitary home at 4:15 p.m. according to my plastic watch, and I sent my mind forward. I located the couple quickly, both inside. The man was reading a newspaper, the woman preparing a meal of roast meat and flatbread and apricots. I searched, and found neither radio nor television, one telephone - and firearms! I grew afraid, until I remembered the unyielding drive for personal freedom.

The weapons were three old rifles from the war, an American-patterned semi-automatic pistol called a '1911' and five boxes of ammunition. There were several long knives.

I made a decision, determined to live with any consequence. I came to their door and knocked.

The woman answered. Her name was 'Lyyli,' pronounced 'loo-le.' The man was 'Tertu,' pronounced phonetically, rolling the 'r' - a particular joy of the Finnish language.

I was welcomed without hesitation, though the reservation of all Finns to strangers and foreigners was clear. I studied the woman with particular interest, seeing markers of wild and pure Gypsy blood. She and I could easily pass for family, blood relatives, especially the eyes, the shape of the face.

I explained myself and my history at once, holding back nothing.

For some reason they only warmed to me. Tertu took my forged passport when I produced it to throw it into the fire.

"You are now to live the rest of your life as Katria Yakkola, the niece of my daughter lost to a frozen island in America - Alaska. You are an orphan, your parents having drowned years ago when their fishing boat capsized in the Bay of Bothnia. You are here to earn your way to go to University. We are your Aunt and Uncle. If ever questioned, speak little, and refer any curious Finn to a reminder of their manners, to us in the last resort. It should not happen, if you are a little careful."

Lyyli nodded.

"Never speak of your life before, for your life will depend on it. Can you block another of your class from finding you? You must be sought by now!"

I grew still, knowing great fear. I had never sensed another with the ability for distance-seeing while I was at the school, but as our abilities were doubtless varied, depending on the individual I knew I could know no guarantee! I made my thoughts work. If I could kill with a transposition of reality, perhaps I could send my own death so clearly it would receive no argument, as long as no one had felt me kill. It was my hope, as the deed had been particularly close-focused.

I nodded. "I may fall unconscious for a while, even to seeming near death. It will be a ploy; and if I fail and do die, I will die free."

I closed my eyes, and carefully built up an image of my dying body, my throat cut by the hollow man, his demands for my sex echoing in my fading consciousness. The knife, and being tossed into a hole in the ground, fleeting images from a dying mind, blurring and drifting. . . and blackness.

I made it real, I kept building it till I felt the blood of my life pouring out, the desperate gasping, the sucking for air as my hands tried to keep the life within and failing, failing. . .

In a whisper of death I sent it with the power of my being, connecting with surprise to Tommi in the cafeteria, sending him into convulsions and screams in truth before my strength faded, faded, faded.

There was darkness. Into the void I heard the sound of an old woman's voice chanting in an old tongue to the soft beating of a drum. I opened my eyes to a spruce log room glowing in the darkness to the light of a fireplace well-kindled.

Lyyli's eyes were unfocused, open to some trance of the chant, the painted spruce-and-hide drum in her hands worn from generations of use.

I took a deep breath as the chant, the drum-beat changed, and I fell to a bout of coughing as oxygen reached my stagnant lungs.

As I regained my breath I saw Lyyli's eyes piercing mine, and she smiled quietly.

"You are a daughter of mine now, Katria. Nothing but the kobdas, the pulse of my line of shaman mothers and daughters that goes back nineteen generations, the old religion could have found your soul. I made us one to bring you back! Your spirit is powerful, but life does burn within you only to fill yourself; and that is not the way of such things."

She sighed a little, and took me to my feet with a strong and steady hand.

"Sit. Eat. Know you are safe. We will work everything out tomorrow, for before long you must leave us for a while and live on your own, yes?"

It was still difficult to focus, a little blackness at the corners of my sight, but I was very hungry through a blinding headache. Her words made sense.

In a month I was selling coffees and espressos on a street corner in Helsinki, renting my cart from the concession at the University, smoothing out my accent to a more cosmopolitan, modern fluency. In five months I was a part-time student, earning my way and I was happy. I was happy!

And then, with the opening of one of the conferences I used to be set to task to observe I felt a coming presence of innocence close, manipulated innocence, overconfident and naive. It was an American woman; and the presence of what manipulated her echoed to the mind of the hollow man

When she came to my stand I saw her beautiful and more vulnerable then she knew. I set my mind to going to America that moment, a burning ember in my heart that knew my breadth of hatred to anyone kindred to the mind of the horror I had murdered - no more!

I simplified my spirit to becoming just a survivor, bright and shy. I set myself to watch and learn relentlessly, so patient. . .

________________________________________________________________________________________



I found my tea had gone cold some time ago, and I smiled at the wool-gathering. It was nearly two, and an impish smile tugged at me at the allure of the waiting bed.

"If you were here, my love - the fantasies we could create and live!" I ached for Monica's touch, her strength, her calm voice; and I caught myself before a patten of vulnerability could be accepted.

"We are talking about returning to tactics, Master." "Yes." I heard the exchange in my heart, and I found balance and peace.

I returned the tea to the small kitchen, finding my phone in her leather trench and the charger in a drawer in the bedroom. I tried calling home and got nothing after four rings, so I turned it off and plugged it in to charge over night. I looked around at the Renaissance bedroom. Nothing had changed, save that the bed was turned down. Enthusiastically, I dove under the snowy bedding, smuggling and simply wantonly delighting in the sensations and textures.

Untroubled sleep took me before my third breath.

________________________________________________________________________________________



I awoke to the bed thumping and a delightedly happy voice rising and falling above me insistent, "Good morning sleepyhead!"

Deirdre was jumping on the bed, going all the way across me with each spring-and-bounce! She was a delightful, uninhibited sight in a hip-length emerald green silk chemise, hair wild, and her smile would've melted permafrost!

I sat up, not thinking that I was nude but for my wristwatch, and I collected a breathless, effervescent hug-and-kiss that made me try and drag the girl back under the covers - and the fight was joined!

I ended up completely tangled in the bedding, retaining the girl by only one ankle, she valiantly holding to the left spire of the bed. We dissolved into laughter, and I let go and found my feet, completely awake now, hoping I remembered the way to the bathroom.

The sight took my breath away again. Finishing my morning toilet I heard the girl in the small kitchen, and by the time I made it into the Arts & Crafts dining room she was finished laying out espresso, almond biscotti, croissants stuffed with smoked ham and cheese, and cantaloupe halves filled with cottage cheese. Tall glasses of milk were poured from a beautiful Majolica pitcher, and a very ordinary honey bear stood at the ready.

She was delighted with herself, and she handed me a short linen wrap robe as she moved to open the drapes. I took the hint and slipped it on just as she swept the curtains wide.

It was an overcast day out there, but the morning poured in and the sunlight felt wonderful. I gathered the girl into my arms and surrendered a kiss as an advance on breakfast.

We sat and ate. I was surprised at just how hungry I felt, remembering abruptly that I was almost at sea level - the abundance of oxygen would have my metabolism burning through food for at least a week. I made a mental note to drink water at every opportunity.

We chatted idly about the view, the multitude of names of every building and feature escaping my recall after the first dozen. The food disappeared rapidly, and I helped take everything to the dumbwaiter, sending it to the main kitchen above.

I yawned, and looked at the girl, my thoughts plain.

"No way! You get me into bed with you and we just might manage a nap a couple hours from now! I want to go out and pay you back for rescuing me, remember?"

I stared.

She giggled. "We're going to spend the entire day at my favorite spa, and I'm going to see you pampered right out of your mind! Can I get away with those strawberry highlights?"

I looked at her from under my brows, fighting a smile and losing the contest.

Resigned, I said, "I'll see. We should hit the shower first, yes?"

DeeDee beamed. "Absolutely! We dress casual; 'cause if I get half a chance I'm going to buy you a new outfit, too!"

She twirled, throwing her hair wide, arms outstretched.

I caught her, and collected a breathless kiss.

"I'll meet you in half an hour at the bar, OK?" She dashed for the door, singing wordlessly.

I wandered back into the bathroom, dropping the robe on the counter by the sink, and found what I'd need for a shower in that glass block space, examining the water controls.

"Without a technical briefing or an instruction manual I don't have a chance;" I thought dourly. On impulse I went into the little kitchen and pressed the button for 'Housekeeping.'

"Yes, Rose?" The young woman's voice was clear and undistorted, a relief crossing my mind suddenly that it was her and not the janitor. . .

"Katria, I can't make heads-or-tails of the shower controls. Can you spare me a minute and get it going, please, please?"

"I'll be right there."

I grabbed the robe and had just tied it when the door chimed. I dashed to let her in, embarrassed, until I saw her in a matching robe, smiling.

"I hate that set-up," she said, moving past me; "and I was sure you'd call, unless you wanted a quick dip in the tub!"

She made it into the bathroom steps ahead of me, letting her robe fall as she set the shower controls. My eyes must've lit up because she laughed warmly, completely unselfconscious.

I dropped my robe, a little aware of her warm eyes and perfect body, a contrast to my years that came to mind as I looked her over, a little shy.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she touched the controls and a torrent of water came from all three heads.

Dripping, she took my hands in hers and had me stand under the central one, going to work on my hair with shampoo that smelled of lilacs. I rinsed as she lathered her wavy midnight mane, moving behind her to help with the weight and length. She rinsed and I got the conditioner. . .

We shared a coarse linen washcloth, and her hands were calm and strong against my back. Finished, she looked at me.

"A cold rinse?" I nodded; and with a touch of a button all three heads roared full-power with an ice-water needle-spray! Gasping and laughing, we stood for a full minute before she turned the water off with just the touch to the controls.

She found two huge hand-woven linen bath sheets, and a pair of thick towels for our hair.

She hugged be briefly, like a sister.

"Trust is a gift given freely." I nodded, smiling; something in my heart knowing resonance with this complete stranger. She continued; "No one has ever offered to give to me! I am usually expected to somehow be less than they, with their millions."

Reaching for my hair I smiled. "Chance friends are best; unsought and unexpected: it begins with simple trust."

Setting two blow dryers on the counter she dropped her towel and looked at me.

"Don't let her do anything to your hair. . ."

We helped each other with the other's hair and I dressed quickly in my bedroom, taking jeans and a matching, sun-bleached denim jacket and my black sweater, clean socks and my boots. I looked in the bathroom and saw it was as if it had never been used. 

I felt slender, strong arms encircle my waist. I mirrored the hug and she released me, wearing her robe again.

"I set coffee on the bar. You should have a few minutes of peace."

At the front door she turned and looked me in the eyes.

"I would love to share a shower with you once more before you go. . ." She was gone, the door closing silently.

Taking a stool at the middle of the bar I took the waiting carafe of coffee and filled a plain, heavy white enamel mug, inhaling the rising steam. "Dark roast Tanzanian, no less!"

I looked and saw the drapes hadn't been opened, so I did and returned to my stool, suddenly remembering my phone on the charger, retrieving it, turning it on and dropping it into an inner pocket of my jacket. I returned to the front room to sit, sipping, looking into the morning, trying to sort out my thoughts. I was starting on my second cup of coffee when the door chimed, a different double-tone this time, and DeeDee came right on in before I could move.

"Coffee! Gimme!"

She poured and slurped, and looked at me brightly over the mug. She was in clothes from her visit, black jeans and a white western long-sleeve shirt with pearl snaps, silver concho belt and black leather blazer. I saw her new boots.

"Katria helped you figure out the shower, huh?"

"Yes."

Her eyebrows rose into her perfect hair. I stayed silent, smiling quietly.

She took my hand and squeezed. "I'm glad! I forget that people aren't as used to all the gadgets I love."

We shared the coffee and finished, she winked, leading me to the door.

"Got your card-key? Today's going to be fun!" I took Monica's trench off the hook and felt the pockets, nodding, and slipped it on.

Waiting at the elevator, for some reason I thought I heard something familiar by Pat Metheny Group playing in the distance, softly, far away. . .

________________________________________________________________________________________



Pampered

DeeDee brought me down to the parking level, the second basement level and we walked to a restored, showroom condition cherry red 1967 Mustang that waited in front of a storage shed. Next to the Mustang was the Viper!

"Get in, will you? This has been my pet project the last two years, and I absolutely adore it!"

She drove uptown and a little beyond, her driving style through the heavy traffic making me wonder if she was in any way related to Steve McQueen. . .

"Just what did you have put in under the hood?" The car was loud, but it growled, thundered; it was the sexiest ride I'd ever been in!

"There's a blueprinted 327 Cobra in there; you like it?"

"Oh, yeah!"

DeeDee parked to the side of the two-story brick building, and my ears were ringing a little in the comparative silence as she shut the car down. I looked down, seeing barely street-legal Pirelli tires, and I felt DeeDee's arm circle my waist, she coming close.

Looking down into her happy, hopeful face I sighed, smiled, and nodded. We headed for the front doors, only there seeing the discreet sign for the business.

I admit I was almost a little afraid, a little suspicious of an entire segment of the commercial market being solely dedicated to a woman's indulgence, a sense of personal beauty. I forgot all of it when we got past the clinical receptionist.

We were signed in, having an appointment, and a pleasant, fit girl in her early twenties approached us from the hall behind the receptionist. She introduced herself as Gail, and after exchanging introductions I was fixed with a critical eye, looked up and down.

"Let me show you the services and facilities we have here, first, and then I will see you to your dressing rooms. You're scheduled for an hour of kick-boxing, followed with a full-body massage, seaweed wrap, manicure and pedicure, facial, color consultation and make-over; all in double rooms to enjoy the cycle in each other's company!"

She led the way down the white-and-pastel halls.

Gail and DeeDee were chatting away, and I tried to take it all in: there was an Olympic-size swimming pool, five steam rooms using a variety of treatments and aromatherapy, sixteen masseuses with training that ran the gamut from Oriental techniques to degreed physical therapists able to rehabilitate one after surgery, sports injuries, or repetitive-motion injuries.

There were pilates studios, a kendo room, a boxing ring; sitz baths and meditation rooms set amidst manicured, sealed-environment gardens; the list of features and amenities were endless, and not a male in the entire business. I liked that!

We ended up in private dressing rooms where black onionskin shorts and black sports bras were already waiting, next to long, light-weight cotton terry cloth hooded robes and straw sandals. The lockers had ten-key touch-pad panels, user-programmable to any six-digit code; and inside each was a grey steel safe about half the size of a loaf of bread for personal valuables.

I breathed a sigh of relief at that, and slipped my watch inside, seeing DeeDee do the same with her concho belt as we finished changing out of street clothes. I got a dazzling smile as she saw me looking at the linked silver.

"This has a real, very personal value to me now."

I grinned back, hugging her briefly. "I saw little of what you and Monica shared up there; though some moments echoed all the way down the Pass!"

The red-head blushed, and grabbed her robe.

"Ready?"

My phone rang.

I reached for it fast. DeeDee said, "I'll be just outside. . ." and left me with a measure of privacy.

"Hello?"

"My beautiful girl! How is Chicago?"

A wave of emotion hit me with a rush.

"This is a very different place for people to call home - I miss you."

"Likewise; more than I had anticipated, coming home to the cats and your bird very late last night!" She sounded a little tired, but she was friendly, colloquial; as if she were being overheard. I followed her lead.

"I saw video of the fire in your building while we were flying here, even a little of you standing with the crowd of civilians! I wasn't too worried before then, and not at all afterwards. Is everyone safe?"

"Wiley told me you had tracked me down; yes, a bare handful had any real injuries at all, though many more needed new rompers!" She chuckled. "That whole floor of lawyers are trying to figure out how a fire could start in a room of flammable files containing truckloads of paper!"

I grinned, but a sense of knowing caution lit up some of my alert-status. Master was using a pattern of speech far from the ordinary with me. I made note of the noun she'd emphasized.

"Where are you right now, lover?"

"The 'Monteverdi Spa,' a few miles North of downtown. We should be here for several hours."

"Good! You're going to get your full make-over?"

I sighed, making myself laugh. "Yep - guess there's no getting out of it; and I promised."

"Absolutely! You deserve new experiences! I won't keep you, then. Be sure to check in with the front desk before you go anywhere else, will you?"

"Certainly. You take care, and don't spoil Thwack too much, OK?"

"I'll manage just fine. Don't worry about anything. I love you, girl!"

"I love you too. Bye for now."

The line went dead. I turned off the phone, coded the locker and saw it shut. I went out into the hall and DeeDee took my arm, heading to the third door on the left into a large, symmetrical room with high ceilings, a padded floor, and mirrors on three sides. Some twenty other women were there already, stretching out.

We hung our robes on a line of hooks above long benches. Sealed quart bottles of spring water were lined up below the hooks on the benches. DeeDee looked at me, holding my hands.

"Everything OK?"

I nodded, smiling. "She got in late last night. She's fine, and she told me to enjoy today!"

The red-head dimpled, giving me a quick kiss. We found space on the floor to stretch out and warm up.

I did fifty push-ups, fifty crunches, and ten back-arches that saw me slowly bending backwards till my fingertips touched the floor behind my heels, slowly returning forward till my hands were flat on the floor. I focused, breathing in a familiar meditation pattern, and I scissored into the splits to a five-count, returning to stand tip-toe, repeating ten times, my arms straight out from my shoulders. As I started jumping jacks I saw the instructor enter in front of all of us. DeeDee was all but glaring at me!

"What? I did something wrong?"

"Brat!" She looked ready to spit, and then she chuckled. The instructor, a woman maybe my age with a short cap of blonde hair clapped, and we focused to the front.

"Good morning! I'm LeeAnn, and it's wonderful to see you here! We'll break for water in half an hour, and then work for another fifteen minutes. I'll be going to each of you after that for one-on-one instruction. Everyone get a good warm-up?"

We began, doing combination punch-and-kick routines, very basic, at an easy speed, following LeeAnn's lead. I saw that I was easily the oldest woman there. I seemed to be having about the least difficult time, though DeeDee had absolutely no trouble at all.

The pace increased, with multiple kick routines. Many of the women could barely catch air, and I was aware of LeeAnn's growing focus on DeeDee and me.

We broke, the first half-hour barely noticed, though we were all sweating freely.

I drained my water and DeeDee hugged me.

LeeAnn came up to us, a light sheen of sweat showing on her designer spandex crop top, and we introduced ourselves. I saw she had great legs, with the faint scar on her left knee that showed why she wasn't likely in competition: reconstruction surgery.

"You've had some training?" LeeAnn communicated genuine curiosity, apparently reasonably familiar with DeeDee.

"Now and then, but my partner back home is by far my superior," I said, suddenly a little shy

"Your balance is wonderful. I hope I'm as fit and flexible when I get older!" She nodded and returned to the front, the break over.

>From under my eyebrows, hands on my hips I glared, barely mock-serious. DeeDee rubbed noses with me and looked every bit the wicked imp.

"She made it on the Olympic team nine years ago, tore up her knee in competition. She still has a bit of an attitude."

"You think? I'm a long way from being some ancient hag!" I was whispering beneath my breath. I stretched, made myself yawn to drop the irritation.

LeeAnn clapped her hands and we began again. This time the pace was up to speed, and I have to admit, I honestly enjoyed myself. From the corner of my eye, I saw DeeDee slip into fighting mode, a degree of lethality to her focus as she all but blurred through routines. Her eyes never left our instructor.

We broke, and most applauded LeeAnn, many wandering off, robes in hand. I found it strange to applaud an instructor. "It must be a City thing," I thought.

DeeDee and I watched LeeAnn working with a truly skinny girl, and we left, heading further up the hallway. I saw the mirrors were all one-way.

"OK, give; why did you almost get pissed-off at me when I was warming up?" 

The red-head broke out in peals of laughter.

"You really didn't see? The whole place was staring at you with hatred! I can't do the splits-and-back you were doing, but I got miffed when I saw you almost floating up and down, not a care in the world!"

I had to laugh, too.

"Guess I got carried away. . ."

She fixed me with a truly wicked look of pure mischief.

"Ever had a seaweed wrap before?"

I cringed a little, shy, and shook my head.

"You'll love it! First, though, a complete massage! You like Shiatsu?"

I looked at her suspiciously. "I know about it as a technique, but I've never had one full-body."

She opened a door that had our names in a brass holder and led me inside. The room had indirect lighting and was a pale green, with white leather recliners and a small table between them that held cookies and sliced fruit. A large tiled shower area was to one side behind a curtain, and two massage tables were around the corner. We rinsed off and wrapped up in thick, soft terry bath sheets.

A pot of herb tea was waiting, and we each had just about finished a cup when two girls came in, both in loose white shorts and modest tank tops, one girl with curly red hair cut short, the other with a honey brown braid that fell to the rising curve of her shorts. They introduced themselves as Samantha and Kate, respectively, as they opened a wall cupboard and laid out oils and fresh towels.

I took Kate's table, handing her my towel as I stretched out nude. I turned my head and saw DeeDee comfortable too, her head resting on her forearms.

"Would you enjoy music?"

DeeDee asked for cellos, and I smiled, letting my eyes close as Kate's hands began. A Bach sonata swelled low, and I drifted off, letting go of focus to release everything to Kate's abilities. The girl had marvelous hands and amazing skill. . .

"Rose, turn over, please."

I heard Kate's voice and opened my eyes. I found the patterns of healing and release she'd been using, and I smiled frankly at her as I moved to my back. I saw DeeDee, a blissful, unfocused peace to her body moving to her back too.

"Happy?"

I let my head fall back and I could only smile a little wider in assent.

Kate's hands began their magic again, and I murmured, "You are good!"

Her eyes took the compliment without comment, but there was warmth and a pleasure in real professionalism there.

I drifted. . .

Opening my eyes after a while - how long I really didn't know - I saw the two shutting the door after them. DeeDee was sitting up on her table, nude and wreathed in bliss. I shook my head to focus a little past the lassitude of endorphins and swung my legs over the edge, feeling a little dizzy.

"Careful, baby," DeeDee said. "After that, you should give yourself a minute to plug back into the world. I've fainted dead away once when I was here during a break in my day, and thought I should hurry back to the office!"

She stood carefully and slipped into my arms.

"That was absolutely delicious," I said, murmuring into her neck. "I've never had a professional massage before. It makes sense how you could get to really crave this!"

She chuckled into my ear, letting go and stepping back. We dressed in only our robes, having another cup of tea from the pot on the hot plate, nibbling fruit and cookies, both of us quiet, simply enjoying sharing the moment.

There was a discrete knock at the door, and Gail entered, holding the door for us.

"Seaweed wraps for both of you. If you'll just follow me?"

DeeDee grinned, and I stuck my tongue out, a moue of intolerance to her bubbly spirits.

We went down the hall and around the corner to the right, to another room where two attendants were waiting. Two white enameled five-quart ceramic pots were being removed from hot water, the emerald green seaweed mixture unmistakable to my nose. DeeDee sneezed, and led me to my table.

We handed them our robes, nude again, and we took to the wide tables that were covered in soft vinyl.

Without ado and only the briefest of introductions quite warm, almost hot hands-full of the mix was spread and kneeded into and onto us from head to toe, front and back. We were wrapped in plastic wrap, not tightly, arms and legs and torsos and left laying on our backs, a soft flute solo playing in the background, slices of cucumbers over our eyes. The lights were dimmed and the pots were taken with the attendants as they quietly left, shutting the door behind them.

I took the opportunity, hearing DeeDee's breathing ease into a light slumber. Three deep breaths triggered me, and I was in the floating meadow. There I made my devotions to the Goddess, and surrendered myself to the void.

I awoke to the light touch of the cucumber slices being removed. DeeDee was snoring softly, and I grinned at the attendants. One sighed, and whispered, "This happens every time, with her!"

I felt tingly all over, refreshed in a way very different from anything I'd know before. I wrinkled my nose as the wrap came off.

"You purge toxins, and your skin cells are nourished directly with a wrap, unlike anything else you can do." Gina, my attendant, was putting the plastic in a trash can, nodding as she spoke. "I prefer a good mud pack, myself; but that's probably because I do these to clients every day!"

I saw DeeDee getting unwrapped, and she and I laughed at the sight we made. Showers were just around the corner, and we scrubbed each other long and hard with natural sponges and liquid soap that smelled of honeysuckle.

I was relieved to see my skin hadn't been stained green, an inspection that had DeeDee sticking out her tongue back at me, teasing. Finding an aloe vera based lotion on the counter, we set to moisturizing, as my body felt in need and it just felt good!

Fresh robes had been left for both of us, and I started when I cinched the belt. I felt thinner!

I glared at the red-head, who was losing a fight with a bout of giggles.

"You've probably lost at least an inch in your legs, maybe to or three in your torso!"

I aimed a kick at her shins, and she danced away, her smile getting wider.

"How long does this last? Do I have to return regularly or face watching myself dissolve or something?"

She leaned against the white tile wall and bit her thumb to keep from laughing merrily.

"Nope, no sci-fi plot here, baby: it's just good for you, OK?"

"If we get back and my clothes don't fit you're gonna be sorry!'

I couldn't help myself and fell into her arms chuckling. She was way too pleased with herself!

Going back down the hall towards the lockers, DeeDee steered me to a busy room where hairdressers and manicurists were working with at least fifteen clients. The entire room was tiled in white, with matte black Art Deco torcheries scattered around, and midnight leather furnishings. Mirrors were everywhere, many floor-to-ceiling.

A bright-eyed Japanese girl took our names and led us to adjacent chairs beside adjacent manicurists. The little tables each had magnifier lamps and a rainbow of bottles of nail polish, with pumice stones, buffers, several files and a holder full of orange sticks.

I got nervous.

I felt acutely self-conscious of my hands and feet, the callouses, the proof I came from a far different life than everyone around me. Cold sweat started at the nape of my neck, my hair wrapped in a towel.

I looked at the red-head in panic.

She came and took my hands in hers, a look of sudden understanding and concern for me plain.

"Tell me, Rose."

"I've never let anyone mess with my hands, or my feet before," I whispered.

She looked at me carefully.

"Is this to much?"

I shook my head, feeling a few tears belie my defiance leak down my face.

"You're sure?"

I took a deep breath and nodded vigorously, fighting for calm. "I know perfectly well why this caught me off-guard, and I'll never tell you about that day I was prepared for sale, for the auction!" I felt clear resolve take the panic away, but DeeDee's eyes showed real concern that she'd gone too far.

Finding I was gnawing at my lower lip I stopped and smiled.

"I'm not going to let it beat me, girlfriend! Let's do this!"

I sat and took a deep breath, giving my manicurist a wrinkled-nose smile and held out my hands confidently.

A smile quirked at her mouth, and she took my hands and looked at them.

"You live in the mountains."

I nodded, relaxing a little more. Her small hands were warm and confidant.

"Ever thought of using a hand lotion that has a good sunblock?"

I chuckled at that. "Nope, but I wear gloves a lot when I'm working outside. Does that count?"

She grinned back, shook her head in resignation and got to work.

In an hour, my hands and feet felt much different! Two coats of palest gold polish had been applied to all twenty nails, and more attention and tools and lotions had seen use on my extremities than I'd have imagined was possible much less necessary; but I felt wonderful!

We moved to our respective stylists, and DeeDee looked at me with the question plain on her face.

I shook my head, and I saw her understand.

"Enough out-of-the-ordinary for one day."

I had a thought.

"A compromise? I'll take lemon-juice highlights, if they do that here."

I looked at my waiting stylist, a towering, gorgeous black girl who nodded and flashed me a blinding white smile.

"Honey, after working with hair for fourteen years I can do anything you can dream up; though it'd be a shame to change your hair much beyond a decent cut! I have clients who'd kill to have your hair, much less its' color!"

DeeDee smiled, happy to see me less stressed.

"Will you let me take you to the boutique here, afterwards? I owe you, losing sight of just how much, how foreign all this would be."

I looked at her dourly, and broke into a smile.

"I have plenty of clothes! Something new would be nice, though. I almost never think in terms of being fashionable, remember?"

She snorted, and blushed at the memory of the trail, the tent conversations.

Sitting down in the ergonomic recliner I looked up at my stylist bravely. 

"No layering, and try to not take more than an inch off; and please go easy when it comes to product?"

She flashed me that smile and laid the chair flat, swivelling it to place my head over the shampoo sink.

In an hour we were both done. DeeDee came from behind the partition, and my jaw dropped. The effect of the ministrations on her deep red mane were subtle, but unmistakable. The cut, a softer, detailed trim of deft precision saw her hair flowing richly and easily. I couldn't tell if any color had been used, but there was a lush warmth to the resultant mane that was a joy to see.

DeeDee caught sight of me and her eyes shone. Tamara, my stylist, had made a paste of a whole lemon, taking a knitting needle's thickness of my hair and coating it thoroughly with the paste, wrapping each such with gold foil, taking dozens of strands from throughout my scalp. After twenty minutes she removed the foil and rinsed my hair, applying a rich conditioner that left my hair with a soft shine without weighing it down.

She did the trim and style next using an antique straight razor. Finding sun-blasted split-ends everywhere, she took finger-thicknesses and twisted the hair tightly, using a small candle to burn off the damage, something I watched with fascination. A thorough blow dry with just a dab or three of mousse and some vigorous brushing and she let me see the finished result in a tri-mirror she unfolded, suspended from an articulated arm set into the wall.

My hair looked as if lit with soft lights from within. The highlights moved throughout the length without drawing real attention to them.

I was pleased! Seeing the look on DeeDee face I was relieved, too. She'd invested so much into making the day special, I wanted her to feel happy and she was, unquestionably!

We left arm in arm, feeling like princesses.

To the boutique we went; and DeeDee couldn't stop glancing at me as we walked barefoot together.

The private boutique was windowless, and no larger than my living room back home. The quality of the fabrics was world-class, the styles ranging from completely formal to a very upscale casual/professional. Footwear was in one corner, outerwear on the wall near by - the little shop had everything, and then some, including lingerie, gloves, and a small jewelry display.

An elegant, slender grey-haired woman greeted us.

"Miss Alexander, you're right on time. We have a full hour, as you requested."

"Janet, this is a 'the sky's the limit' treat for my girlfriend, OK?"

Turning to me, she smiled, crows-feet around her eyes deepening. "You must be Miss McAllister! I understand this is to be something of a surprise - let me get you into some lingerie, first, so you can get out of that bathrobe!"

I looked at DeeDee suspiciously, my hands on my hips, not moving an inch.

She ducked her head and looked at me out of the corner of her eye. She looked a little nervous; more, excited.

"Spill it, girl; or plan on walking with a limp for a week!" I saw her glance behind me, and her eyes dilated.

Twisting to look, I saw Janet pushing a small rack of dresses and suits to the center of the room. She deftly picked one outfit from the center and I felt my heart pound.

It was a painfully close recreation of the outfit I'd worn the day Monica and I had first met. This was a deep violet, though, complete with corslet, camisole, blouse, and layered long skirt. "Stevie Nicks might've murdered to own this, a decade or two ago!"

"So, you and Monica talked about everything all those months?"

She nodded, blushing.

I almost ran to the lingerie counter. Janet was already there, bringing out French silk stockings that matched, three different cuts of panties, all matching the outfit in color. DeeDee laid the corslet next to everything, and I simply pre-empted her with sweeping everything up in my arms and dashing to the dressing room.

Tossing the robe out the door with abandon I think I jumped into the corslet and French-cut panties and new stockings in barely more than a minute, running out to the rack of clothes breathless and very wide-eyed.

Janet handed me a pair of knee-high glazed calfskin boots, also a matching deep violet. I unzipped the side of each and looked at the tag. Italian, signature line, and completely hand-made. Zipping then up I came to my feet and literally groaned in the pleasure of a perfect fit!

I felt dressed enough to select more than just the one outfit from the rack, but I stopped. DeeDee was nowhere to be seen!

Janet hooked a thumb at another dressing room and winked conspiratorially.

My eyes widened and I dashed back with just the one outfit. Buttoned and zipped up, my hands smoothing the lined fabric into place I emerged to drink in the view in the huge mirrors.

And DeeDee was already there.

She wore a cream Spanish lace suit, the skirt clearly several inches too short to be right for her world of corporate business, the neckline too low and soft by far, the jacket cuffs holding too much of a heartbreakingly romantic bell, the suede stiletto heels completely wrong, the back-seamed stockings clearly jail-bait. 

I looked at her and could only think of martinis at midnight in some bygone mahogany fortress of liquid indulgence, a pianist playing Chopin perfectly beyond, the two of us rising from black leather chairs in the candlelight to take to the floor in an easy 'Pas de Deux,' to the shocked glares of the rest of the straight patrons and their breeders.

She glowed.

Her separate crepe blouse and slip whispered beneath the hundreds, if not thousands of hours of hand-tied delicate knots as she took my hand, eyes dilating as she looked me over reciprocally, her tongue tracing her lips in smouldering approval.

She took me to her side and to the reflections ahead I said, "We look like trouble waiting to happen, you know that, right?"

The girl sparkled till I thought the room got a little brighter.

Tossing her hair to one side, a sultry look on her features, she said, "Damn, but we look good!"

I took her into my arms for a few steps and gave her a twirl to the end of my reach, bringing her back to bend her backwards, managing a brief kiss before we both broke out in endless smiles and laughter. . .

We chatted and shopped seriously after that, Janet beaming as she and DeeDee watched me try several outfits, deciding finally on a powder blue single-button suit with wide-cuffed slacks and matching pumps, the fashion straight from Holland. The suit entranced me, being a tropical weight wool lined with polished cotton. The blouse was chiffon, and it took my breath away when I tried on the matching Italian silk corslet. In the complete ensemble DeeDee and Gloria both approved, applauding as I stepped and twirled for a few moments.

"We'll take all three," DeeDee decided, finding the lace suit too much to resist. She signed a receipt, and Janet began putting everything into boxes and on hangars that were zipped up into black garment bags.

We left and headed for our rooms in robes again, to keep our new clothes perfect till we got back to the Hancock Center, ready and waiting for a night out on the town.

Back in street clothes outside, the garment bags and boxes of booty safe in the car's trunk I couldn't help but admire my watch in the fading sunlight - and I remembered Monica's call.

I looked at DeeDee abruptly and patted my pockets.

"I left my phone! Something must've distracted me; I'll be right back!"

I dashed for the lobby door and went down the hall to our lockers, letting the door close behind me before returning to the lobby.

"I'm Rose McAllister: do you have any messages for me?"

I looked idly out the windows and was a little relieved to see DeeDee was out of sight, not even the bumper of the Mustang visible.

I saw a gleaming blue Saab convertible pull out of a parking space, top down, the driver glancing my way.

Pia. It was Pia. Almost twenty years had passed, but I would forever know that elfin angel anywhere, any time!

I shook, almost unable to breathe as I recognized the driver, and I was handed a small envelope with my name written in flowing pen-and-ink script.

My thoughts were in chaos, but I recovered, training and tactics patterns lighting up the alert board in my mind.

With steady hands I opened the envelope. Within was a simple card:

184 Ivy Drive

Tomorrow.

Pia.

I thanked the receptionist warmly, slipping the card and envelope in a front pocket and walked out to DeeDee and the Mustang.

"Find it?"

I looked at her accusingly.

"So I go 'blonde' when you take me shopping? Not one word!"

She laughed and I buckled in as she re-enacted some of the car scenes from any of half-a-dozen films.

We were back at her palace-in-the-sky in a matter of minutes.

And I had far more questions than answers.

________________________________________________________________________________________



We went up to DeeDee's floor, depositing our plunder from the boutique just inside her front door before she took my hands and led me back into the lobby.

"I want to show you where I work!"

We took the first door to the left of the elevator, her card-key unlocking it with a wave of her hand.

"One of these times somebody's going to say 'Open, Sesame,' and I'll believe them," I thought wryly.

I was led into a suite that would've made the engineers of Lucent Technology and Bell happy, not to mention Industrial Light and Magic!

First thing, I found myself walking through a virtual reality lab, with a Cray SV1 in the far corner, surrounded by a half-dozen work-stations and wireless VR goggles. Beyond, DeeDee absolutely sparkling with pride, I was shown the Lighting and Textiles Lab and the scale model workshop.

She chatted endlessly about her ongoing integration and ergonomics projects, the new sets for "Phantom of the Opera," the prototypes for Personal Combat Aircraft cockpits.

In the back were wide circular stairs.

At the top she led me into the lobby of her personal office with another wave of her card-bearing hand at the door, and with the delight of a rich girl getting a chance to show off opened a fireproof security door adjacent to her private kitchens.

Inside were banks of file systems, all computer indexed. I got a little dizzy. "What do you have here, that you've compiled some eighteen hundred square feet of files??" I kept the thought to myself, but promised I would not leave without trying to find some insight. . .

"The files are mostly leased out to a valuable client; the rest hold all my research material and proposals," she said. By the inflection in her voice, that client was something out of the ordinary.

"Careful, girl," I thought; "you don't want to let anything be carved-in-stone certain until the proofs are in your hand!"

Her office, the door closed and the security system engaged with a swipe of her key-card over a featureless little table, was a complete counter to her self-indulgent fantasy-made-real living quarters.

The floor was an expanse of industrial-grade beige carpeting. The walls, similarly, were of flawless slate tile, with sculpted stainless steel sconces complimenting the indirect ceiling lighting system. Her desk was a completely modern maple affair with twin credenzas, a flat panel computer screen, and a phone console; a bank of steel cabinets behind that matched the styling of the sconces. Along the far wall was a conference table with twelve matching kevlar-and-carbon-fiber ergonomic armchairs, identical to the one behind her desk. At the head of the conference table was a remarkably large plasma screen mounted to the tile wall. The left wall was open to the view over the lake, two black beams of the exoskeleton of the building crossing in the middle.

Save for one spectacular oil painting of a lighthouse, there was nothing else.

Utilitarian and focused, to be sure; but for some reason it made me shudder.

Helen appeared in the doorway behind us.

"Miss Alexander, is there anything I can do for you?"

I wondered if the woman was an android. She looked too perfect, every hair in place, not a wrinkle on her plain charcoal suit.

"Working late, Helen?" DeeDee was still smiling.

She nodded. "The lighting design proposal for "Phantom" has been moved up a week. I know it is ready, I was being thorough. Will you make the presentation tomorrow morning?"

The red-head's smile vanished.

"When did this come about?"

"The request came in at ten, while you were out. Martin took care of everything, as you had requested. I assumed he had communicated this to you?"

DeeDee fumed momentarily, then turned to me, chewing her lower lip.

"I need to be there tomorrow, at the Director's meeting at the Opera House. There's an enormous amount of prestige involved, Rose! The contract is for just over half a million dollars, but the publicity and name recognition alone are priceless as far as the industry goes. . ."

She grinned, taking my hands.

"Feel like having my Platinum card and going shopping on your own for most of tomorrow?"

I looked at her from beneath my bangs, an impish delight plain. "I can manage that! I'd love to see if I can find something for Monica!" Suddenly shy, I asked, "Um, I'll try and be careful how much I spend, OK?"

Even Helen smiled at that.

"Nothing to worry about, I promise. In fact, I have a wonderful idea!" She walked behind her desk to a steel cabinet, passed her key-card over the lower right corner and took out a blued Sig P232 as the door snicked open, dropped the mag, racked the slide and checked to make sure the sleek little pistol was clear and handed it to me.

"Those cabinets are at least a quarter-inch thick! What else is up here??" My impulse to study even the most ordinary feature around me flashed and was quashed just as abruptly.

"Card-key?"

I fished mine out and handed it to her. She swiped it through a reader inside the safe and tapped a sequence on a numerical pad, swiped it again and returned it to me with a flourish.

"There! You now have the same authorization to carry here in Chicago as me, and as part of that your card will now open any door to anything I own!" She reached to the side of the cabinet and produced a pair of loaded magazines and a still-in-the-wrapper modular FOBUS shoulder rig.

"A wonderful idea, Miss Alexander!" Helen's poise and voice hadn't changed, but her eyes, though wreathed in a warm smile were as flat and dead cold as a shark's. She blinked and the moment was gone.

I slipped out of my jacket and Monica's leather and the three of us got the rig adjusted in little more than a minute, the Sig soon hot and both spare mags secure. With the faded denim back on, the trench coat over the edge of the desk both of them walked around me, looking critically.

"Perfect! It disappears."

Helen nodded at DeeDee's assessment, and pulled out a Palm Pilot from her pocket, studying the color screen. She tapped a couple buttons, nodded to herself and pocketed it.

"Your concealed firearm registration is validated by Chicago Police, Miss McAllister, and the Sig is now registered to you as well. The courtesy permit expires in twenty-four hours."

I looked at the bodyguard sideways, and DeeDee laughed.

"Wireless technology, dear. Don't look so nervous! With your rating of 'Expert' in IDPA and your existing CCW back home and my on-going relationship with the Commissioner, this is a simple courtesy.

"I'll feel better, too, with you out on your own tomorrow! What do you say to a day and a night alone with me on the lake the day after? That way I can guarantee no interruptions and we can get you out onto the water and away from the city! I can promise to have you at the airport and winging your way back to Colorado a little after the noon business rush."

A wrinkled-nose smile took me and I hugged her.

"Thank you." I looked a little worried.

"When you say we'll be on the lake, I take it that means you own a boat, too?"

She grinned. "Let's make it my surprise!"

Helen was making notations ion her PDA.

Looking all business, the red-head said, "I should spend the rest of tonight going over the presentation and props Martin and I'll be using. Do you mind having dinner alone tonight?"

Adjusting my shoulders to the touch of the light rig I smiled.

"Not in the least. Can I just order by the intercom in the little kitchen, or should I go ahead and cook something up myself?"

"Whatever you want. 'Al' is my chef's name. Martin and Helen and I will have to get an early start tomorrow, so don't wait up for me tonight.."

DeeDee smiled, and took Helen to the Lighting and Textiles Lab.

Retrieving the leather coat and slipping it on I made my way back to my suite.

________________________________________________________________________________________



I headed straight for the kitchen, going through the dining room, seeing the four boxes and the black garment bag from the boutique on the antique bench by the front door.

"I can cook for myself anytime; but a personal chef? Girl, don't you dare pass this up!"

I thumbed the intercom and a deep, almost basso profundo voice answered.

"Yes, Miss McAllister?"

"Al, DeeDee got sucked back into being in work-mode tonight, and I'm in the mood for a change from my own cooking. Can you manage a Greek meal for you, Katria and myself?"

"Absolutely! Do you enjoy lamb?"

"Something lamb sounds great! Make whatever you want, OK?"

"Then dinner will be served in two hours, Miss McAllister; and may I request you refrain from smoking and alcohol for at least fifteen minutes prior?"

"It's a deal, Al."

The light on the panel went out, and I punched up Katria.

"Yes, Rose?"

"I hope you don't mind; I invited you to dinner with Al and me tonight?"

"Not at all, dinner sounds wonderful! What are we having?"

"Greek; something lamb?"

"Yes! When?"

"We have two hours. Can you join me in the gym on 44 for a little exercise and a swim first?"

"Do you have anything to wear? I'll be happy to bring you something suitable; and yes, I'd love that!"

I laughed. "Right, you know I'm a 12, I bet. You'd better, then, because I was thinking in terms of just making a quick pair of cut-off's and making do with a sports bra. . ."

Giggling. "I don't think that's quite typical, here! I'll be over in a couple minutes!"

The light on the panel went out.

I hit my bedroom and stripped, washing my face and tying my hair up with a rubber-band when the door chimed once, making me dive for my robe, slipping the Sig into a pocket.

Katria literally bounced in, wearing a plain white one-piece and grey gym shorts, and worn white leather sneakers. Her hair was fingered into a rather hasty braid, and she was carrying a canvas bag.

She led the way to my bedroom and upended her bag on the bed, laying out a matching black suit and black shorts, and a new pair of black sneakers.

I dropped the robe on the bed and she impulsively hugged me.

"The spa did wonders! You're even more beautiful; and that would have been difficult to imagine!" 

I untangled myself and dressed quickly, finding even the sneaks fit perfectly, aware the girl was watching the entire time, chewing the tip of her little finger.

"Well?" Hands on my hips, I defiantly gave her a look.

She winked. "Yes! Let's go!"

We swiped towels from the bathroom and headed for the elevators, key-cards in hip pockets and spirits high.

________________________________________________________________________________________



We got sweaty on the stair machines, we spotted for each other on the weight machines, and we stopped for water before we hit the pool.

"You focus on sheer power. Why?" She was looking at me with a flush of health and exertion bathing her equally with a sheen of sweat, stretching.

"I live on a mountain, up where the air is thin. I'm pretty self-reliant, alone most of the day. I like to be able to carry my part of the chores, not to mention I love to hike, and hunt with Monica!"

She looked at me carefully.

"It is a shock to realize you are old enough to be my mother. Power flows from you. . ."

I looked at my watch to cover a sense of being very shy.

"Enough! We've got just enough time to get some laps in and get back to relax before dinner, and I love the water!"

We drained our bottles almost on cue, stretched together, and she stopped me, moving close briefly.

"Race you for five laps?"

She swam like an otter, like a playful seal, and I felt like a paddlewheel steamer in comparison. She beat me easily, but she stayed at the edge of the pool and cheered me on seeing I wouldn't quit.

Looking around, I saw two couples had come in, and I felt awkward.

"Let's get ready for dinner, OK?"

She grinned, blinking water from her eyes.

"You swim like a ferry!"

________________________________________________________________________________________



We were still laughing when we got back to my suite.

To a complete disregard of propriety I'd given the girl a thorough dunking! The other residents had looked at us with plain disapproval, and that had us only laughing and splashing and spluttering harder.

Inside, disappearing through the doorway to the bathroom, I followed a scant trail of wet swimsuit, shorts and sneakers, a towel, and finally wet footprints.

The sound of the shower greeted me as I caught up to her and stripped down.

I checked my watch. We had just over half an hour till dinner.

And there, showering together languorously, Katria whispered her story in my ear. I let down the walls in my mind and it felt like I lived much of it with her, breathed the same air, walked to Lyyli's house with her.

I shared her discoveries after leaving Helsinki with DeeDee, shared her careful monitoring of some of the people who came and went from the Hancock Center.

She watched mostly from a sense of self-preservation, but her recognition of a connection to that file room to DeeDee's contract to study Monica and me over a year ago made my blood run cold.

Careful to the time, without warning I licked and suckled her ear.

She came, completely spontaneously, and I touched the controls for the shower, turning the water to that wonderful, icy spray!

We both shrieked and shuddered and laughed, and I caught her amazed eye, seeing an overlap of pleasure and realization. She nodded, giving me a deep hug as she shut the water off.

"That, that was sneaky! At least now I know you'll be able to catch me before I fall!"

Like long-lost sisters, we smiled, and I understood her completely:

There was someone I could trust without hesitation in Chicago.

"Hurry up, will you? I still have to get dressed, unless we want to shock Al! It's twenty till!"

She dove for her robe and ran for the door, gathering up gym clothes as she went.

I got my hair dry fast and was just finishing buttoning up my green silk shirtdress, the matching full slip settling into place when the door chimed. I checked my watch. Ten till.

I opened the door to a vision. Katria had chosen a long, chocolate full skirt that barely cleared the carpet, a heavy, raw linen blouse with a tall collar and open, deep cuffs. She'd left the blouse flow over the skirt's waistline and wound it with a four-times looped polished leather belt. Nothing on her feet, and nothing in the way of jewelry.

She shone with health and the inherent loveliness found only in the genes.

"The years to come will touch you but lightly," I thought.

She looked at me with bright eyes, a little hesitant and a little playful.

"We better set the table, huh?"

The girl laughed, and visibly relaxed.

"I'll do it. I know where everything is; but we could open the wine?"

I was at the little rack in the kitchen before she was finished.

"Fourth bottle down, on the left, one in."

I found it. A Tuscan rose' from the Siena province, 'Sant'antimo Riserva' from 2000. I looked at it suspiciously, but uncorked it and sniffed.

A sip, a taste. "Oh, my! Good thing I'm going barefoot tonight! This'll take the heels out from under you; and what a way to go!"

I brought out two glasses and saw the table was already set.

Katria brushed past me to the intercom.

"Al, get up here! We're hungry, and I pointed our guest in the direction of the Sant'antimo!"

The dumbwaiter hummed softly and the door opened upward.

And from behind us a deep voice rumbled happily, "You'd better have a third glass poured, or I take this all back and you can fend for yourselves!"

________________________________________________________________________________________



The Romantic

My Dad was a Chicago cop.

My grandfather had been, too.

And his father, before him.

Me? I loved food; and I followed my passion all the way to the Culinary Institute of America, graduating second in my class. I won international competitions, I even took an invitation to study for five years in Paris, and later, Milan! 

I took honors everywhere I went, and I became lead chef at some pretty fabulous, famous places over the years! I was the chef to Generals, to diplomats, to entire Countries!

I could never seem to settle down, though. Dad, Chicago Blue to the very last, my Dad never forgave me for breaking with the family business, the family tradition. Mike Rochford never forgave. Never.

I think he came to understand, before the very end. OK, maybe that's just wishful thinking, but I've got that right, don't I?

See, all I ever loved was making food so unbelievably wonderful that people wanted seconds. I loved making people happy when they sat down to eat! My Mom, bless her, my Mom I think understands; maybe always has. She threw me out of the kitchen though, the first time I ever cooked Thanksgiving dinner and we had the whole family over, all thirty-seven of us; and everybody ended up complimenting me loads more than my Mom.

I was just fifteen, that Thanksgiving. I was just fifteen when my Dad knew I wouldn't be putting on the uniform and following in his footsteps. He wasn't happy, I can tell you that. He thought I was maybe a homo or something; that's what he said, especially when he'd drink.

If he only knew! Me? I've always loved women, adored women! I've seduced women with appetizers, romanced them with entrees, and made love to them by the thousands over dessert! I've had them in every shape and size and color in my bed. OK maybe more in my mind than real life, but plenty have been wonderful friends and some, lovers; lovers that could make the angels themselves forget their wings, I swear!

But I never felt like I had the right one. Maybe that's it, that's the problem: maybe they have to have me. I wasn't sure for the longest time; but I'm getting ahead of myself.

See, I took up painting when I went to Paris to study. I thought I was some big-shot chef when I aced the CIA in the States. I get to Paris and you'd have thought I was the garbage-boy, some jerk that didn't know how to make bouillabaisse! I wasn't about to let those snot-noses make me wash out, no way! So I took up art.

Yeah, I know; I know: a guy who cooks, who doesn't want to be a cop; and he takes up painting? Jesus Christ, what's next, coming home with a boyfriend half my age named Luigi?

I heard it, I heard every word they said.

I still fell in love with art, with learning to paint! I fell in love with the purity you had to have in your soul to get across to even some geek that what you'd painted was beautiful, beautiful enough to hit home. You can't do that if you got no soul!

I ended up a better chef because I spent all my spare time in Paris learning to paint. I can make a seven-course meal so sublime even some homeless garbage will probably sit up and have manners! It's not that hard to get perfection when it's cooking for the snobs, it just means you spend a fortune on the raw ingredients and then know what you're doing.

Make a housewife who's been living on food-stamps and working three jobs to put bread in the mouths of her five kids, make her feel beautiful when you serve her a meal that comes straight from the heart? That's something different. That's when it counts!

Maybe it's just me. I know I got to watch out for being so opinionated. Maybe it's because I'm from Chicago.

I could never just kiss some jerk's ass because he was rich, though; and I changed jobs a lot as the years went by because of it.

I turned fifty and I decided to do it my way. I started being an executive chef for the Hancock Center; my own business. No set menu, you just call and let me know what you want and for how many and when and I guarantee complete satisfaction or you don't pay a dime.

That's how I met Miss Alexander! I did some high-power lunches and dinners for her clients and she asked if we could meet. A proposition, she said.

Make a long story short, I end up with a free condo on the 85th floor and fifty grand a year; all I got to do is give Miss Alexander priority, no exceptions! I thought I'd done good till her girl shows up the first Saturday to clean my condo.

Katria stole my heart, stole it for keeps with just one look.

Go ahead, laugh if you want, you know nothing! Nothing! I dream of wanting to do her, a life-size sculpture in pure silver. Yeah. Love the size of Big John; the real deal.

I can't sculpt, not like she deserves, but I did a stylized bust of her in ice, once. What do I do? Now, the only subject for what I paint is what I see in her eyes, and I do, but only Miss Alexander knows.

She dropped by about four months after I started, and I had a canvas, Katria in a winter forest, praying, and with it about two-thirds done Miss Alexander drops in on me.

"Hi, Al! Comfortable in your new digs?" She was all dressed up for some power-lunch, this perfect white suit and a laugh in her eyes.

I held the door open for her, feeling myself turn beet-red down to my toes when she saw my painting, looking me up-and-down, me all smudged with acrylics and holding my palette, standing there in my old sweats and a Cub's tee shirt.

"Yeah, life is good; but you should know something."

She bit her lower lip and looked like she was going to laugh at me, but she steps up close to the canvas and gets still suddenly. I get nervous.

"This is beyond something I would classify as 'amateur,' Al. You have a wonderful eye, and your technique comes straight from Europe!"

I could look at her out of only one eye, me trying hard to look at my sneakers, but I nodded.

"So, tell me."

I stood up and straightened my shoulders and took a deep breath.

"I'm in love with your maid. A fool's kind of love, she probably thinks I'm just an old man, beautiful as she is." I had to clear my throat past a lump that wanted to choke me. "Call it an infatuation and you'll be right. Thinking about her makes my heart sing, and then all I want to do is paint her."

Miss Alexander took a long look at me.

"As long as it never is visible while you're in my employ, then this is between the two of you, or just you and your heart as the case may be; none of my concern and none of my business."

I could only nod, swallowing hard.

"With your talent, I would be interested in commissioning some paintings. I love old sailing ships, and the sea in all her moods and tempers."

I brightened, nodding again.

Miss Alexander got this wry grin, and I relaxed, chuckling a little.

"I had my heart in my throat there! Absolutely, I would love to see if I can satisfy your tastes in a few paintings! I'll see you get three sketches in a week!"

She smiled, came and shook my free hand and headed for the door.

"Just be sure you date someone from outside the Center from time to time, will you, Al?"

The door closed, and I could smell her perfume past the wet acrylics.

"I'll try," I whispered.

I think Miss Alexander told Katria, because after that the girl was always a little more shy and quiet around me, but damned if I didn't catch a little smile on her face once in a while!

In the three years since then I've done eleven paintings for my boss, and she bought eight of them, paying me between five and fourteen thousand for each one. I've only done two more of Katria, moving on to paint some of the women I've dated.

A gallery is interested in my work, saying they'll review me when I bring in three canvases each on five different subjects.

I still daydream of a silver sculpture, though.

Of just one girl.

And all the love in my heart comes out whenever I cook, more than ever!

________________________________________________________________________________________



I turned around fast, suddenly very aware that the Sig was out of reach, still in my robe on my bed.

I came face-to-face with a beaming, grey-haired man at the most an inch taller than me, and easily seventy pounds heavier dressed impeccably in black. Black tailored slacks, black long-sleeved shirt open at the neck, and gleaming black loafers.

He swept up Katria in a quick turn and released her, gallantly taking my hand and kissing it.

"Miss McAllister, the pleasure is all mine! What peasant in the streets below wouldn't kill to have the pleasure of such company over this simple meal as I?"

I curtsied, and kissed him on the cheek, to which he immediately blushed.

"Al, please, I'm just Rose. DeeDee trusts you, Katria obviously likes you, so what do you say we three just enjoy a quiet dinner together?"

He was moving quickly, light on his feet, spreading out a large bowl of salad, black bread on a cutting board complete with a serrated knife, and a large covered platter on the white tablecloth.

Finished, he took the proffered glass from Katria and held it up in a toast.

"Then, to the delights of believing in the archaic concept of friendship!"

Three glasses touched gently and we drank. He proceeded to seat me at the head of the table, then Katria to my right, before himself with his back to the closed door of the little kitchen.

They looked at me expectantly.

I reached, and they each took hold of one hand.

"Blessed be, that a stranger finds friends in a land far from home! Let us know peace and pleasure in these hours together as equals, sharing this table and the breaking of bread."

Katria's eyes were full, and she reached and took Al's hand.

"I've wanted to share a meal with you for years. I am so happy we finally may in the company of Rose!"

Al looked at her with delight, winking, his voice warm.

"Then, let's not simply eat! Tonight we dine! I had hopes, I did, so I held nothing back!"

Words fail me to describe that night. The food opened my eyes, as I'd never known anything I would instinctively call 'world-class,' but it was that, and more.

I could've made a meal out of salad and bread, the feta and slivers of grilled, smoked duck in steamed dandelion greens and fresh spinach with baby octopus all but begging for the dark, crusty black bread and unsalted butter. Al produced a small pot of coarse-ground pate, and I was really thinking about seconds to everything until Katria whisked the plates away and Al lifted the lid to the platter.

Rack of lamb. He'd carved button radishes into delicate bouquets with such skill the eye was fooled, he'd made dolmades with lamb and duck, the tyropita delicate and crisp with a cheese I couldn't begin to identify, tiny exohiko - all surrounded the dish, separated with roast baby potatoes removed from their skins, mashed with spices and returned to finish golden brown.

He reached behind and produced a bottle of Chianti for my inspection while Katria loaded my plate with glee.

"CHIANTI COLLI FIORENTINI RISERVA, 1976."

I looked at him, blank and stunned.

All I could do was hand it back to him with reverence, and nod. 

The cork surrendered, and Katria replaced our glasses. Al poured a sip for my approval, and swirling the glass I saw a pure garnet that would defy Kodak to copy in a print. A sip, staying on my tongue as I inhaled.

"I don't think I've ever had something this perfect, this full-bodied without any fault!"

He beamed and filled our glasses.

"Let's get serious and eat, then!"

We did. Oh, Goddess that was the meal of a lifetime! There was barely enough to call scraps an hour later. . .

Katria cleared the table and Al went briefly into the little kitchen only to emerge with a fresh apple tart. Katria handed round cups of espresso.

With generous slices before each of us and the steam of the coffee, I knew an unaccustomed sense of happiness at such wonders of food.

"Al, do you dine with guests, or with DeeDee from time to time?"

Slurping noisily to keep from burning his mouth, he paused and set the demitasse cup back on its' saucer.

"No. The closest I come to a table as enjoyable as this is the occasional woman who comes home with me for the evening. Usually it's a professional acquaintance in town on business."

Katria took a forkful of tart and sighed in bliss, and sipped her coffee, looking at me with something of a wicked glint.

"We're just part of her business; we're not friends beyond those boundaries, not to her."

I shook my head. "I'll never understand normal people."

Al laughed heartily and openly.

"Rose, this is a world of 'professionals,' where you only succeed if you are a force to be reckoned with! Friends are seen as a weakness to most people at Miss Alexander's altitude."

He refilled my cup, and we got to talking about our respective pasts. I understood Katria's cover story now, and we were both careful not to open any doors in the conversation that would see us close to boundaries of privacy.

Al was a surprise, and I looked at him, teasing. "You should've gone into politics! With the rest of your talents and passions you'd have fit right in as the head of a dynasty, you know, like the Medici family was during the Renaissance!"

I took a dour look for that before he chuckled, "I'd complain about the food too much!"

He took his leave soon after, saying there was a busy day ahead as he was to cater both the breakfast and the Parisian luncheon for the Directors of the Chicago Opera before the close of DeeDee's presentation. Everything had disappeared up into the dumbwaiter and the dining room was again spotless.

I have him a warm hug, and kissed him on the cheek as he stood at the front door.

"It's doubtful our paths will ever cross again, good Sir. I'm grateful to have made the acquaintance of a gentleman who is unexcelled in any kitchen, and truly lovely company."

He bowed and kissed my hand.

Katria came up to him and took his hand, a little shy at the love in his eyes.

"I would love to be your guest on a picnic, some warm Spring day. Could you find the time in your schedule?"

He laid his left hand over hers and took a deep breath, sighing happily.

"It will be my only priority for my first day off. You have my promise."

With that he turned and left unhurriedly, a look of joy wreathing his very soul plainly.

________________________________________________________________________________________



Katria and I looked at each other. I was still leaning against the door and she but a foot or so away from me.

We started undressing at the same instant, a bout of the giggles taking us.

I headed for the sofa in my slip, and she followed, out of sight momentarily as I stretched out, head thrown back, groaning in payment to the preceding epic of incomparably wonderful food and wine.

The girl sounded off from the adjacent wing of midnight leather, and I rolled to my side to look and share a laugh.

She was in chocolate-colored French lace bikini panties. Nothing else. I choked.

"Stay right there for twelve hours while I catch up on sleep, and then let me tumble you for the rest of the day, will you!? My stars, girl, you have beauty!"

She leaned on one elbow and looked at me evenly.

"I couldn't; not here! I might be interested, if I came to visit you and your lover in the mountains; yes I could love that!"

And she just looked at me, a slow smile spreading.

I returned that promissory smile and opened the doors to my heart wide, behind my eyes, wanting her to get an idea of how truly she would be welcomed. Her eyes widened and dilated. She breathed deeply and blinked, shook her head slowly.

"Not here, never here - and not now. . ." The words formed quietly in my mind as if I heard her whisper.

I rolled to my back, and opened my heart wider, sensing the light pouring out. Thoughts formed, a whisper again.

"I didn't know if this could work. I've never tried it before - you didn't know you had such power?"

"No - I only go here in my devotions. . ."

"Gently; gently! You are truly powerful! I can lose my mind and my sanity here too easily. Yours is a wild power! Mine was built over years of brutality and fear. . ."

"This is too intimate for me. Only my love touches this place."

"Then we will stop. Till I may visit your mountain, only trust my spoken direction or suggestion - it is based on protection and discretion. Nearly everything here is monitored in some way."

"I am going into the file room tomorrow, after they leave."

"Yes, you must. For now, know I love you like no other. . ."

The soft whisper in my mind faded.

I sat up and looked at her, running my fingers through my hair.

"I'm going to fall asleep before much longer. This is way too comfortable, I'm too full, and you're too cute to resist! Time to say good-night."

Katria yawned and stretched, and I would've loved to have a tape of that, her against the midnight leather.

"You're right," sighing, and yawning again.

She slipped into her skirt and buttoned the middle of her blouse, the belt going over one shoulder.

"Thank you for the treat, for chaperoning Al, for enjoying having us at your table."

She hugged me, and I couldn't help but return it.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

I groaned and yawned.

"Ordinary stuff. Coffee and doughnuts?"

She nodded, warm laughter in her eyes, turned and I closed the door after her.

I barely made it into bed, arranging a few things and my thoughts going to Monica before sleep pounced.

________________________________________________________________________________________



I awoke in the night to the faintest sounds of whispering.

The Sig had been rigged the same way as I kept my HK back home, the shoulder rig looped around the bed post near my head. A slight linear pressure and it slipped into my hand as my feet found the floor in the nearly-familiar darkened room.

Patiently and silently I moved towards the sound, alternately tilting and turning my head to either side, both to catch cumulative peripheral and residual optic patterns that resolved into shapes that belonged, as well as to heighten my aural senses to the location of the sounds. I held the pistol close with both hands, the muzzle automatically following every turn of my head, my right index finger well inside the trigger-guard but touching the forward curve of the guard, well free of the trigger even though the Sig had in dry-firing felt like it had at least an eight-pound double-action pull.

The grandfather clock by the front door struck six, and still the almost imperceptible whispering continued.

I moved into the dining room through the living room and felt for the book shelves, keeping my distance from the door to the small kitchen, seeing the faint glow of pre-dawn through the sheers over the windows, orienting. I was close.

The sound was coming from the curio cabinets? Yes.

I opened the sheers wide and more light came into the room. For some reason I was hesitant to activate any controls that might trigger the attention of the robotic systems I was now very sure were never off-line. I looked at the antiques in frustration, opening the doors wide. The sound remained at the same level. I touched the first little bronze from India, and I all but dropped the piece as I heard the Hindu clearly; the woman's voice still very distant and soft but almost to the exclusion of the other sounds, voices all speaking in different tongues.

My hand was shaking as I replaced the bronze in it's original place, taking a moment to touch each in the collection briefly. The result was exactly the same. A singular voice came more clear, speaking a tongue I'd never heard before!

Realization of the implication dawned on me with almost violent clarity.

These were all, every one of them sacred to their cultures! I was hearing the prayers spoken to them or over them in supplication from literally centuries and beyond as if I were within the specific temples!

I felt a rictus of stress almost tearing at my face, my mind shocked to stillness. I forced myself to breathe, again.

I closed the glass doors with the delicacy and care as if there were a family of sleeping cobras inside, leaving the room, my eyes barely daring to look away as I cleared the thick pocket doors and slid them shut.

Cold sweat was drying on me, and I felt sticky. The taste of pure fear was acrid in my mouth. 

Back in my bedroom I re-holstered the pistol and sat in the dark on the edge of my bed. Sleep would be impossible, and I wanted some way to have a little privacy to try and make sense of what such an ability, an experience could mean!

A sauna. Perfect.

I moved through my suite, touching the lighting controls as I went. Bottled water from the fridge, some accapella music on the little stereo and I was at the oval spruce door. Inside, the clear-grained wood was unstained and I felt no sense of claustrophobia. I set the controls and smiled at the familiar pinging of the electric coils heating came from beneath the steel grate filled with river rock.

The limiter on the temperature rheostat was set at 150 degrees Fahrenheit, so I set the timer for an hour and grabbed a towel and got comfortable, looking at my watch.

Back out, setting the jeweled piece on the counter, and back in, I sighed as I lay back on the top bench, my toes walking up the curved wall till I felt my bones hold the position to toast my feet.

"Sauna, cold shower, warm bath and them back to the shower to wash my hair," I thought.

I tried to focus on the sacred objects. Nothing. I took three deep breaths and let my consciousness find that floating meadow, and did my devotions, asking for the first time in my life for guidance. . .

I came back to awareness and my feet were a little too hot! The bottle of water, tricked over them felt wonderful, and I sat up, sat back and relaxed into the gently curving wall, enjoying the touch of hot, clean and dry wood on my spine and ribs.

Deep, slow breathing brought a delightful cleansing sensation to my lungs, and I coughed forcefully to clear them.

"Let's get this real, girl," I thought, looking at the bucket with it's carved ladle on the floor by my feet. A bundle of willow wands hung by the door, and I smiled.

Two generous ladles of water were poured ritually over the scorching hot rocks, instantly becoming steam. I breathed slowly and deeply, breaking into another fit of coughing as the smog broke free. I took the willow bundle from the wall and began gently whipping myself with it, feeling the responding burst of stimulated perspiration spring from my skin at each stinging stroke.

In scarcely more than a minute every inch of my body save my face had known the touch of the wands and I was literally pouring with sweat.

Slouching back against the wall I let my thoughts wander a little, glancing at the timer, happy that there was still a full half-hour remaining.

That I could hear Katria's thoughts clearly when my heart was open and we were close made sense. She had been raised to develop an enforced pattern of expanded consciousness under a brutal and cold militaristic dictate to succeed at distance-seeing or likely die, where my mind had been first nurtured my by Mom when I was only a child. Surviving the kidnaping and the years of horror and darkness had strengthened me, instead of breaking my spirit, though there had been times when I thought I would go insane. . .

I slammed that door of introspection shut savagely.

If a pattern had been made between Monica and me, then it was easier to understand how we could sense each other; it even made my dreams understandable. That Katria had imprinted her pattern of consciousness in my by reaching out with her mind implied a durable repetition of contact, though such a thing felt far too intimate. The whispered prayers of the sacred pieces in the next room were still more than just a little frightening, though; and I suspected such would always remain so.

The timer pinged five times, and I opened my eyes. I smiled with eager dread as I stepped from the spruce womb and into the shower, my touch now confident on the controls.

The icy torrent felt almost silken, the needle-sharp spray a little distant for a few moments. I scrubbed my fingers into my scalp, letting the water dig deep, and I gasped as a measure of temperature sensation had me struggling to keep from bursting into coarse song as I shut the shower off and headed for the jaccuzzi tub.

Ordinary faucets were a relief to find! The tub filled rapidly with 101-degree water as indicated by the small LED display I'd overlooked. I found the small cabinets that emerged to my touch at the far side of the tub and was unashamedly generous with a foaming, moisturizing liquid body bath.

I drained the bottled water and did my morning toilet, happy to find moist towlettes too.

The water shut of automatically and I slid in, groaning with pleasure. I looked around and found the controls for the window blinds and raised them with a touch of a button.

Sunrise was a little bright, but the view and the sense of simply reveling in it from a luscious bubble-bath-in-the-sky couldn't survive any argument!

I dunked my head and scrubbed, and surfaced blowing and spluttering and laughing quietly, settling in to enjoy the show.

I found a loofah and idly scrubbed till I decided I really should get up and shower and dress for the day.

"Something fun," I thought as I shampooed, tilting my head back to rinse, the shower sluicing water over my face.

"I agree, I would love to see what your idea of 'something fun' would be this morning. . ." a warm whisper sounded in my mind, playfully.

I straightened, my fingers still in my hair and opened my eyes as Katria melted into me, kissing my neck, her firm breasts lush against my body as the shampoo rinsed between and down the two of us, her knee rising to my sex gently, insistently.

"Good morning! Shouldn't you knock first, or something?"

She leaned back and smiled.

"Knock, knock."

She handed me the bottle of shampoo and fielded a dark look with rapid blinks of her dark eyes.

I sighed, took a generous portion of shampoo and got busy on her hair. It was a little difficult, as the insisted on being as close to me as possible. I ended up with a nose-full of lather when her tongue started working down to my rings and my knees buckled. . .

More than a few seconds passed with my face under the farthest nozzle as I tried vainly to keep her at arms length, getting my now-fragrant sinuses clear.

"Oops."

I sucked my cheeks into my mouth and munched, looking at the girl sourly for as long as I could.

"Can I try that again? The gold sparkles in the water, and it's hard to look away."

I sighed. She handed me the conditioner. We managed a thorough shower before the upper floors of the skyscraper ran out of water, but not by much. We took to the hair dryers, and I tried not to lose myself in the mischievous and slow display being performed next to me.

When I glanced outside and saw the sun breaking through the lake-effect clouds with brilliant beams of light it was too much to bear.

I took her by the shoulders and kissed her very seriously. I think the continental plates advanced before she broke and came up for air, took a deep breath, looked me in the eyes, licked her lips and closed in for the kill.

I leaned back and said, as steadily as I could, "I want breakfast!"

She stepped back calmly, fire in her eyes and her mouth working to break her composure at her bright cheeks and she straightened with exquisite slowness. I ached for her, watching. My mouth was probably open. . .

"It's on the table. You should get dressed first?"

I leaned against the wall in resignation, chewing my lips.

"OK, but for that attitude, you pick out what I'm going to wear all day."

"Oh. Sure! I can do that with my eyes closed!"

She sparkled. I glared. She laughed, and took a step closer.

"Git!"

A warm, "Yes, Miss McAllister," was tossed over shoulder as she slipped into her robe and disappeared around the corner.

I felt like I'd boil a sitz bath filled with crushed ice. A long drink of water helped.

Resolute, I made my way into the bedroom. She was nowhere in sight, though the music had been changed to Celene Dion's early album, "Unison," and she'd indexed it forward two tracks.

I looked at her choice in my wardrobe just as "Where Does My Heart Beat Now" began pouring through the morning. Clouds were forming across Lake Michigan, and whitecaps were forming, barely visible on the water.

My black silk outfit was spread out on the newly-made bed, with the silk cami and it's dozen seed-pearl buttons fastening the bodice, the yards of Venetian lace following the straps, neckline and bottom, the underskirt and long skirt both hemmed in it in layers. The flowing short jacket dripped lace around the edges and sleeves, and the entire ensemble was flawlessly clean and detailed.

It would go perfectly with Monica's leather trench and conceal the Sig, and be almost enough should the day develop into something more than just a little blustery.

I went back into the bathroom and sparingly misted myself in my perfume, the light, crisp scent a counter to what I felt was the severity of wearing black from head-to-toe. I decided a little moisturizing foundation and barely enough eye makeup and mascara would be apt. I was dressed and in the rig in ten minutes, deciding to wear my rings and sterling choker, diamond pendant and studs, and my watch.

Touching the sterling and turquoise I ached with homesickness, for the familiar world and life waiting for me.

The mirror gave quite an account of the clothes-horse that stood before it, though with the effects of the spa and sauna, my hair was far more lovely than I was accustomed and my poise bespoke of a repressed longing to enjoy the remaining years of succeeding at an appropriate degree of beauty to my years.

"Whoa! Girl, if you think for an instant Master doesn't see you as the treasure of her life with her entire being even when you're sweat-streaked and filthy after cutting and splitting and stacking wood all day, then this is someplace to flee, instead of getting enamored with!" I took a deep breath and nodded to the reflection.

I smelled fresh coffee, and went into the post-and-beam dining room to find Katria waiting, wearing black denim jeans and a spaghetti-strap white tank top. Coffee and an assortment of fresh doughnuts were at the head of the table.

Her eyebrows all but disappeared, and she grinned, straightening.

"You look all business and very no-nonsense, with just enough sexiness to match the day! I like the look, even if it does make you come across as a little intimidating."

I sat and she poured, picking out a glazed, raised and enthusiastically taking a huge bite that left sticky sweetness at the corners of her mouth. I sipped, happy to find dark roast Kenyan in my cup.

Remembering, I got up and found the note from Pia with the address still in my jeans from yesterday, and slipped it into my jacket, adjusting the FOBUS rig.

We finished the light breakfast quickly, and Katria left everything, holding a finger to her lips, cautioning silence. She went to the dumbwaiter and slipped inside easily, the door shutting automatically. It hummed, stopped, and returned.

I opened it and managed to carefully kneel in the gleaming stainless box, watching the door shut, leaving me in complete darkness until it came to a halt in the vacant kitchen two floors above and opened.

Getting to my feet easily I looked around. Katria was at the open door to the kitchen, her eyes closed.

She headed to the file room abruptly and I followed, careful not to let my heels make noise on the white tile floor. The labs below had a handful of men and women working, engrossed. We weren't noticed, and I saw the heavy door was opened wide.

I had an overlay of experience. This was like stalking dangerous game, where one could find the tables turned with a single moment's carelessness.

The girl was motioning me to the fourth bank back, and she disappeared, moving to her right. I was at her side in seconds, breathing easily, trying to keep adrenaline in check.

She spun the three-spoke wheel and separated the first rack from it's mate, pointing questioningly at the index listing.

"U.S. CODE 12.199.a REFERENCE."

My heart thudded painfully. Katria spin the wheel on the next bank. The same index listing; and she reached midway down and pulled a file, opening it for me to see. Inside was the record, "18MAR51, LOCATION 71."

The file was almost an inch thick, and contained single-page ID files of women, followed with photos of the subject holding what looked like turquoise. The last picture was a photograph of what looked like an aura that surrounded a hand holding the rock. The sequence continued alphabetically, and all the files were marked, "USAAF, TOP SECRET."

The girl ran eight banks to the rear of the room and to the far right corner and spun the wheel on the bank, opening the last files on the top shelf.

The files were sealed and still bore the Top Secret stamp, but there was a title. "THE PYRITE PHENOMENA, CONCLUSIONS, VOLUME ONE OF SEVEN." She motioned me to the partially filled second shelf and pulled another file. My heartbeat hammered.

"ROSE MCALLISTER."

The file had layers of broken seals and was re-sealed. The box with authorization signatures had illegible scrawls, but they were dated. The last was the day, month and year I'd rescued Deirdre.

I was going dizzy and I fought to clear my head, to focus. Icy, homicidal calm washed over me and my mind cleared.

Katria was looking at me, worried. She motioned me back and closed the bank. We back-tracked, and seemingly randomly she took a half-dozen files, closing her eyes now and then. 

We were back at the door, and she paused, handing me the stack of files. She stepped quickly into Deirdre's office and I followed silently. At the desk, she opened the left credenza and withdrew a new, boxed leather portfolio from a stack of identical boxes. I stuffed the portfolio and she took the box, going to the door, again pausing.

Back to the kitchens.

Scooping up some of the trash from Al's preparations for his catering, she crushed and buried the box, choosing a drawer underneath one of the prep tables. I saw it was full of pastry bags and nozzles. She nodded and in went the portfolio.

Suddenly she hurried to the dumbwaiter and motioned me inside.

I got to my feet quickly in my little kitchen and closed the door on the dumbwaiter. It seemed too long but the girl emerged, and standing hugged me hard.

I went back to the table and poured coffee for both of us. I was working on compartmentalizing the discoveries when I felt a whisper forming in my mind, softly, gently.

"The dumbwaiter has no interface to any monitoring system I could discover, love. It is a discreet way to move about without the card-key tracking system or the internal security system registering anything. . ."

I took a deep swallow of coffee and found a semblance of balance.

"So your exploration of the file room was first motivated by a sense of self-preservation?"

She sipped her coffee and stretched and smiled, relaxing into the chair.

"That changed when Miss Alexander dropped everything and focused exclusively on you and Monica and she took a contract from someone on the East coast that would clear all of her financial concerns for two years. . ."

I munched a chocolate-frosted chocolate doughnut, and I drained my cup, swallowing hard past a lump in my throat, hoping my stomach wouldn't be tied into knots all day and beyond.

"Are we being monitored now?"

"It's just possible. There are at least ten fiber-optic lines that run to sub-miniature devices in every room save the bathroom, to gain an advantage over other clients; but when Helen sets up to do that, I can follow her and see the recording machines in place and activated. The monitoring room isn't in use, and she hasn't checked anything there for days. . ."

The girl sighed, and I think we were both feeling the strain.

"Is Helen Deirdre's vassal?"

"No, definitely not; far less than Miss Alexander wants to believe. She is an independent, working for someone else; exactly whom I haven't discovered - but she sees me as less-than-human, a blind-spot of arrogance."

I poured the last of the coffee from the carafe.

"One thing puzzles me. Miss Alexander now is barely recognizable as the same woman who left! Whatever her experiences in Colorado, Helen is barely able to conceal her anger with her. The only remaining part of the contract is to see you seduced by this place and Miss Alexander's wealth, open to coming here more and more frequently until one day you stay. . ."

The girl laughed, and came and hugged me.

"Where are you going shopping?"

I was acutely aware of the time lapse, the dead space on any recording.

"I was thinking of going to the Lake and just wander for a couple hours first. I really need to stretch my legs!"

She nodded. "This is flat, and your home is mountain on mountain on mountain range, yes. When you are ready to spend Miss Alexander's money, you'll find almost anything you could want within a mile or two of here."

I stood, calm and surprisingly relaxed, and made my way to the front door. I saw an envelope on the bar, Deirdre's handwriting and my name. Beneath it was a shopping guide to Chicago printed by the Hancock Center.

Five hundred in fifties and twenties, and a platinum card embossed with "Itasca Industries." The yellow sticky-note on the first bill said, "Cab money, lunch money, and mad money; have fun today! Your signature is valid on the card. DeeDee." I flipped through the guide, smiling at the ad for charters on the back cover.

I pocked the legal tender in my jacket and put the credit card in my checkbook, seeing that my phone was in Monica's coat and I turned it on, my thoughts going to home. I patted the pockets and found the card-key, feeling more comfortable about its' abilities and limitations.

Katria came up, holding the cordless phone.

"May I call you a cab?"

"Please. I'll be back before six, hopefully bearing gifts!" I slung my back pack over my shoulder in lieu of a purse and headed for the elevator.

________________________________________________________________________________________



A cab was waiting when I made it through the revolving doors. The day was undecided, but a cold breeze was blowing from the North.

Rush hour was going full blast, and I was relieved to slam the door when I sat down. The smell of whiskey and marijuana came through loud and clear as the driver, at best in his early twenties twisted around.

"Where to, lady?"

"Diversey Yacht Club please."

I couldn't help but watch the driver. "I doubt he knows he's well on his way to being a protege to a character in some new Tom Waits album. Drinking cleaning products the day before payday and using parking meters as walking sticks are at most a few years away!"

Taking the little bridge to the left and then right, I watched the lines of pleasure craft come into view happily. 

"Twenty-two bucks, lady."

I grinned and handed him twenty-five, careful not to contact his hands directly as he took the notes and I got out.

As the derelict-in-training headed back to Lakeshore Drive, I stretched and looked around. It felt good to see the Chicago skyline in the distance to the South.

I headed North along the service road, smiling at the waiting tour cart that would save the rich owners from having to walk. The wind came in gusts, but I couldn't have cared less.

I'd walked for about an hour, up and down the ramps, just sightseeing when from the hatch of an incongruous but well-maintained Island Packed a few steps in front of me a haphazardly-cut brown mop of hair emerged, followed with a round, sunburnt, worn face split into a yawn.

The girl came to the deck and waved me over. I could see her muttering under her breath, like a nervous twitch that had become second-nature. In a beat-up hooded sweatshirt and cut-off jeans and bare feet, I could see powerful muscles in her legs

She scrubbed her fingers through her hair and waved a cup of coffee at me.

"I got a fresh pot, and what I brew will blow the rust out of your brain!"

Her mouth worked silently, as if she were a mime following a conference call at an auction-house.

I made it up to the port railing and she handed a tip-proof triangular-based white mug.

"Black is what I serve, honey." She grinned, her mouth somehow able to make clear speech through the ceaseless dysfunction.

"Black is good!" I reached, and the mugs clinked.

"I'm Kelly."

"Rose. You have a good boat!"

Her grin split even wider, and she stretched her arms wide. "All I got in the world, babe, 'cept for my means-to-earn-a-livin over there!"

I followed her arm and saw an old Hudson taxi. Even from a distance I saw it was lovingly maintained.

I took a deep swallow, my sinuses a little clogged from the humidity.

Kelly burst into laughter at my gasping breath!

"My 50-50 mix just for mornings! Half good Swedish vodka and half strong black coffee! Glad you like it!"

I screwed my eyes shut and shuddered, and then laughed.

I took another slug of the witches brew, ready for the impact and toasted her.

"Glad to make your acquaintance, Kelly! Bring up the coffee pot and leave the vodka below, would you?"

"Sure!"

She vanished, easy movements to the familiar spaces of the thirty-foot sailboat.

A battered blue enamel pot came up, followed by the rest of her.

"I come in peace! Don't kill me!"

I saw she cradled her left arm close and never used it as the pot was proffered, and my mug topped off after a third swallow.

Kelly showered her personality like a windstorm of 'the-hell-with-the-world,' and I leaned against the dock post.

She noticed my glance and stared at me carefully.

"Shit happens, OK?"

I held my mug out to her in a toast, and got a suspicious look in return.

"To survivors of shit, the universe, and everything else." I smiled frankly, and she looked me up and down as she sealed the imprecation to fate and life.

She exhaled and sat on the cockpit bench. "What are you doing here, dressed like that? You sure as hell ain't from around here!"

I looked to the skyline in the distance. "I had to get out of that concrete jungle for a little, and then I'm off to meet a dear friend I haven't seen in just ages."

She brightened. "You need a cab? I can be ready in a flash, babe! 'Judy,' there is my one true love, and we been takin care of each other for years and years now. You wouldn't happen to have a smoke on you, maybe?"

I found my pack and a lighter in my coat, realizing I hadn't smoked in two days. "So, it's not an addiction, but a habit! It's been busy since I left home." The thought brought a pang of homesickness.

We both finished our coffee and cigarettes at the same time in silence, just looking out at the day. The clouds were breaking, though the winds hadn't died down much.

Kelly stood up abruptly, her mouth still working furiously.

"So, you want a cab?"

I handed over my empty mug, smiling into her eyes.

"Sure."

She grinned again.

"Be with ya in just a minute, honey."

I looked across at the trophies in the harbor, wondering if any of them were used for much beyond parties.

Kelly bounced onto the deck in decent jeans and a chamois flannel shirt and deck shoes, sliding shut the cockpit doors and locking up.

"I bet you're gonna love Judy!"

The cabbie handed me in and I found myself in a rolling museum, giving Kelly the address.

The Hudson had probably taken food from Kelly's mouth, and she repaid her share of the love affair with pride in her worn but spotless interior. . .

________________________________________________________________________________________



Kelley:

"It was just plain weird. The sky should've been black, with the stacked thunderstorms coming into stark relief with the crackle of lightening. 

"We'd gone camping, just Mom and me not too long after Dad died, his rig jack-knifing on some lonely road in the Sierra Nevada mountains in a freak snowstorm; his forty-five foot air ride trailer carrying print ads for some newspaper on the run back to the Sacramento Valley to get another load of produce for Boston. They said he rolled to avoid a passenger van full of kids and went down a 220-foot embankment almost end-over-end. . .

"I heard the winds die down. Mom was asleep, having tried really hard to keep my spirits up all day. Crawling out of my sleeping bag, I poked my head out of the old tent and looked around. The sky was this pale green; like low, glowing fog!

"Even in the rolling mountains of Tennessee this was weird. I ran to the top of the hill behind the tent in my sweats to get a better view. At fourteen, with years of hating to wear shoes, my bare feet just flew over the soft mulch up and up.

"To the top, and I could see the dark outlines of higher hills flowing in easy shape around me like I was standing in the center of a bowl, the light still coming from somewhere, and the fog lifting. Lightening lit up a couple of the higher hill tops off to my right and I could see the thunder-bumpers crowding the sky, finally. It started to rain.

"It smelled so good! The old forest seemed to drown me and I threw my head back and closed my eyes and twirled, laughing; feeling the rain wash away all the stress and the feelings of people crowding over us during the funeral.

"For some reason I wasn't scared when I stopped spinning like Grandpa's old tin top and saw these very bright balls of light floating to the ground near me. They crackled softly, throwing shadows that shifted as they passed by trees close by. There were maybe half a dozen of them, falling slower than snowflakes!

"I just stayed where I was, watching; puzzled, but not scared at all.

'Holes in space and time,' I thought. I'd read about Tessla and ball lightening, but I'd never dreamed I'd ever see any!

"One of the balls was coming down really close, so I reached out and waited to see if it would land on my hand, like waiting with my mouth open to feel the first snow flake land on my tongue, telling me what Winter was going to taste like.

"Further away, behind me I guess, the first ball touched a tree and the tree blew in half! I spun, my arm still out, startled by the noise, and then I turned fast to see where the ball that was close to me was. The smell of electricity was intense.

"In slow-motion, I saw my hand still held out and I watched the glowing ball touch it, landing in my hand.

"Next thing I knew, Mom and a Park Ranger were over me! Mom was crying and the Ranger was talking urgently in his radio. I felt really sleepy, and I felt kind of numb.

"I woke up in a hospital room. My whole arm, clear up to my shoulder felt really cold and it hurt, too; like maybe I'd been burned by dry ice. I'd had the weirdest dreams, but I couldn't remember anything specific; just something like the sound of big pieces of leather being shook.

"Mom was asleep in the chair right by me. When I tried to sit up, she woke up all of a sudden, hugging me fast; but holding me really carefully like I was going to break into pieces like when I dropped a piece of her best crystal or something.

"It just shivered into pieces. . .

"My throat was raw and it hurt like hell, and I couldn't talk around a tube or something in my mouth. I watched a nurse come in and do something to my arm and I fell back to sleep.

"My life was a lot different after that.

"My whole arm looked freeze-dried; and it was numb and really hard to move just about all the time. And I kept having the same dream. The tall woman who wore fabulous dresses, who gathered kids' souls. I had to find her, to keep her from finding something. When I'd wake up, I'd see these glowing patterns, like a double-exposure over people I'd see, and those patterns would make my head hurt like hell; looking at them wasn't fun.

"I didn't tell anybody about it. The dream was bad enough. I'd made the mistake to talk about it now and then the first couple months after I got out of the hospital. Nobody could cope with hearing about that, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. Easier that way.

"I barely managed to graduate from High School. I didn't have anyone I could call a friend, not with my arm and the headaches and that damned dream; I just couldn't relate.

"I did odd jobs, mostly drone-work till I bought my boat and saved Judy from the scrap-heap and ended up here. She's here, the tall woman is here; I know it.

"I just know it. . . I'll know her when I see her and then all I want to do is touch her; I'll know what to do then."

The cab pulled up to a three-story brick house with manicured lawns. I looked around at the neighborhood, realizing I hadn't kept any track of where I'd ended up. It felt like the lake was off to my right, not too far away, but beyond that I didn't have a clue.

The shaggy mop twisted, and Kelly's face split into a grin.

"Forty-one and seventy, babe; you want me to wait?"

I looked in the driveway and saw Pia's Saab convertible in the driveway next to a gorgeous black Fiat Spyder. Handing over a fifty, I touched her face softly and shook my head, having sensed some of her story. "I'm pretty sure I can get a ride back."

She dug into her shirt pocket, scribbled fast and handed me her card. A phone number was on the back.

"Cell number, unlisted. Call me for anything; anything at all, OK?"

Her mouth started working silently again, and she caught herself and grinned again, looking at me more seriously. "You don't belong here. Go home as soon as you can, OK?"

I nodded and got out, heading for the polished mahogany door and its' stained glass surround. There was a thick brass knocker that looked like a Chinese dragon. No doorknob.

Hearing the old Hudson purr off behind me, I reached for the knocker and the door opened to Pia smiling like sunshine, her delicate hand motioning me inside.

Her flowing tunic and split skirt reminded me of custom fashions from Turkey. This fabric was watered gold-and-blue silk, though, and nearly transparent. Barefoot, old ivory toe rings seemed to glow with a light of their own as she stepped back and let me pass, shutting the door. I stepped into the foyer of old marble and walnut.

"Lavender," she whispered. Her exquisite body, petite and lithe seemed to flow into my arms. The contact of her to my senses was a flash-fire, overwhelming me with colors and a fragrance of anise and cinnamon.

Untangling herself, she took my borrowed coat and the black silk jacket, not remarking on the Sig and led me into a modern formal parlor around the corner. A cream-colored tooled leather sofa took both of us, our feet touching the primitive Navajo rug with its' pair of bold stripes in silence. I slipped out of the shoulder rig and laid it on the rug.

"This is the home of a friend. He's away in Australia for the next two years." She looked up at me and beamed. Motioning to the burled table by double doors that led further into the house, she said, "This came for you."

It was a small leather chest bound with brass. There was a four dial thumb-wheel lock by the hasp. I'd never seen it before, though the workmanship brought Tom to mind immediately.

"Here's the note." She handed me a piece of plain yellow legal paper. I knew the handwriting.

"My love;

I feel this should be with you. A safety system; what is here will ensure that

you can come home to me at your own discretion. Kallis has been a terror since you left - and I feel some darkness may be close to you. Tom assured me this would reach you discreetly by private means.

"In the normal way of things

every three in ten live long."

Know your balance and live impeccably.

Sir"

I knew the passage by heart, and knew the combination! Monica was referring to Chapter Fifty of the 'Tao Te Ching.' and that held too many implications. . .

Fingering the dials to 0050, the lock snapped open. Pia looked at me and walked over. I lifted the lid and gasped:

Inside were my pair of heavy throwing knives, my Kimber Stainless Compact in its' ballistic nylon shoulder rig, and my hiking clothes and boots! In the bottom were ten single-ounce bars of silver, ten Walking Liberty gold pieces and an old roll of currency about an inch thick next to two sealed boxes of 230gr Golden Saber ammunition. My field first-aid kit caught my eye and I undid the straps, curious. Emergency surgical kit, emergency drug kit, and transdermal Fentanol patches!

I closed the trunk, thinking. Pia hugged me, murmuring;

"People who know how to live

will never do things that threaten their lives, 

anymore than a traveler who knows

will run into a tiger or wild buffalo."

I looked at her in astonishment. Her soft voice spoke those words like they came from her soul.

"Tom says you have a wonderful Master, Lavender."

My mind was spinning. Master had sent me a worst-case emergency kit. The transdermal patches were state-of-the-art controlled narcotics, something I could either use to deal with severe injury for days, or I could sedate someone sleeping. But how did Pia know that passage from the 'Tao Te Ching!'

The exquisite girl reached up and took handfuls of my hair into both hands and pulled me down into a kiss. I was immersed in a swirling, floating sensation, and need for her hit me again. 

She whispered, "Lavender, you tried to be my guardian years and years ago when I was only seven. You were the only one of us ever to escape the Mistress. Tom bought my freedom almost ten years ago now, and he told me to study that book like my life depended on it. 

"I promised you I would never forget you. I never did."

I held the beautiful, exotic girl close, trying to keep that door that led to my nightmares of my past shut.

I gently held her at arm's length.

"My name is Rose. 'Lavender' can't be a name ever spoken again, beautiful girl. You're the only one who knows, yes?"

She looked at me solemnly, but her eyes showed depth and strength that took me back to the lightening-blasted crests of the Permangenite Range back home.

"Spring knows, too. She's sleeping upstairs. She came in yesterday with the trunk. She was bought by a man named Theo two years before Tom bought me, but the Mistress bought her back three years ago. She has to travel all over on some research project!

"Can I go wake her? You've become almost a myth, you know."

In my mind I saw a line of dominoes falling, dominoes the size of whole planets; one knocking into the other, the line of them stretching across space to a black hole that held my hell. I was calm.

"Not now. We'll meet some other time.

"I'll ask her to come visit; maybe in a few years?"

I froze. "The Mistress knows I'm here? Spring brought my trunk?"

Pia smiled and slipped in close. "No, silly, and yes: she and Theo stay in touch! He got the trunk to her somehow and she brought it here. She'd never see you returned to the Mistress!"

The girl's fingers were busy with the seed-pearl buttons of my bodice, tracing the flowing silver at my throat. 

"We all knew you'd be dead before you could testify at any hearing to see the Mistress in prison! None of us expected rescue or anything, we're just never going to let the story of your escape and disappearance fade! She still breaks most of us, but knowing you survived is something that helped keep me and Spring sane with what followed.

"And you're going to make love with me, finally, just like you promised."

She had me nude from the waist up. She looked at my pierced nipples with their twisted gold wires, followed up to the slender chain that held the diamond to the choker. She ducked under my arms and looked at my back, seeing the tattoo.

Her clothes was floating to the ground like Autumn leaves from a maple into a still pond.

"You found your Master? Your natural Master?"

I could only nod. My clit was pulsing to painful sensitivity and a spreading heat bloomed when delicate fingers deftly found my silk panties.

"You and Spring are the only family I have, love," the girl said as she led me out and down a short hall to a bedroom that swallowed an antique sleigh bed.

"We deserve a few hours together." The girl touched a black pad inset into the wall by the inside of the room, holding her forefinger to it till the boarders of the pad changed to blue.

"Piezo-electric scanner with a liquid-crystal edge! That means not only is the fingerprint read, so is the Kirlerian electrical aura, and it doesn't require the absence of light. This isn't public technology!"

Seeing my eyes at the pad, Pia clapped and hugged me. "The system is automatic and silent until the house itself is alerted. Ted's friend works for the Pentagon doing something involving fire of all things!

"We won't be disturbed." 

I breathed deeply and let my senses go, finding confirmation in a complete sense of peace from the house. "The system had been installed without disturbing the presence of the house, and that meant a Sensitive who was also an expert in fiber-optics."

Pia had turned down the sheets, both of us nude now. Her incredible waterfall of hair was wrapped around her and her delicate breasts took the touch of caressing forearms as she sat on the bed so very erect, watching, fists under her chin, waiting.

I climbed past her, laying on my side and I took the girl into my arms as something in my mind opened to this touch of her close to me again after a lifetime of having been apart.

"I love you."

"Yes. Always. . ."

The shadows had grown in the cooling day by the time my eyes opened. The stained-glass window was pouring rich colors across the bed where we still lay twined. Pia was curled into the hollow of my body, her breathing warm and gentle and deep, my legs curled up slightly to carry warmth and protection to her in her dreams.

Her cascade of hair spilled over both of us, and it was tickling my face. I moved to brush it away so I wouldn't sneeze and the girl's mouth opened, her tongue taking my ring into her mouth, tugging so very delicately at my breast; her lips closing, suckling.

She took another breath and yawned, opening her eyes looking for reassurance, finding it in my smile that echoed the lush erotic sensuality that had swept me away.

"I know how you survived now," she whispered.

I wrapped my arms around her and rolled to my back, setting the beautiful girl on top of my stomach.

"Tell me how."

Her face brightened. "Simple. You kept who you really are. I figured out how to do it, too! All the love you gave me, no matter what happened, you gave me a way to be myself. I kept it hidden all these years.

"That's why we had to make love. See, I've never let myself make love with anybody before, till just now.

"With you. Only you."

I sat up and her legs curled around my waist; her arms reaching around my neck.

Leaning and kissing the tip of her nose, I said;

"Be like a valley that parts to its' stream;

be a stream for the earth

and channel it so it flows to the sea."

She hugged me close, whispering;

"Be a channel for the powers here;

weave them in a true and practical way

so that they can become one again."

Something fell into place in my heart.

The girl slid off me and her feet found the floor. "Spring is going to find another, love. We both sense it, but she doesn't know who it is. That's why she didn't wait up for you. She thought seeing you would be too powerful a thing for her heart to endure.

"Me? Expect me in a couple years.

"I'm part of you." 

I got my feet on the floor, noticing for the first time an inlaid copper design set into the oak. I let my eyes wander up the vision that was the girl from her toes till our eyes met.

"I should be going."

She nodded, smiling. "I'll drive you back at least as far as Navy Pier. You can catch a cab from there."

I slipped into my cami and panties and padded to the chest in the living room, emptied the contents of the chest into my back pack, dressed and ran a brush through my hair.

Looking in the mirror in the bathroom I saw not even my light make-up was disturbed. 

Pia was waiting at the door, seeing me adjust the rig for the Sig. I nodded.

She disarmed the alarm on the house and we headed for her car.

________________________________________________________________________________________



Pia handled the powerful convertible deftly. She'd fingered her hair into a braid and looped the end on top of her head, fastening it with a silver-and-ivory-and-tortoiseshell clip. She was driving fast, making amazing time through what seemed like a morass of traffic. I leaned back and closed my eyes, thinking:

"Tom had to have sent that package from Master by private charter! That means - oh Goddess, the things that means!"

I looked at the impossibly beautiful, fragile woman behind the wheel, wearing only what I'd first seen her in at the front door.

"Making love with Pia has easily been the most delicious, sensual wonder I have known. Sharing something so exquisite, so delicately erotic was a balanced dance of loving. We never got sweaty and tangled up in the sheets, or even her hair for that matter."

I stretched, yawned, and all but jumped out of my skin when the driver of a semi hit his air horn in appreciation of the view! Pia's laughter sang out, and the turbo howled as she pounced and made a dizzying three-lane threading-the-needle shift that left the truck driver a hundred yards behind.

I could only shake my head. It had been a very long day already, and there were likely as not hours to go yet.

The girl dropped me off at the entrance to the pier. A quick kiss stolen in a loading zone and she was off again, disappearing in traffic too soon.

________________________________________________________________________________________



I made my way across the street and headed West, finding an internet café. Ordering a Ruben with fries and an iced tea I thumbed through the shopping guide, noting a few places of interest.

I glanced at my watch. One-thirty.

I ate without haste, putting the back pack at my feet, and absorbed the patterns of the café. Their clients were apparently all somewhat familiar, but most were more interested in the computer screens in front of them. 

An elegant woman rose from her table by the window and walked up to me. She was around fifty, with beautiful grey hair that fell almost to her ankles. She wore a fleece-lined bomber jacket that looked authentic instead of being one of those fashionable reproductions, and ragged blue jeans, her feet stuffed into battered Doc Martin lace-ups that had seen better days a couple decades ago.

Her eyes fascinated me, being a pale and clear grey. She smiled, seeming to sense my acute discomfort with strangers.

"That's a beautiful antique!"

I touched my neck, and I calmed, taking an easy breath. She reached for a flap pocket on her jacket and produced a card.

"I'm a professor of Anthropology, on loan from Seattle to teach for a year. I specialize in Pacific Northwest tribes and their art, and I couldn't help noticing your choker."

I looked at the card. Olivia Synclair, Professor, University of Washington at Seattle.

Smiling, I stood and took her hand warmly.

"Professor, I mean no slight, but it's not my habit to speak intimately of anything about my person with a total stranger no matter their credentials."

"I don't doubt that, but do you realize you have something worn around your neck that belongs in a museum, worth a tidy fortune?"

Pocketing the card, I took the back of my chair in my hands. "Then perhaps I will follow up with you at a later date by e-mail?

Professor Synclair smiled courteously. "That would be of real interest. Thank you; and I hope my intrusion into your day won't be remembered with disfavor?

"Is a chance meeting coincidence, or fate? I don't know." I nodded, and with a warm smile she turned and paused at her table, leaving a crumpled bill from her jeans. I watched her pass by the café's windows and out of sight.

I paid, cash, and left, the pack then safely over my shoulder with my choker inside. "Honest advice unheeded can be an invitation to disaster," I thought, chuckling, and fingered the remaining pendant, missing the touch of the silver. . .

Stopping at three different places I found a lovely, large black opal set in a heavy, swirling gold ring for Katria, a historically-accurate, forged reproduction of the Black Knight's sword in a presentation case, complete with scabbard for Al, an 18th Century Colonial sterling tea and coffee service, complete with four silver Hanoverian rat tail spoons and period porcelain cups and saucers for Monica; and then I headed to the Scandinavian Center.

I found a reindeer ivory bead necklace for Deirdre, easily long enough to wrap around her neck three times. Further on I found a display of heirloom-quality Kellam puukkos!

I think I worried the bland man with the high forehead and thinning hair behind the counter when I asked for three Teho Majors with the seven-inch blades, hoping he really had that many in-stock.

He did! 

I added them to my growing collection and ran into the jewelry case. A 50mm round Spectrolite necklace in a 14-carat gold setting and a matching beaded chain had a mate with a 25mm ring, the sizing on the ring a little larger was my last purchase.

I called for the company car to pick me up, realizing I'd spent a little over $36,000 in just under three hours. . .

The knives went into my back pack, and everything else had been gift-wrapped as I'd completed the purchase. My driver met me at the front door and he was remarkably unfazed at the two large packages and the shopping bag of boxed and wrapped jewelry.

"Then again," I thought, "Deirdre probably does more than this any time she completes a contract!"

We arrived at the Hancock Center in under ten minutes, and I was in my front door with all my purchases in under fifteen.

I had barely gotten the trench on its' hook and my pack by my bed when I heard the door chime twice. I headed for the bathroom, shedding my jacket, hollering, "I'm back here!"

"Damned vodka," I thought. I'd completely forgotten the guaranteed effect the spirit would have on me. Deirdre came around to the doorway as I finished my toilet and was washing my hands. I looked at her while I brushed my teeth.

She was in jeans and a cream cable-knit sweater. She looked like she'd just been crowned homecoming queen she was so excited!

I rinsed and splashed water on my face, blotting dry to try and save my make-up.

"I won the contract! Rose, I won the "Phantom" contract like I had no competition at all!" She swept me up in a hug and waltzed me into the living room. She was clear-eyed, wide open and absolutely joyful!

I let go of my inner sentry and got caught up in her excitement and success. 

"Martin and I blew the other two bidders completely away with our presentation!"

I hugged her and was promptly kissed!

I shook my head admiringly a genuine smile of happiness for her building bright. "Nothing beats quality, DeeDee! Congratulations!"

She dashed into my little kitchen and thumbed a button. "Appetizers, Al! Tonight is a celebration!"

I came up to her and stopped her hand before she could break the connection at his acknowlegement.

"Al?"

"Yes, Rose?"

"Can you and Katria manage to come here when the appetizers are ready? I did a little shopping, and I want to give both of you gifts, as I'm going to fly home the day after tomorrow."

"Certainly! Twenty minutes."

I broke the connection, and as we walked back into the front room Deirdre looked at me, her eyes sparkling.

"Everyone is an equal to you! How do you do that so easily?"

I chuckled and hugged her tight. "Because I'm not a 'Fortune 500' player. Because I live in a place where there is little-if-any social status or significance to anyone's social position of job description. Because I have few real friends, and I trust nearly everyone I meet without hesitation, and that seems to bring out the best in people, even complete strangers!"

She brightened, her eyes welling. "No wonder Monica treasures you! You gently show me my vanities and weakness in my fortress and I only love you all the more."

She headed to the two large packages and the shopping bag.

"Did you wear out my card?"

I fished out the platinum card and returned it. "No, but I found out I can spend money without much thought! Looking back, that's a little scary."

At the bar I slipped out of the shoulder rig and left it on the bar, and poured a large glass of water, draining it in one long draught.

Deirdre laughed.

I blushed. "I forgot: I sip water here, right?"

She took the bag to the coffee table and started sorting out packages. I went and brought over both of the larger ones, the heavy tea set something I wanted and hoped the girl would approve of and recognize my connection to my home and my Master.

The door chimed twice and Katria and Al came over to the sofa; Al, in black again, just pausing long enough to send me a wink before he headed to the dumbwaiter.

I heard a champagne cork pop, and he returned bearing a large tray and a stack of linen napkins.

Katria jumped up and took four flutes from behind the bar, her red cotton broomstick skirt and matching knit dolman top flowing.

The tray held a small mountain of fresh crab cakes and was ringed with breaded mozzarella sticks. Tomatillos and pickled green chili peppers became the punctuation. Al poured, and I toasted Deirdre.

"To the matchless and the unconquerable! Congratulations!"

We drank, smiles everywhere.

Katria held up her glass, and I saw Deirdre pause.

"To Rose, for bringing the three of us feel as if we are family. To a woman who knows no agenda, whose only guiding beacon in any weather remains simply, love."

Deirdre's eyes leaked tears in answer to the same in Katria's eyes. Al completed the toast, beaming.

I snaked a hand to the tray first, and we munched and sipped and chatted until the first bottle was empty and we had reduced the stack of napkins by half. We talked about the meeting, we talked about Katria feeling some risk at breaking Deirdre's rules when she and Al and I had shared dinner, we talked about me coping with the input of Chicago. Al decided that there were at least two pretentious heathens when he'd served a flawless luncheon to the Directors, as both had commented on his pate.

"Unwashed poseurs! Criticizing my pate??" His sudden thunderstorm vanished as he fixed his eye on the wrapped gifts.

"We need more champagne," he decided, and he rose and headed to the kitchen.

Deirdre looked at me, understanding growing in her eyes. I heard another cork pop, and Al reclaimed his place, refilling everyone's glass.

I handed Deirdre her box, Katria her two, the Spectrolite ring and pendant both in one box, and Al took his long rectangle with a raised eyebrow.

I smiled and nodded. They opened them in the order received. 

Deirdre fingered the oval beads with astonishment. "Ivory?"

I nodded. "Reindeer ivory, DeeDee. The shading on each bead means that it's carved from the very tip or point on an antler. They're color-matched after being collected from the villages that are spread out into Western Mongolia, and the sale provides monies for them from the outside world." 

She slipped it on and couldn't stop fingering the beads, finally running to the mirror.

"They almost glow. . ."

I stood and hugged her, and I think she realigned my neck with the hug I received.

Back to the coffee table, I motioned for Katria to open the smaller box first. The ring came into view and the three of them stared. Katria looked a little scared to touch it, so I lifted it from the box and tried each finger till I found the one it fit perfectly, paying no other attention than that.

It was her left ring finger.

No one could say a word amongst them, and I got nervous that I'd stepped out of bounds.

"A black opal," Katria said. She looked at me blankly, holding her hand to her eyes, the ring facing out.

"Oh, girl, that's perfect for you!" Deirdre was staring, the words coming to her lips in delight.

Al look the girl's hand and looked at the ring critically, then turned to me.

"That is a whole stone, not a laminate doublet, triplet or composite."

"Yes. Opal is one of the stones I love the most. I made sure of the quality."

Katria came and sat next to me, burying her head in my neck. I stroked her hair and took her hand, to see the ring clearly. Dimensionally, it was perfect. The color did magical things with her eyes such a deep violet. 

She let go and looked me in the eyes. "All I can say is 'thank you,' and try not to say it over and over."

I nodded, wiping my eyes. I hadn't been prepared for such powerful and open responses.

I looked to Al.

"Your turn, good Sir."

He gave me a suspicious look, and then chuckled. His face went slack at the sight of the blade, and the scabbard resting beside it on purple velvet in the mahogany box. There was reverence to his movements as he opened the glass lid and took the sword into his hands, stepping into the open area in front of the couches.

He came to attention and swept the blade perfectly in salute, holding it vertical, his very being shining.

His voice barely faltered when he said, "To the archaic concept of friendship!"

He snapped the salute down and we all heard the steel sing softly to him. He slowly looked down at his hand and gently brought the blade in to touch it.

"She is perfect, a true blade and sharp enough to send the unshriven to the abyss of chaos. . ."

He held up his thumb, and we could see the drop of bright blood.

I came and hugged him, kissing him on the cheek.

"Good Sir, it is my honor to call you my friend. In these fading times it is a joy to know a true gentleman."

He bowed slightly, dropping his eyes, and I saw the return of a whimsical smile as he straightened and returned to the sofa, laying the blade back in its' case, leaving the glass open.

"Never would I want you as an enemy, dear girl! As clear and as powerful as your ability to gift love, your wrath would boil the sea!"

I lifted my glass and drained it, laughing a little self-consciously, glancing at Deirdre.

She was almost transfixed at the change she'd witnessed come over the man she'd only thought of as an employee minutes earlier.

I nudged her in the ribs playfully. "Earth-to-DeeDee!"

Startled, she looked at me, still fingering her beads.

"Did you plan all this, or was it just spur-of-the-moment?" She took a deep breath and relaxed a little. I glanced at Al. The man was as if ennobled by a princess. 

I stuck my tongue out at Al and he chuckled, and I looked squarely and innocently at the red-head.

"You told me to go and have a good time, right? Well, I did!"

The other two laughed and she shook her head.

"Girl, you do know how to spend money!"

I smiled, and bounced a little on the leather, looking pointedly at the remaining box in front of Katria.

"But, I'm far from done!"

Katria hesitantly reached for the larger, flat box.

The Spectrolite and gold literally blazed when she revealed the ring and necklace to the flawlessly engineered lighting.

I watched as Al fastened the clasp around her neck, and found the ring fit her right forefinger.

The total effect of the jewelry was dramatic. Al looked at her with joy, and he kissed her fully and long.

I glanced at Deirdre, seeing her blink rapidly.

"You are very beautiful," he said. "Expect a picnic worthy of Picasso some warm Spring day, with a feast without equal!"

Katria looked at me.

"Words fail me. Such gifts come from lovers, or close family or both, on the most special of occasions. You are that, and more. Thank you, again!"

Deirdre looked at me.

"So, what's in the big box?"

I laughed, shy.

"I kind of blew the bank on that, DeeDee. It's something special for Monica."

Al and Katria cleared the coffee table, and the wrapping paper and boxes went to the floor.

I set the heavy box gently on the plate glass, hoping the Florentine saints could bear the load and unwrapped it, setting it up as each piece came into view.

"A tea and coffee service," Al declared. 

Katria looked, and caught my eye, smiling. "I've never met your love, but that says everything, and more."

Deirdre traced her fingertips over the heavy sterling, a far-away look in her eyes.

"About time. She deserves to have better service than your aluminum tray; and with this She may barely forgive me for bringing you here, so far from your home."

I looked at each of them. Al reached for the tea pot, and Katria took a cup in slightly trembling hands.

"I see many marks, but no signature I recognize. Did the antique dealer know who made this?"

I shook my head. "He was certain it was late 18th century and probably from either New York or Philadelphia."

Deirdre stood. "Then we should share it, so that we know a little of the daily service Monica will get!"

I agreed, and Katria headed for the kitchen to put water on, calling over her shoulder, "We have a wonderful Ceylon tea!"

Al insisted on bringing the service to Katria, and I loved the sight of the silver as it was carried into the back.

Deirdre hugged me. "I'll take care of seeing it gets wrapped and shipped. I don't care what that cost, you're making a statement so clear that I wish I could go home with you just to see her reaction the first morning you come in, calling out, 'Room Service!'"

The visualization came to mind so clearly I cried. It took a couple deep breaths to get control. A hand with a beautiful ring came from behind the sofa and handed me some tissue.

Katria had cleared and quickly cleaned the plate glass when Al returned, bearing the sterling service.

"We shall share tea before we dine, then, perhaps sharing these objects of art that may have participated in refreshing adult children of the same men and women who generated the social consciousness that gave birth to the most momentous words ever penned: 'We, the People!'"

The three of us looked at him.

"A little over the top, Al."

"Way over the top."

"Ration yourself with that sword, would you?"

He set the tea service down with complete aplomb.

He looked to each of us for the space of a heartbeat.

He poured, handing me the first cup.

"Sugar?"

We broke out in laughter, and I had to set my cup down. Deirdre looked at me, holding her sides, gasping for air.

Al was still laughing, his voice almost rattling the tea service. Katria was in tears, biting her knuckles.

We got our breath, and Katria caught my eye.

"Othello?"

I shook my head. "MacBeth."

We looked at Deirdre, who was shaking her head in complete disagreement, wiping her eyes.

"It has to be 'A Midsummer's Night Dream,' or nothing!"

I was having to bite my lips to hold on to a shred of self-control, looking at Al.

"You three understand nothing! 'King Lear!'"

He looked at me with equanimous composure. "So, sugar?"

I twitched, and bit my lip before answering calmly, "Please."

"Cream?"

"No, thank you."

I held the silver cup and saucer in my hand and stirred the fragrant brew with the little spoon, looking around the room as the three eventually held full cups.

"Enjoy."

The experience was sublime. The sterling had a simple purity of function that had enamored me with Colonial and Federalist design on first sight. The set was beautifully balances and showed little evidence of hard service in the intervening generations of owners.

We relaxed after that tableau, and suddenly Katria speared me with a look.

"You didn't get anything for yourself, did you!?"

I get uncomfortable when people stare at me like those three did just then.

Setting my cup down, I said calmly, "I most certainly did, and something I've wanted for many years; but it has to wait until after dinner."

I looked at Al, and grinned.

"I'm afraid it's 'girl's-only' stuff, Al."

He raised an eyebrow, and smiled. "The mysteries of women! No problem at that whatsoever, my dear Rose."

He checked his watch and stood, taking the service with him.

"With that I must see to dinner. I have Chateaubriand ready, with a true caesar salad and sourdough rolls. Anything else, Miss Alexander?"

Deirdre stood and kissed him on the cheek.

"If you promise to never call me that name unless it's over business or in public, no. One slip of the tongue, though, and all I'll have you cook is chicken, two meals a day for a month."

He shuddered visibly, and blanched.

"Agreed, Deirdre."

He cleared his throat. "Dinner will be served in an hour." He looked at me slyly. "I put ice cream bars in the service kitchen freezer, for dessert."

I heard the service go into the dumbwaiter and Al paused on his way out, retrieving and cradling his cased sword as he went out the door, his step a little lighter and his posture more erect.

Deirdre and Katria went and set the table in the dining room, their voices barely audible through the ship's door. I lounged back and stretched against the leather back, thinking about what I was going to do after dinner and finding no fault with my plans.

My cell phone rang.

I found it in Monica's coat and caught it before the third ring finished.

"Sir."

"Hello, lovely girl. How is Chicago?"

"The air is thick here, and I miss you very much!"

"I've been busy here, trying not to miss you around the clock, too. Are you well?"

"I took a sauna this morning, and ended up coughing as the smog loosened in my lungs; but I went for a walk after that. I'm fine now."

"The days have been beautiful up here, but empty. Kallis misses you."

"I know, he can be a terror even when I leave home to spend a few hours at Rescue Base."

"What are you and DeeDee planning for tomorrow?"

I smiled. "Deirdre talked about taking me for a spin around Lake Michigan, spending the night on the water. I'm to fly back sometime the following day after the noon rush."

"I trust you completely, lover. I'll look for you to be back home by four in the afternoon. Call me if there is to be a significant change. We have so much to talk about!"

"All I dream of is being in your arms again."

"Soon enough. I know you can perform far beyond even limits you may think you have, should some need arise."

"Sir."

The line went dead. I turned to plug the phone into its' charger and saw the two girls standing in the doorway, the table behind them set in sky-blue linens and pewter chargers with china and crystal. I wiped my eyes.

To my mind cane the wordless melodies and canticles of worship from Medieval Italy, and I knew Master was sending me a warning to be wary of those who burned witches in their lust for absolute power. 

She and I would listen to such from time to time, hearing the unspoken lament to the oceans of blood wantonly spilt from the throats and hearts of countless millions of innocents whose only 'sin' was to listen to the hills and clear springs native to them and their ancestors. The dead had loved the seasons, known the medicine of the herbs and wildflowers, and moved to a pace alien to the frenetic urgency of city-dwellers. . .

I was taken into a gentle hug by both girls, and though they did not understand completely, they remained, giving comfort and safety as I wept, missing my Master, knowing I was assuredly in danger.

A whisper formed in my mind. "You embrace pain to know life's worth more truly?"

Remembering her warning, I quieted the surging emotions. "A quirk of forever remaining the innocent. I cherish life more than all else, and I remember the dead to avoid death when the pendulum of history swings near and uncaring. . ."

Deirdre broke the embrace and Katria followed suit, both stepping back, each holding one of my hands.

The redhead found tissues and I wiped my eyes and blew noisily.

She fought laughter and lost.

We looked at her, and she broke into peals of laughter. "Monica told me months ago that you sound like a lonely elk whenever you blow your nose!"

Katria stared. Mirth swept over her, too, and terminally infected me before her second breath.

I was still holding the phone. The device was set to recharge in my bedroom when I heard Deirdre call out from the dining room, "Dinner is ready!"

The smell of superb beef lured me, and I came to my seat at the table, noticing the girls were waiting for me to be seated first.

A bottle of Spanish red wine was waiting for me.

"RIOJA GRAN RESERVA 1982."

They waited. I held out my hands and they each took one.

"Blessed be, that tonight we know in truth that love conquers all boundaries. We three shall not share this table again, but the gifts given and received will knit a bond between us that can never fade. I break bread with you tonight with joy."

I released their hands and stood, and went for my back pack, returning quickly, setting it at my side to very curious gazes. The wine was opened and poured, but I made no toast.

The three plain boxes were handed around in silence.

I nodded, and opened mine as they did, unsure of their reactions.

"Risking every intimate boundary and courtesy, without any concept of taboo or reservation, I would know you both, to the end of my days and beyond as family, not merely blood relations but women who share a deeper and more true union of the heart. A completely volitional choice, this, but not one to be undertaken with any modern sensibility."

I took a deep breath and continued, seeing both of them completely focused on the blades.

"I ask you to begin a new line. I would ask that these signatures of will and unfettered hearts be passed to your daughters and they to theirs. The puukkos are identical, as we should never look to another of us as but equals, family, sisters and friends."

I laid my blade onto my empty plate and raised my wine in toast. They did, too.

Katria spoke.

"Wherever I walk, should life take me even into darkness, I will keep this to hand and know my sisters will come to my aid." She drank deep.

"I'm not the woman I was nine days ago. I find myself loathing the residue of my past that I stumble into and find myself shocked that I once held a concept of myself that demanded I hide from friends, from love, from the wonder you and Monica showed me was so basic to life!" Deirdre took a deep breath, tears streaming down her face.

"You know only a life of tribal power, Rose, primitive and wild and completely unashamed in the truth you celebrate in your forests with Monica! That you made me find my own feet and demanded I walk alone and open my eyes to my heart brought me closer to you than I could have ever imagined. I found myself, because of you two, and I will never let a sunrise or storm pass unnoticed! Yes! I will celebrate this act of creation. Yes!"

She drank, and Katria touched her glass with the red-head's.

I laughed, a little self-consciously, filled with love for the two of them.

"Then know the puukko. It is a knife that serves the owner in every task an edge is called upon to perform, every day. Make a new pattern to your lives to see to it that it is never out of reach, never far from hand and never dull. The puukko is table knife, a capable weapon, a field knife to dress out game; the badge, if seldom seen outside of family that immediately identifies the owner as someone free. It is never surrendered, loaned out, and it is never lost or carelessly misplaced."

I lifted my wine and drank deep, all but draining the lush crimson.

Katria looked at me.

"Let's eat! I'm starving!"

We set to the Chateaubriand and salad with delight, and I smiled as I watched the two of them ignore the flatwear knives. DeeDee cut the bread, looking with astonishment at the sourdough rolls all but leaping from the touch of the edge she held.

I let down many walls built over the past days over that meal, seeing Katria happily talking with her hands as she ate, never releasing the birch hilt.

Al had created a superb and uncomplicated repast, and we toasted him when we were down to crumbs.

We retreated to the front room and the generous sofas with coffee, my having shown the other two to simply wash the steel with warm water and the barest amount of soap, never letting the hilt become saturated with water or needlessly immersed.

"Hon, these are a little long for everyday use," DeeDee said, sprawled out in bliss, holding her knife in close inspection. She'd threaded the sheath in her belt already.

I nodded, plopping to sit a-sprawl and leaning against the near arm of curving leather. Katria sat down next to me and snuggled in close, patting her stomach and yawning. 

"The traditional knife is rarely more than four inches. I decided on these because I thought of new symbols being appropriate for these times. I see the world as presenting us with different and frequently more difficult demands, higher pressures of social conformance, and much less individual freedom."

The red-head nodded; and we both smiled as Katria began snoring softly into my neck.

Beyond a whisper, I felt and lived Katria's consciousness falling into dream, Monteverdi's 'Altri canti di Marti' filled my mind:

"Let others sing of Mars and of his followers,

of bloodied assaults and honored deeds,

of bloody victories and contests,

of the triumph of bitter, cruel death.

"I sing, Love, of this your warrior maiden,

of the mortal wounds I had to suffer,

how a glance conquered me, a hair enchanted me,

a sad story, but true.

"Two beautiful eyes were the weapons which pierced

my afflicted soul, and instead of blood

it long poured out bitter tears.

"You, through whose might my unvanquished enemy

seized victory and fame from me

since you gave death to my heart, give life to my song."

I felt her drift into the void, and wondered at the movement of the infinite that sent her such a warning that I might hear. I held the girl close and could only smile.

DeeDee stirred and caught my attention, her ivory beads against her cable-knit sweater an understated elegance. Coming to her feet, she sheathed the knife almost unconsciously.

"Time for bed! It's been a remarkable day, to say the least."

She came and hugged me carefully, not disturbing the sleeping girl.

"I feel like I have stepped over the threshold of some border of my life. Even if little or nothing changes, I never want to look back."

She moved close and we kissed.

"I'll come by for you around ten, OK? That'll give us twenty-four hours on the water." She yawned again, harder, and headed for the door, picking up the Sig in its' shoulder rig from the bar on her way by.

I drowsed, feeling much less vulnerable than when the day had dawned.

________________________________________________________________________________________



Katria stirred and I awoke with her. The hands of my watch showed the hour to be well after midnight, almost 12:45 a.m. She kissed me deeply and stood in the still well-lit room, rising to her feet and smoothing her clothes, fingering her jewelry.

I admired the contrast of the intense blue pendant against her red knit top and dark hair, coming to my feet with regret to see her go.

"I had a lovely nap!" She stretched like a cat, from side to side and from her toes up, arms outstretched. Running her fingers through her hair she sighed and smiled.

"Time for me to get back to my rooms and sleep so I can see you and Deirdre have a decent breakfast!"

We hugged, and she slipped out the door and was gone.

I rubbed my eyes and headed for bed, pausing when I passed the curio cabinet. No little dread spread a shadow across my heart as I opened the cabinet and touched a Mezzo-American pot. The single whisper came clearly to my mind as soon as I made contact and ceased when I withdrew my hand.

I closed the door and took a deep breath, a little more sure that those ancient prayers wouldn't intrude on my dreams with relief.

Undressing, I collected the black silk and folded it into the laundry cabinet, smiling at how easy it was to become accustomed to the convenience.

I made my toilet and brushed my teeth, removing my make-up gratefully. "I'll never make a city-girl," I thought wryly. "I couldn't stand to have to put on my face every day!"

Turning into the bedroom I checked my phone and saw the charge was complete, so I unplugged it, found a favorite album by Ferron in the night stand and started it laying on low on the compact stereo. With the bedding turned down, I sighed blissfully and buried myself in the clean sheets, asleep between one heartbeat and the next.

I awoke to Katria shaking me awake.

I came to full alert, and saw her screw her eyes shut in obvious pain. 

"Gently! You wake up like a cannon barrage on a Winter morning - everything shatters!" Hers wasn't a whisper now, but I heard her in my mind, not my ears.

She touched the lights and I saw she was fully dressed in black jeans and a crisp white shirt. Dawn had broken, but not by much. I looked at my watch. 7:10. 

The girl spoke urgently as I headed for the bathroom. "Deirdre called for breakfast half an hour ago, and has gone on an urgent errand. Helen left just before her, taking a phone call from someone she speaks to very respectfully. Your name was spoken."

The girl put her hands to her temples in pain. I saw she was wearing her new jewelry.

"Rose, please! When you concentrate that hard you blind and deafen me!"

I finished my toilet quickly and sat next to her on the bed, taking a deep breath and finding balance. The girl relaxed.

"I saw part of the display on the phone when Helen took her call. Area code 757. When I came and brought breakfast to Deirdre she was studying Helen's PDA, and she was barely able to control her anger, throwing it against the wall. She told me not to tell you, saying only that she had to resolve something once and for all and fully expected to do so before you were to be awakened later this morning."

I chewed my thumb, thinking as calmly as possible. "The Newport News area code, possibly the same person DeeDee called sometime during the day she and Monica spent in the City. That DeeDee is enraged may mean that her concept of her hierarchy of authority hasn't been as she'd believed. A confrontation is her intention, but to do so alone speaks of emotion driving her thoughts. That's a recipe for disaster!"

Katria nodded. I stared at her. She smiled, speaking openly.

"You may just as well be shouting, love. Why the change I don't know, but I can only tell the difference between your voice and your thoughts if I watch your lips move, or you come across with so much intensity that I feel I have walked into a blast furnace!"

I grew still.

"There is no more need for caution now? You're positive there is no monitoring here?"

She hugged me.

"None to both. Now I know without any doubt." She looked at me and shook her head. "Maybe all it took was falling asleep in your arms, both of our minds completely open to the other."

I headed for the shower, knowing the controls.

"That can be unraveled another time. Where is DeeDee headed? Who is Helen meeting, and is DeeDee following her, or does she already know the rendezvous?"

I started showering with mechanical efficiency. Katria stood at the edge of the glass block wall and looked off into space long enough for me to shampoo my hair and rinse.

"They're heading for the Epilepsy Center at the University of Chicago Hospital. Deirdre has gone there twice before, and she's just removed her parking pass from the glove box of her Mustang. She's swearing furiously about having left her pistol!"

The conditioner was rinsing out as I grabbed a sponge and loaded it with liquid soap.

"Katria."

The girl refocused, shaking her head abruptly.

"Lay out my new violet suit."

She blinked, not comprehending.

"I shouldn't break any pattern that might alert a secondary of Helen's who lives somewhere removed from here." I put the sponge down and hit the ice water for only seconds before shutting the shower off and taking the proffered towel. "What is DeeDee's yacht, power or sail?"

She grinned. "A powerboat, bought and delivered the first of the month for company perks and entertaining clients. It's big enough to sleep ten guests and can make it from here to the Gulf of Mexico with two stops for diesel. There's a permanent crew of three."

"So my being dressed for even more luxury would be perfectly appropriate."

The girl moved fast, her smile widening as she understood the unspoken volumes of tactics that were running through my mind.

"Disappear in plain sight."

"Yes . .."

I used the blow dryer with a steady hand, being thorough without wasting any time. Light make-up again, and a spare spritz of my perfume. I clipped my hair away from my face with simple tortoiseshell barrettes I found in the cabinet. Damn! My teeth got brushed, flossed, and rinsed. I finished my toilet and washed up, heading into my bedroom.

The suit was laid out, to lingerie and stockings and gloves, with a Walther P99 in a FOBUS rotating paddle holster, the spare mags also in a paddle carrier. My puukko was threaded on a soft, wide, stretch neoprene band with velcro tabs on each end, a second band waiting. 

Violet taps, corslet, and stockings went on in a flash. I fixed the knife upside-down on the inside of my left calf, the top band simply over the end of the leather sheath, the hilt above the wide cuffs of the slacks when I sat, testing the access and draw with the slacks on and my new boots zipped up.

Katria was watching silently from the foot of the bed, leaning slightly on the carved post, her eyes distant.

The blouse came next, with the glazed belt snug to carry the pistol and reloads. With the jacket and black calfskin leather glove on, I stood and tapped the girl on the shoulder.

She refocused, blinked, and looked me over, smiling appreciatively, nodding.

"Deirdre's waiting in her car on the sixth floor in the parking structure at Cottage Grove Avenue and 58th Street. She's spotted a white Mercedes coup that has some significance to her and is watching the ramp from that car to the entrance to the Epilepsy Center in her rear view mirror. Helen is in a private room on the third floor of the East wing of the Center, where a woman of about seventy is in the hospital bed and a man in a dark brown suit, about thirty, thinning hair and a mustache are all having a conversation. There are several large bouquets, all containing chrysanthemums. You and Deirdre are being mentioned. The old woman has just asked for coffee to be sent in, with baklava."

I nodded, feeling my blood run cold. "I shouldn't be surprised."

Katria looked at me, her eyes wide, and she paled.

"You believe it to be the same woman? The woman now grown old, the woman from your past?"


I tried to unclench my jaw and breathe, focusing. "Coincidence, or fate, I don't have hard facts; so I'll follow tactics and prepare for the worst and hope for the best."

At the front door I slipped into my borrowed black trench coat.

"Call me a cab. I should have time enough - no, wait! I can't be registered as having left the building, or Helen might be alerted even without her PDA. Is there a way for me to leave without registering on the security and monitoring systems?"

Katria nodded, real stress marking her features and movements as she moved aside the hanging blue-and-white textile of 'The Rape of the Sabine Women' and slid open a pocket door that was almost invisible.

"We 'help' have access to the service and maintenance corridors in the building." She looked off into the distance.

"The freight elevator right now is open and vacant, one floor down. The security cameras are of poor quality and frequently are down for repairs, last on the maintenance crews priority. The recorders use recycled tapes, and only activate once every second."

She fixed me with a look of complete concentration. "Leave your card-key here and keep your cell phone powered off. Use the same route to leave, and enter when you return. I don't know if I can speak to you beyond a matter of fifty feet, but I can see you almost anywhere on this side of the planet, and hear you within about a thousand miles if I can go into trance."

She tried to smile. "If only you and I had time together! I might be able to teach you how to subtly control, to focus your power. . ."

I hugged her, handing her the card-key and stepping through the threshold. She described my route in detail, even including thumbnail descriptions of people to avoid.

I emerged through an unmarked door with a Simplex lock into the garage elevator lobby in five minutes. I checked my watch, mindful that Helen would, at a minimum be in the meeting for twenty minutes, though there was no way to guess how much longer it could last.

I caught a cab outside the internet café, and noticed it was closed, a health-code violation notice posted by the city.

"Court Theater, Ellis and 55th," I said, the wiry Asian man behind the wheel of the Crown Victoria diving into traffic with alacrity and a fearless boredom.

I arrived in five minutes, paid the fare and started casually walking the intervening five blocks. I noticed nothing, trying to focus on the image of DeeDee in my mind, blocking any thought to questions of the identity of the patient in the hospital room. I made myself recall and meticulously follow a favorite album by Hubert Laws, and I felt my posture relax and become more ordinary and comfortably confident.

Close to the CTA stop on 59th was an entrance to both the hospital and the garage. I took the elevator to the top floor and started walking down the ramp to the sixth floor when my mind almost exploded with rage. I heard the sound of a single round of .357 magnum followed immediately with two cars crashing, and an Uzi on full auto.

I ran headlong into a firefight as I rounded the corner.

DeeDee came into view, crouched behind the trunk of her car, the rear end smashed into the driver's side door of the white Mercedes. The male driver was slumped over the wheel, a Ruger SP101 dangling from his hand, his neck clearly broken.

Helen, impeccable and flawless no longer was firing an Uzi from the hip, her face a rictus of hate, dropping the empty mag and casually replacing it from a vertical rig under her powder blue suit coat as I got a sight picture on her thighs as I ran. 

I squeezed the trigger and the 9mm bucked repeatedly as DeeDee turned and saw me, immediately seeing Helen slap the second 30-round mag home. In slow-motion I saw my shots hit home, rising from the inside of Helen's right thigh and trace five more times to her left collar bone. She barely reacted to the impacts, slapping the bolt and closing on DeeDee who was springing to her feet and vaulting the Mustang's crumpled trunk.

Helen turned to see me and shifted the Uzi, screaming, "You stupid Bitch!"

I was less than fifteen feet from the muzzle lining up on my face as I brought the Walther's sight picture to the bridge of Helen's nose, continuing to advance on her another step when a blur of black closed on Helen from my right.

DeeDee slipped on the spent brass and rolled into Helen as the Uzi fired, the shots spraying the concrete ceiling. My shot went wide. I hit a poured concrete support less than ten feet from the homicidal woman and got a sight picture when DeeDee, on her knees at Helen's feet, arched forward and up, puukko in her hand indexed upward and toward Helen's spine. The red-head rose to her toes with the momentum, slicing Helen from groin to sternum, the bodyguard slamming into the railing, the sub-gun flying from her hand.

DeeDee surged back and the knife came free easily. Helen, a look of vague surprise spreading across her face, slowly tipped backwards, and over the railing.

________________________________________________________________________________________



Go

Adrenaline poured through me. Deirdre stood as if transfixed, the pukko an exclamation point to the ascending blow. There was no sound for the space of half a dozen heartbeats as my mind processed what had happened, but training took over and I swept the floor of the nearly vacant level of the garage with a sight picture carefully, moving from hard cover to hard cover provided by the support pillars.

Clear.

I blinked, and forced myself to breathe. I relaxed out of the Weaver stance and dropped the Walther to my side.

A satellite phone was laying on the cement floor, beeping. The girl, bathed in cold sweat, came over to it and detachedly licked the blood from the blade and sheathed it easily, standing momentarily on her right leg. She picked up the phone as if it was a curious relic from another age, a loathed artifact from inconceivable times lost somewhere in cognitive fogs of another life. She thumbed END and the sound stopped. The phone fell from her hands and she smashed it with her heel.

Hair in wild disarray and looking a little out-of-body, she smiled at me. "Love, I will take care of this." She handed me a small ring of keys from her torn blazer. She took the P99 and the paddle rigs from me in return, dropped the partial mag from the pistol and locked the slide open, letting it fall to the concrete uncaring. I looked down at myself.

Blood had fountained from Helen's chest as DeeDee's knife cleared the wound. My trench coat was drenched on the right side, and my suit coat and blouse was heavily splattered. DeeDee was the epitome of an axe-murderer, a terrifying sight of beauty dressed in black drenched in blood and yet with an other-worldly calm.

"The storage shed, the one by my Viper?"

I nodded.

"You'll find transportation there. Take anything."

She went to the wrecked Mustang, seemingly oblivious to the brass underfoot and the dead man in the Mercedes and forced the trunk open further, pulling a mason's tool bag from behind the spare tire. She opened it and dug out a biker's wallet with a chrome chain keeper and tossed it to me.

"Twenty thousand in the occasional spare bill. Don't use credit cards."

She smiled wearily, though there was a light shining through her that erased any shadow. She hugged me easily, casually, and I smelled the fight, the sweat, the blood. Her arms were strong and calm, and her breathing was regular.

"You have only minutes."

She yawned suddenly. A siren awoke in the distance.

"Go."

I ran for the stairs, stripping off Monica's ruined leather and my bloody jacket, gloves and blouse. At the third floor, my lungs pounding, I hit the door and looked around. Several sirens, and closing.

A sparkling red Durango, and a filthy white GMC pickup with a fancy toolbox and a contractor's rack came to my eye first. Perfect! 

I slipped the lock in an instant with one of the barrette clips and left the clothes under a dusty box of brake fluid and a couple unopened quarts of oil.

I took a couple deep breaths to calm myself and continued walking down the ramp to the first floor, abandoning the stairs. At the first floor I saw three Chicago PD cruisers at the entrance, the uniforms running to the elevators and stairs. I turned left and walked onto Cottage Grove Avenue without a care, making two blocks before I heard a helicopter pass overhead. I put my hair up in a ponytail with a string from a newspaper.

I flagged a taxi, settling in without a care in the world for the ride to the Hancock Building. Monica's note came to me, as if in a dream: "Girl, we are part of something much larger than we know. Simplicity, peace, and joy are your tactics against those who know only device and deviousness. The sly and subtle dread the light within you - but do not overlook the obvious ploy."

An eager, somewhat nervous voice; "Lady, that'll be twenty-two bucks!"

I laughed, got out of the cab and handed the driver a twenty and a fiver and walked away without a care, heading down Chestnut to the east entrance to the parking garage and DeeDee's Viper.

The headlines of a national news magazine caught my eye. "Space Shuttle Catches Fire in Space!" "All presumed lost as the Space Shuttle Magellan burns while crew conducts experiment!"

Fishing coins from my purse, I realized that likely everything within 500 yards of the parking garage was monitored, and the tapes would be reviewed ASAP were my departure to be cause for acute focus.

"Make new mistakes," came to my mind, with a sense of input overload from DeeDee.

I flagged the next cab.

"Library," was all I said to the driver.

________________________________________________________________________________________



I got out at a non-descript branch of the Chicago library, where I was I didn't care. There would be an internet connection. . .

A bit conspicuous in a blue silk corslet and blue wool slacks, I found the nearest major motorcycle dealership, and his inventory list.

I bought a copy of Time, and another of Aviation Weekly from the desk and caught another cab.

OK, they sold Ducatis, but they had an extensive inventory of clothing and accessories, as well as used motorcycles. . . I absolutely had to have a way to get back to the Hancock Building without conspicuous notice.

At the dealership, it took only forty minutes to finish all the paperwork, a Walking Liberty gold piece both expediting and smoothing everything out to perfection; and I was pulling onto the boulevard on a barely used graphite Aprilia Futura with fogs and a great pair of Michelins; wearing new armored Vanson leathers, a black vee-neck cool-max ribbed tee, Joe Rocket gloves, Sidi Sympatex boots and a silver Shoei helmet, my clothes in one of the saddlebags. My knife was in the same position as when I had first dressed, the birch hilt in easy access on my right calf, on the outside, concealed by the zip on the cuff of my leathers. The bike was a very fast learning curve, my not having ridden since Andrea, with CSP had brought up her new BMW R1100 three years ago; but necessity was the mother of survival, yes?

At a home center a few miles down the road I had the keys to the house copied, as well as the ones to my old Bronco, smiling at the teenager with bloodshot eyes who looked at me hopefully. "I'm getting these for my new boyfriend; he's an Army Ranger, sorry. . ."

I stopped at a Fed-EX street box and took a next-day envelope, stuffing the newspaper and magazines in it. The familiar doorman at the front desk didn't even blink when I waved the envelope and demanded the 86th floor, a saddlebag liner over my shoulder. Katria anticipated me, holding the door wide, a look of calm intensity on her features. 

I was back out in less than three minutes with my traveling clothes in the saddlebag liner, knives and shoulder rig on and familiar under the Vanson jacket, going up the dumbwaiter to the service kitchen in DeeDee's offices with the waiting portfolio going into my leather backpack already carrying the rest of contents of the chest from Monica. 

Katria met me, whispering, "The stairs from 44 to 10 aren't monitored today - repairs," she tucked a bottle of waterless hand sanitizer in my jacket pocket and poured liquid enzyme cleaner over my hands in the little sink, motioning for me to wash thoroughly. She handled everything for me, and taking coarse paper towels from her pocket, she dried my hands and pocketed the waste. I took nothing else that might've been recorded as having arrived with me, leaving my original key ring and phone, new wristwatch, key card and checkbook and so on in the night stand.

"If there's been a record and anyone checks, it'll be bad enough that Monica's trench and my new suit coat and shoes are missing. All I can hope for is that no one remarks on the absence of my back pack. . ."

I kissed the palms of her hands softly and I saw her fight back tears.

I took the residents' elevator to the 44th floor and not questioning Katria took the stairs down to the 10th floor, going the rest of the way down with the tourists and businessmen, my backpack and traveling clothes safe in the saddlebag liner.

I walked past the front desk without a second look. A smile felt comfortable as I entered the garage by Katria's route, changing back into my traveling clothes in the service hall and took the elevator to DeeDee's Viper. The shed was a little dusty, and in it I found a champagne Yamaha Roadstar 1600 and a red MotoGuzzi Lemans. The Yamaha had soft leather saddlebags, so I stowed my helmet and drove the bike to Bach House, leaving it there and catching a cab to the Uptown Theatre. Wind off the lake was picking up.

There was a nice upscale repeat clothing store close by, and I bought a decent black silk suit with conservative heels and a serviceable, oversized Coach shoulder bag, taking the liner in my hand, my backpack and its' priceless cargo fitting reasonably well into the shoulder bag. A travel agency across town sold me tickets to the next available flight to Bangor, Maine; answering all my concerned questions about large quantities of 8mm film and camera equipment as I patted the unmarked Aprilia bag.

I smiled quietly as I took another cab back to the Hancock Building wearing the black silk, and changed clothes for the last time in the lady's room in the restaurant across the street, dumping everything superfluous in a GoodWill dumpster a block away.

I rode out of Chicago, my back pack snug with a sense of having escaped a growing darkness, though I was acutely aware that those who had sponsored and placed Helen would know my final destination with absolute certainty. I had covered my initial unrecorded departure from the Center and felt confident that my subsequent return and departure had gone unnoticed by civil authorities. To the monitoring system, with Katria's help, I had simply vanished sometime in the day from the 87th floor. 

Into the lengthening shadows of the afternoon I rode hard, heading SW to Plainfield, my heart opening a crack to the bitter tears and icy hate to those who sent me fleeing with so many unanswered questions. 

DeeDee would buy me at most a day. I must make very good use of the time!

The Futura sang flawlessly, eating up the miles.

"About 1,100 miles," I thought. "I can be home in somewhere around sixteen hours and a dozen stops for fuel, Goddess willing!" 

I stopped in Peoria at an electronics superstore and bought a Garmin personal GPS, a HP iPAQ 5555, a Nokia 8910 with a two-year plan and a tiny Bluetooth wireless earpiece, and a Bearcat trunked radio scanner with an ear phone. I downloaded the scanner frequencies of the Illinois and Missouri State Police from the internet and programmed the scanner, fueled the bike and programmed the Garmin for Fort Scott, Kansas, linking the PDA and the GPS so that the PDA would run a real-time routing map, helping me locate gas stations.

The titanium-cased Nokia went into a zippered breast pocket, the iPAQ going into the right hip pocket. I was grateful for the Bluetooth technology that made wires obsolete when I set the scanner earphone and then got my helmet on. The opposite ear, with its' wireless earpiece and tiny boom mike was simplicity and comfort! The Bearcat went into my left hip pocket, my jacket rather full of expensive electronics. I smiled tiredly.

"When they make the iPAQ ruggedized, a new generation of riders will be putting them in clear pockets of their tank bags or strapping them to the handlebars," I thought. "It would give the term 'mobile office' a whole new meaning! I already have 256 MB of memory in a hand-held that has spectacular speed for digital wireless applications. If I added an IBM micro-drive. . ."

Time to focus completely on Glory.

Aware of typical law enforcement shift rotations I nonetheless stopped in Salina, Kansas and bought a BEL 904 system, an ESCORT Passport 8500 detector, and a 12-volt inverter, so I could keep my gadgets' lithium-ion batteries charged. Installing the radar systems on the Aprilia took little effort, though I burned a couple fingertips getting around the bike's exhaust. The inverter went into the saddlebag on the left, the leading and trailing wires not too much to deal with after an application of electrician's tape to keep them from flapping around. Fueling the bike, I saw a display of black plastic wristwatches, and bought one: date, time, stopwatch, nightlight and 100ft waterproof, with a five-year battery. Perfect. Fifty dollars for the fuel, two liters of bottled water, some zinc throat lozenges and the watch.

Looking warily at building thunder heads ahead of me, I thought wryly, "The last thing I need is a cold!" 

Mounting, and thumbing the starter I heard the sound of wings. A peregrine falcon landed on the edge of the windshield, fluffed calmly and fixed me with one eye. 

"I'm going to take 98 into Colorado," I said; as if I were talking to a familiar traveling companion. The raptor chirped, and flew off.

"Simple signs," I thought. First gear came smoothly, and as I was pulling out I saw the bird stoop and take a prairie dog not twenty yards from me. A solitary drop of icy sweat ran down my spine.

A very slow, deep breath later, and I whispered, "A girl lives to serve, Goddess. . ." Interstate 70 it would be. I froze. I hadn't programmed in the frequencies for Colorado! I'd've been riding deaf!

I shut the bike down and got to my feet. Stress fatigue was gnawing at me with abandon. I was feeling a near-terminal case of 'dead butt syndrome,' my arms and wrists aching from the unfamiliar demands. Peeling off my gloves and jacket I reprogrammed both the scanner and the GPS, and checked the news on the iPAQ. Nothing on the news, nothing! The weather radar was cause for suspicion, but with luck it would hold to the North; and even if only the majority of it did it would be enough. 

I sat on my heels and thought furiously. 

A curly mop of red hair came to mind, and being handed a card; "My number's on the back. You don't belong here. Call me if you need anything. . ."

I found her card still in my purse. I called her through an offshore long-distance company.

"Yes?"

"I have to be brief. Remember me?"

"Yes. What do you need."

"Go to the corner of Cottage Grove Avenue and 56th Street right now and tell me if you see any unusual activity."

"I can be there in twenty minutes; how do I reach you?"

I sighed. "I'll call back in thirty minutes. If you don't pick up it'll tell me nothing's going on."

"And if 'something' is, what then?"

"Tell me I have the wrong number and hang up."

I was watching the falcon dine.

"You owe me a pizza, honey."

I laughed wearily, tears leaking down my face. "Tell me about it."

I hung up and checked my watch. It gave me time to go over the bike, checking everything, even cleaning the windshield with a glass wipe.

"Glory." I kissed the headlamp and christened it. She was perfect, only in need of a detailing to be ready for the living room. My butt ached, but Glory was perfectly still, waiting to go! I did the Bear form with exquisite slowness, then in reverse, hearing my joints creak and my heart pound by the time I was through. A liter of water was welcome, after.

I checked my watch. Time.

I hit the redial button, and heard the connection go through. After five rings I hung up.

I heard wings, and looked around, startled. The falcon was nowhere in sight.

"Go," whispered Glory.

We made our way to I70, riding without a care in the world, with reasonably adept electronic countermeasures and warning systems sweeping out silently, invisibly. The stainless .45 in its' shoulder rig was comforting, and reminded me of the need for haste, oh haste!

Sunrise was slicing over my shoulder when I stopped to fuel Glory in Limon. I was going to take my way to Colorado Springs and then up the back roads to Pine, then home. There was a coin-op car wash with pressure wands across the street, so armed with a tall cup of half-way decent coffee and a cheery, "Good morning, and be safe!" in my ears I fed coins to the timer and started cleaning Glory down.

With the good wax job from the dealership the obliterated bugs and road grime came off readily, though the pipes were deeply heat blued. A handful of disposable, synthetic chamois clothes from the dispenser and she dried to a breathtaking sparkle in the morning light.

"If only I were as easily renewed, as strong, as you," I thought. Pain was settling into the marrow of my bones with a vengeance, and looking at the odometer I realized I had unofficially made it into the "Iron Butt" club, with 1,038 miles ridden since yesterday! My helmet cleaned up quickly, and with a deep wince I saddled up and we were off.

We blew through Colorado Springs at over 100mph less than an hour later, turning North on 87 before rush hour even got close to us. With the angle of the sun sharp into the eyes of oncoming traffic I slowed to 60, more often only 40mph. We rode through the old burn scars from the forest fires, we rode into Park County, and I felt like home was within reach.

North off of Crow Hill, the unpaved roads were horrible and tricky to cope with. Traction was trying to blast dirt and small rocks into Glory, so we purred in quietly under 10 miles an hour in first gear. 

Seeing my neighbors already off to work, I pulled up and retrieved their spare key, calling Fairplay.

"Communications."

"Hi, I didn't see anybody at Rescue when I drove in; are the rigs out on something?"

"Yes, both rigs are on transport: 290 went en-route to Lutheran half an hour ago, and 291 isn't due back in District for another hour at least; they had a COPD transport to Kaiser. Who is this?"

"Amy, from the Community Center! Good morning! Thanks! Bye!"

I locked the house back up and replaced the key, and rode up the street.

Home.

I got the remote out of my lonely old Bronco and opened the garage door, shutting down the bike in the back of the garage. I pulled off my helmet and gloves, leaving them on Glory. The silence was almost overwhelming.

The odometer read 3,045. I'd ridden 1,229 miles, and it was 9:05 a.m. Colorado time. I was exhausted.

Opening the saddlebags I pulled out my day pack with my purse and found my new keys. Thwack started at the sound, and the big tomcat appeared in the living room window. I made it in the door and started shaking.

Everything was familiar. Everything.

Monica had already left for the day, likely not to be home before 6:00, and she was due to be on call as soon as she came back into District, not expecting me before then. Thwack was furious to be let out immediately, so I scooped my little bird out with a tired finger and he immediately wolf-whistled me and ran to nuzzle in my sweaty hair.

Kallis peeked from behind the recliner and arched, hissing tentatively at the smell and sight of me after so many road miles in leathers, stalking away into the office with a backwards-looking pause.

"Only three days; and a lifetime ago," I thought.

There was time to start a pot of fresh coffee and a hot shower, with maybe even a few hours to nap before I could really focus on very much. Glory got settled in the back of the garage, me double-checking her over, the leathers and my helmet went in my sewing room; the empty trunks calling out to an innocent girl who would never really use them again, and that pot of good Guatemalan coffee got started.

I looked in the office and saw the phone had no messages; but there were two old file boxes, archive boxes from somewhere that Monica had been going through by the side of the desk. . .

My body was almost screaming for a shower! The black v-neck coolmax tee and my black leather jeans and now broken-in boots went into a heap with the puukko on top, my thong and socks going into the trash.

I took the peppermint soap, even though I probably really, really needed the anti-bacterial deodorant bar, and the scalding deluge of heated well water told me how far from my origins I had been: city water, skyscraper air, never again!

It took three tries to get my hair clean, and I scrubbed every inch of me till the water was only tepid, and then for a cold rinse!

I was gasping like a newborn when I found the towel, and the coffee was done.

In a bleached thong and faded, clean jeans and thick wool socks - my feet hurt! - I filled a mug, added honey and half-and-half and headed to our bed with Thwack back on my shoulder, grabbing the day pack and portfolio on the way.

I upended the pack and opened the portfolio and sat squaw-style on the patchwork cotton bedspread, sipping noisily, trying to make some sense of the pieces of the puzzle:

Without Helen's PDA and the secrets it contained, I still had a start with the pictures of the petroglyphs from Leadville and the surrounding areas, all black-and-white enlargements from the 1950's - two of which I knew immediately, and one which tugged at my mind, a simple but detailed spiral carved into the shadow of a granite boulder.

There was the contractual focus, going back at least three generations, focusing on sensitives - always women, sometimes with a connection to Tarot abilities. Who, exactly was funding this came up blank, but after meeting with Pia, and Katria, I knew they had power that ignored national borders and laws!

The fire at Monica's high-rise. She promised we'd have a good laugh and talk about "how the lawyers were trying to understand a fire in a room filled with flammable files!" She'd been many things on those two phone calls, but she had most certainly not been herself.

There had been hundreds of folders of women holding turquoise in the old Kirlerian prints and there'd been no opportunity to understand the direction of that extensive documentation, but it was making sense.

I sorted through the balance with diminishing results and realized one cat was in my lap and the other snuggled against my spine, and I was out of coffee. Stuffing everything away without a real care other than to keep it all out of Mischief's curious paws, I lay back and closed my eyes.

I was asleep almost immediately, and dreaming only for moments before I awoke with a start.

"Equinox Trail, where this all began!"

I glanced at my watch, seeing I had more than enough time to make a quick run and back - so I grabbed a box of matches from the kitchen drawer and my pack from the closet, filled a pair of canteens, dashed a quick note to let my love know where I had gone and when I'd left, grabbed the old scanner, jumped into light boots and left at a run tossing everything into my Bronco.

The trailhead appeared in minutes; and I don't ever want to know how fast I drove those back roads! I was rigged up and on the trail fast, everything simple to do from long familiarity; and a sense of dread. . .

"About three miles," I thought. It felt unbelievably good to be on familiar terrain, and the thin air was a blessing. I coughed several times, clearing my lungs from the smog and humidity of Chicago, the bone-cracking fatigue of the long hard ride displaced with the necessary focus on the trail.

I made it in just under an hour. The lightening-scored knob of granite where I'd come across DeeDee all those months ago. The scanner crackled, and I shed my pack, pulling the unit from a top compartment.

"Fairplay, 290."

"Go ahead."

"Fairplay, show 290 back in District, back in service."

"Copy, 1315."

I was staring at the scanner in shock. It was Monica! She'd taken the day off, probably because the office was still closed after the fire, and decided to run a second-out call while waiting to hear from me! I shook myself and laughed a little, and took to exploring the granite knob.

There!

Atop the rock and on the East face was the spiral! My heart pounded as I carefully made my way back to the pack; wanting to see, afraid to believe what my little experiment would show.

I built a tiny pyramid of kindling and found the kitchen matches. Striking one on the granite I was instantly rewarded with a chemical flare; and it immediately went out. There was no breeze, they weren't wet, so I tried another. Identical result. Another. And another. I had six burnt matches, burnt only at the head.

My hands were shaking as I took the firestarter kit from my pack. Flint and steel; OK, more exactly, iron pyrite and carbon steel. On the first scrape a brilliant shower of sparks landed on the char and took greedily! Canteen water put the little fire out cold, and I went to the old campsite where DeeDee and I had spent the night.

Not bothering with a little pile of kindling, I struck a match. It immediately went out.

How. . .???

I looked at my watch and saw it was almost 1400; time to be heading back if I was going to beat Monica home. She wouldn't be in a hurry, not expecting me back already, and there was always something that needed doing at Base. We could sort the rest of this mystery out together. I couldn't wait! Going back to my sodden little pile of sticks I ran my fingers through it to make sure it was completely cold and dead out.

Shouldering the pack again, I decided to keep the scanner handy and looked at the display.

I froze. The battery indicator was showing less than a quarter charge!

What??? It had been fully charged lass than an hour and a half ago!

Popping the cover off the back, the sealed Ni-cads were almost hot to the touch! I locked my emotions down hard and started down the trail with care but with a sense of urgency.

Back at the Bronco, my gear loaded, I suddenly felt dizzy and looked at my watch. 2:45. "Good time - maybe some water and sitting for a minute. . ."

I heard a shriek of tearing, crumpling metal and felt a crushing pain and the world tried to go black with finality. Someone was screaming. . .

________________________________________________________________________________________



A fine rain was falling on my face.

I was sitting by the left front tire of my Bronco.

There was no one around - and I was holding the scanner.

". . . Repeat! Fairplay, emergency traffic!"

"Unit calling Fairplay - all units clear channel for emergency traffic! Go ahead."

"Fairplay, this is 218! Two vehicle 10/50 at Miners Way and County Road 47! Break!"

I was blank. That was Ed, a decent kid who'd just started as a paramedic a month ago. Naked terror poured through the radio.

"Fairplay copies, go ahead."

"Chopper go, repeat chopper go, emergency LZ The Ranchos, one patient critical! Break!"

"Fairplay copies."

"Fairplay - oh Dear God - Fairplay! The other car has caught fire! The driver's still inside! I got Candice out, and she's in a bad way. . .shit! Two critical, at least two critical!"

I felt like I was trying to breathe through cooling lava. The mic was open on Ed's pac-set.

"Fairplay, 218. . .218, do you copy?"

The open mic went silent. I felt the rain falling softly.

Page tones. Repeated.

"District Five, District Five; Bailey Mountain Fire, Bailey Mountain Rescue, I need full crews with extrication gear to a two car 10/50 with multiple injuries - emergent, repeat, emergent - Miners Way and County Road 47. Flight-for-Life is en-route to emergency LZ at The Ranchos per 218 on-scene. All units respond on radio Bailey-One. Keep this channel open for emergency traffic from scene. Time 1447."

The scanner picked up what sounded like half the county responding. I blocked Bailey-One and locked onto the EMS channel.

"Fairplay, I can't get her out! 208 is crushed against the wheel - I need a crowbar! Goddammit Monica, don't you die on me!!!"

I felt empty. In my mind I saw the road between me and the accident. Ten miles, give-or-take. I looked over the ridge of the valley of the trailhead through the clear afternoon and could see a plume of black smoke. Suddenly I could breathe, and the sound of an explosion echoed. The sound of sirens was filling the air, but I knew they were too late.

"Fairplay, baker-seven POV on-scene!"

"Baker-seven go ahead."

"I have two Code Blacks and two criticals - launch a second Flight NOW!"

"Copy, 1448."

"Fairplay, firefighter 119 on-scene, break."

"Firefighter 119 go ahead."

"Fairplay, we have two vehicles fully involved, risk of secondary explosion. Break."

"Firefighter 119, go ahead."

"Rescue 218 has severe burns and lacerations, Rescue 260 has a two badly broken legs, and more - I'm not sure."

"Fairplay copies."

I found I could stand. I knew I was getting drenched, but all I could do was look at the growing plume of black smoke in the distance.

"Oh, sweet Jesus. . ."

A grown man was sobbing, not noticing the open mic in his hand.

The scanner went dead. I got in the Bronco and drove slowly, so slowly home. I heard countless sirens, and a few minutes later they all went quiet.

________________________________________________________________________________________



I made it home, and fumbling open the front door I saw blood on my hands. Somehow I was completely unaffected. Looking in the mirror in our bedroom I saw I'd torn my forehead a good three inches, probably from hitting the mirror on my way to the ground. Mechanically, I retrieved my first aid kit from the oak night stand and cleaned the laceration in our bathroom, closing it with four butterflies and covering it with a 4X4 cut lengthwise with my pair of trauma shears. A little tape, and a couple ibuprofen swallowed and I nervelessly started stripping my spattered jeans and soaked sweatshirt and tee, tossing them in the trash, taking new jeans and my old v-neck green cashmere sweater from the closet.

I felt like I was in a hard vacuum, living and moving and thinking without air. The cats were nowhere to be seen, and Thwack would not come to my hand when I opened his cage, sitting in a corner instead, shivering, his bright crest flat.

My mouth had a nasty taste, and going to brush my teeth, I saw my reflection in the mirror. Blood still remained in my hair at the sides of my face, and I had heavy black circles under my eyes. Filling the sink with warm water, I carefully used a washcloth, no thoughts beyond the immediate act necessary occupying my mind.

I went back out to the Bronco and brought my pack in. Sitting on the bed I looked at it and for some reason found the sight of it and my preoccupation with other events ludicrous. Laughter wracked me, hysterical and wrenching and uncontrollable till I got dry heaves and found a shred of self-preservation.

I picked up the phone and dialed Fairplay, still detached and mechanical.

"Communications."

"Fairplay, this is Rose McAllister. I heard the 10/50 on Miners Way over my scanner. Let Rescue know I'm at home."

"Rose, this is Angela. You have my prayers."

I cut the connection, and tears started pouring down my face silently.

It was dusk when I straightened up and looked around. I felt thirsty and hungry, but thinking about food made me nauseous.

I went into the kitchen and started a pot of espresso going, and opened the front door to look at the falling night.

Half the County's emergency services vehicles were parked outside, with a couple dozen medics and deputies and firefighters standing near by in complete silence. Both 290 and 291 were there, four Baker units from State Patrol, four fire trucks and six Sheriff's Department units.

I shook, from head-to-toe, and nearly fainted; pulled myself together and held the door open wide.

The crews filed in, single file, each in turn giving me a hug and murmuring quietly. When Wiley held me, I focused a little and saw a ravaged, devastated man, his heart broken.

Neither of us could speak.

The honor being paid to me and Monica was inconceivable, overwhelming; this assemblage and impromptu gathering and procession of heroes, so many, volunteers.

I heard someone in the kitchen getting the big coffee urn assembled and started. No one spoke, and Wiley took a seat on the sofa next to me. Someone handed me my espresso.

Our home was packed, with everybody in full uniform.

I focused, and saw night had fallen, so I turned on all the lights, people moving out of my way; and I listened to the urn percolating.

I spotted Walt, the Sheriff.

"Tell me everything, in incident command order. Everything."

Kimberley and Lonnie looked at each other. They'd both gone through EMT school with Monica.

"The first crew was out, Lonnie and me transporting a COPD down to Kaiser when we heard the call drop - car versus deer over on 285 near the High School, the driver wasn't ejected, but the air bag deployed. It was the gym teacher's wife. Monica took it, and Candice responded from home; her kids were with their Dad for the day. Ed picked up when Monica called for ALS and Monica picked him up on Miners Way on her way to Base. You know pacers and airbags don't mix!"

She looked at Lonnie, tears in her eyes.

"We were just entering Denver, our patient stable, and we weren't giving the second call another thought other than, 'Boring call.' We got hung up with our patient's family for a while; they met us at the hospital. We got the rig cleaned up and started heading back up the hill, hearing Monica already back in District, back in service."

Wiley looked at me.

"Monica ran into me at Base, and she wanted to get home - you were out of town, due back today; and she wanted to be home. . ." He couldn't talk any more, and I felt him starting to shake.

Walt coughed, and took over.

"Rose, Monica was slowing down to drop Ed off; why Candice was still in the Jeep we haven't figured out yet. Gary," nodding at Baker-seven, " figures the Chevy Avalanche that hit Monica was doing something around seventy miles an hour around that blind curve. Monica never had a chance."

He took a deep breath. Tony, a driver from Rescue was handing round coffee, our dozen enameled tin mugs getting pressed into service, as well as anything else that would hold coffee from the cupboard.

I felt empty, calm. "I heard the call drop; felt her being crushed; I felt her die."

A pin drop would've been louder than a thunder-clap.

"My scanner died after that. I fainted and cut my forehead on the mirror of the Bronco. . ."

I took a deep swallow of espresso.

"How are Ed and Candice?"

Walt turned me to look him in the eyes; eyes as old now as the hills themselves.

"Ed has second and third degree burns on his hands, arms, upper chest and much of his face. His hands are bad - torn to ribbons. The surgeons think he was trying to literally rip Monica's seat out of the Jeep with his bare hands when the fire blew him back. . ."

I set my coffee down carefully, and felt my hands lock. Tears leaked out, and I took a deep breath and fought for calm. "Later;" I thought; "later I will mourn you, my love."

"And Candice?"

"Bi-lateral femurs, and her left foot is crushed. She was unconscious. Ed saved her."

Thwack chirruped softly from his cage. I rose, a little unsteadily and realized my hands were still clenched. I stretched them open, shaking them, and the crews stepped aside to let me get to our bedroom. I saw him in the center of his front perch, and his crest rose a little. He came to my hand and took to my shoulder immediately..

I stood in the doorway.

"Guys." My breath caught, and I leaned on the doorjamb. I tried again.

"Guys, I need to be alone. The funeral will be in three days at Crow Hill Cemetery." I looked at Wiley, seeing his jaw muscles clenching as he fought for control. "Her wish was to be cremated. See to it that a plain coffin is used. There are mementoes that must go with her."

He nodded, tears streaming down his face. I looked round at the gathering.

"Heroes and friends, go in peace. You do me honor. . ."

I felt calm, but tears were streaming down everybody's face; mine, too. They collected coffee cups and got them into the kitchen and filed out, again each giving me a hug; wordless.

I closed the door, and there was silence.

Then, beginning with 290, I heard sirens starting; and in my mind I could see fists of grief hitting panel switches, because every unit outside lit up, lights and sirens. A moment later they all shut down, and I heard engines starting.

I crumpled to the floor cross-legged and wept. Thwack chirruped softly twice and snuggled in a little tighter.

________________________________________________________________________________________



The phone rang, and I started badly. Thwack flew off into the kitchen, upset and frightened out of his sleep. It was late, and checking my watch I saw it was well after eleven. It took real effort to get to my feet. Every muscle and joint in my body felt tortured, and my eyes felt like they were full of carpenters glue. I heard the machine pick up as I made my way to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. My mouth tasted terrible, and I brushed my teeth, ignoring the answering machine, the voice in the background going silent before I was through.

I retrieved Thwack from atop the spice cupboard, seeing the litter of mugs and cups on the counters; the big urn still plugged in. My beautiful bird got his night-time lullaby and with the blue flannel cover in place over his cage, I heard a couple of sleepy chirps as he settled in.

Going back into the kitchen I washed out all the mugs and cups, setting them to drain dry in the rack, and filled a clean mug from the urn before unplugging it.

Taking a sip, I grimaced: bitter, but hot; and a decent stimulant. I poured a splash of tequila in, and added a spoon-full of raw sugar, stirring it as I went to the back porch. Fresh air sounded good, and I slipped the Coach Gun from it's pegs above the door, taking it with me into the night air.

I sat on a bench, the coffee going onto a corner table and just let my senses go into the quiet night.

I don't know how much time had passed, but I heard foot-steps coming around the side of the house. A thin veil of clouds had moved in, giving a suggestion of a change in the weather.

A bright flashlight beam appeared around the corner of the house, and I took the little shotgun to a ready position.

"Believing you vulnerable in grief, an enemy may believe an opportunity exists. . ." Monica's words came to me unbidden, and I felt myself calm, breathing easily. I slipped the safety off.

"Rose? Rose, are you back here? It's Andrea!"

I smiled tiredly. "Wait there, hon; I'll get the light." The beam of the flash stopped, still pointed at the ground. I went to the back door and reached inside, not turning my face from that light on the ground, hitting the floods for the porch by touch. I made it back to the bench, and called; "C'mon up!"

I lowered the twin barrels a little as she came into view. She grinned at the sight of the little shotgun, and came and sat beside me, still in full uniform. I thumbed the safety back on, and propped it up against the side of the table.

We were nearly the same age, she going prematurely gray at the temples, likely as not from having been in State Patrol for over twenty years.

I took a deep swallow of coffee and sighed, getting a strong, unreserved hug as soon as the mug was down. She sat back and looked at me.

"I tried calling, before I lost cell coverage on my way up. I kinda figured you'd be awake. You mind a little company tonight?"

I stretched, the aches and pains louder now, and smiled wearily at her. "Sleep's going to be somewhere between hard-to-nasty for a while, I think, hon."

She nodded, her page-boy black hair bobbing. "I took the next four days as emergency leave. I'll be your barracuda against the outside world till the funeral is over, OK?"

I grinned, and met her eyes. "Figures."

She reached out with both hands and took my face. "When are you going to grieve, after the funeral? She's going with full honors, you know."

"Oh, shit.. . ." I started crying.

I took a deep breath and cut it off. I shrugged. "I hadn't thought of that."

She dropped her hands to my shoulders and squeezed. "Seventeen agencies have called in, so far. Three Search and Rescue teams, plus Rescue agencies up-and-down the 285 corridor, four Wildland fire teams; gal, you'd better get set up for it. Figure at least twenty full teams. Tomorrow that number might double, or more."

My head fell back, and I stared up, overwhelmed. Her hands stayed.

"Heaven only knows how many civilians are going to show up."

I swallowed hard past a lump in my throat and sat up. She pursed her mouth and smiled wryly. "I owe you both, you know that."

I could only smile and nod.

"Let me guess, you got to keep your unit - did you bring any clothes?"

She stood, bringing me with her. "Yep, my unit's parked out in front, and I grabbed a fresh uniform and a change of clothes on my way up - I heard about the guys all showing up earlier. Sorry I wasn't here. I still have to go to physical therapy four times a month down in the city."

We came back in, and she took a mug and filled it from the cooling urn, and seeing the tequila she threw me a grin and topped her mug off, too. "That smells wonderful! Let me get my bag from my unit and I'll be right back, OK? I want to change out of this and get comfortable!"

She took a noisy slurp and sighed, and went out the front door, leaving it open.

Andrea'd been administering a roadside sobriety to a frequent-flyer, a well-known regular drunk late one night over a year ago when a biker lost control and slammed his Duce into her, pinning her against the back of her old unit. As fate would have it, Monica and I'd been on our way home from attending a performance of my favorite opera, Aieda - and we came up on the accident within seconds after it happened.

The rider of the motorcycle was crushed against a fir tree by the side of the road after clearing the bike, the drunk escaping with only bruises and superficial cuts - though toxicology later at the hospital had him at .31BAC! Andrea had crushed L3 & L4, and was a bloody mess, not to mention the bi-lateral flail segments that had punctured both lungs.

Monica triaged her and managed to keep her stable until our crews arrived and flew her out, from right there on the highway. . .

She'd fought the system to keep from being retired, showing up at the gym at six weeks out of surgery - and never took anything for the pain, ever.

The three of us had hot-tubbed at her house a couple times since, and she'd shown up at the range on occasion whenever she spotted us setting up. Her abilities with her collection of accurized AR-15's were almost legendary.

She hit the door with a small hard bag in hand and tossed it on the sofa, enthusiastically stripping off her duty rig. Spying the touch-pad safe, she raised an eyebrow, and I smiled, nodding.

"Go ahead - the combination's 10-50." I opened it and removed Monica's mil-spec parkerized 1911, and I gulped a couple times fast, turning to our bedroom to put it in the safe. I came out with Monica's El Paso rig with its' Super Redhawk.

Andrea looked at me, a mix of hard self-control and softness. Monica'd matched her performance at 50 yards with it one day at the range, doing tactical drills, and Andrea'd commented no little envy; both at the revolver and its' owner. . .

I handed it over wordlessly, seeing the twenty cartridge loops filled, the glowing, scuffed patina of those long years of regular use friendly and painfully familiar.

"Rose. . ."

"She'd want you to have it. It'd tear me up to see it waiting, untouched; unused."

All she could do was nod, tears welling. She wiped her eyes and took it from my outstretched hands. She took a deep breath and exhaled hard, laying the rig on the sofa, and got busy stripping off her uniform and kevlar vest. Flipping open the hard case, she pulled out a pair of black fatigue pants and a midnight blue lightweight ribbed long-sleeved sweater and dressed, replacing her duty shoes with a pair of side-zip nylon-and-leather responder boots with soft black soles.

I gave her a dirty look. "That's your idea of casual clothes?"

She beamed. "Yep! Glad you approve!" She dug into the case again and came up with a narrow black web belt, threaded it, and clipped a Glock 36 at her right hip, with a double mag pouch going on the opposite side with a tactical flashlight.

I glared at her dourly. "No wonder you never get a date! You look like you're on stand-by for a wet-entry call later!"

She came over and gave me a hug and looked me squarely in the eye. "I gave up on civilians years ago, Rose - now where's my coffee?"

I handed it to her, and she headed for the back door after locking the front. She grabbed her pac-set on the way and slid it into a thigh pocket.

Resigned, I smiled and stretched again, taking my little Coach Gun with one hand and cradling it as I held my coffee and closed the door behind us.

She'd taken the same spot on the bench, leaving my place by the table.

We sat in silence for a time, simply watching and listening to the night.

She spoke finally.

"I'll miss her, Rose - you know that."

I nodded, swallowing hard.

"She was like a raging bonfire in a dark and stormy night, when things got bad; almost feral in her focus and intensity, if that makes any sense."

I nodded again, mute.

We sat through that night in silence and when the sun began to show to the East we went inside, and I made up the sofa into a bed. Andrea nodded silently when I could only look at the doorway to the bedroom with tears in my eyes.

I lay down, fully dressed on top of the bed and closed my eyes.

________________________________________________________________________________________



I woke to the sound of the phone. The angle of the sun showed it to be around breakfast - and I ached all over. I had a headache. . .

Remembering Andrea, I went into the bathroom and started at the sight of myself in the mirror: I looked like I'd endured horrors - and somewhere inside of the hardplate around my heart I could sense immeasurable grief.

Emptiness threatened to swallow me whole, destroying me like a sword-thrust - and it passed. I stripped and showered, my mind blank, my movements mechanical. Nude, I uncovered Thwack and saw to his breakfast and fresh water, dressing for some reason in a favorite red broomstick skirt and black knit cowl-neck top, binding my hair in a clip at the back of my head.

I swallowed four ibuprofen and looked at the cut on my forehead. The butterflies had held through the shower, and the edges were already starting to close. A couple dabs of antibiotic ointment and I let it be.

I looked around at the room. I swallowed hard and got control - there was likely going to be a busy day ahead.

Heading into the kitchen, Andrea almost ran into me coming out of the guest bath, already fully dressed; and she gathered me into a fierce hug.

"Feel up to breakfast?"

I froze, as my stomach knotted itself into a cold, toxic knot.

"We gotta eat, girl - how 'bout pancakes, or something like that?"

I smiled. "I can manage pancakes - it'll be just a few minutes. Coffee?"

She beamed, and I got busy in the kitchen.

We ate on the back deck, the open, unconfined feeling much better for now.

"Did you know, I served her breakfast in bed every morning for twelve years?"

Andrea paused, coffee mid-way up. She put the mug down and ran a hand through her hair. "I've heard some about you two - that doesn't surprise me at all."

I looked at my watch. Eight-thirty.

We'd finished, and were sipping refills of coffee when Andrea cleared her throat and sighed. "Rose, we have to go through the hard stuff this morning."

I nodded. "Monica's to be cremated - from what I know, Gilliam and Sons down in the City are good - I'd asked Wiley to take care of that."

She nodded. "That was him earlier - I'll let him know." She finished her coffee and caught my eyes. "You ready for this? Fifty-one agencies have called in."

I blinked fast, fighting furiously for control.

She nodded, her eyes brimming.

"Honey, they're going to do Final Call honors at the High School - it's the only place big enough."

I started breathing fast through pursed lips, giving in and biting savagely on my hand - stopping before I drew blood.

I wiped my nose on my fist and looked at her. "OK. Yes." I looked at her. "I won't fail; you know that."

The phone rang, and I stood and brought everything back into the kitchen and started cleaning. A ripping pain erupted in my bowels, like I was being sliced by a chainsaw - I ran doubled over for the bathroom, stripping out of my skirt, barely making it in time before violent diarrhea tore through me in waves.

It was several minutes before I could sit up, and the agony subsided to an angry ache. I cleaned up, washed thoroughly, and brushed my teeth.

Andrea was in the doorway to the bedroom. "I was wondering when stress reactions were going to hit - you feeling a little better?"

I smiled, a little embarrassed, nodding. We both looked to the front door, hearing two different cars drive up and stop.

My long day had begun. I gave Andrea a hug, and she murmured, "Here we go!"

They arrived singly, in groups, entire families, old patients of Monica's; everyone imaginable, except any of her family.

I made the phone call, after lunch of sandwiches brought over by one of the octogenarian couples Monica'd regularly looked in on.

It went badly, worse; far worse, even - I hung up on her father shouting curses, saying ". . . this is God's revenge!"

I was almost chain-smoking by then, and I needed some fresh air. People were on the deck, and all conversation stopped when I walked out. I waved them away and back in, and when a few pressed me with heavy sympathy Andrea appeared and almost drug them away.

I simply laid down on the deck and closed my eyes. . .

By the time I was feeling sweaty, someone was standing over me. I stood, getting a strong hand taking mine. I was washed with a sense of a fierce light through obsidian. . . Tom.

I took a deep breath and composed myself. He moved, so the afternoon light wouldn't be directly behind him and led me to the bench.

He said nothing for a space, only holding both my hands in his with unimaginable gentleness. . .

"She is gone."

I nodded. "Yes."

"I know something about recent events. After you have mourned and know your center, we have much to discuss."

I looked at him, and shook. A surge of clarity poured through me.

"I will do that, Tom."

He stood, and handed me something encased in a small white leather box.

"A token of honor and respect; a fetish to protect her on her journey - with your permission."

"Yes."

He looked at me patiently, a deep ache evident in his eyes that never showed anything; not ever. . .

"You will either endure this and grow to become a woman the sum and more of your lives together - or this loss will drive you insane."

I grew still. "I do not fail, Tom."

He nodded once. "Till then, I will add my resources to contribute to your protection against any, past and current."

He took a step back. "The rest, the synthesis of this is yours; yours alone."

I smiled. He bowed, and departed down the stairs, making no sound whatsoever.

I was stunned. I reached with my heart into the abyss, and a wave of quieting peace came over me. "I live to serve; wind to water, wood to stone. . ." I whispered.

I turned, and entered my home again, to the people who barely knew me.

________________________________________________________________________________________



At six that night Andrea chased everyone out. Their faces and voices were a blur. I had been functioning on automatic, avoiding the sucking maw of sympathy and pity and loss everyone had carried, had wanted to share.

We went through the house opening all the windows wide, and Andrea opened a bottle of good white wine, filling our glasses to the brim. I retrieved Thwack from his cage, and he promptly relieved himself heavily over my hand and on the floor. I shared a good-natured laugh and cleaned up the mess, washing my hand thoroughly.

My little bird burst into a sincere bout of whistling and flew off into the kitchen, then into the living room, then to my shoulder, becoming quiet suddenly.

"He knows she is gone; but he still looks for her I think." Andrea looked at the cockatiel and in the mirror in the living room I saw his crest go up a little and then down.

I looked at her. "Have you seen any sign of the cats?"

"No - though I think I heard one of them use the litter box during the night."

She sprawled out on the couch and drank deeply. "I took something like twenty calls, today."

Unthinking, I took the recliner. "How's all that shaping up?"

Andrea sat up and took another long drink from her glass. "You sure you're up for this tonight?"

I smiled wearily, and shrugged. "Let's have it."

She took a deep breath. "Tomorrow, you and I are going to the City to take possession of Monica's ashes; then there's the death certificate to pick up, and Walt and a couple other agency heads would like to meet with you in the afternoon - in Fairplay, if you're up to that."

I downed my wine and swayed - the sword-thrust hit again, harder and deeper. I opened my eyes and tried to smile. "I can do that."

Andrea said, "There's more. Monica's insurance agent wants to meet with you when we're in the City, as does her boss at corporate - and did you know she had an attorney??"

"Emilio - yes. The rest - I guess we'll just take them in order. You'll drive, I hope?"

Her eyebrows arched till they all but disappeared. "I know you've both dealt with other families in time like this - but honey; are you sure?"

I looked around at the casseroles and pots and platters of food and fruits and cheeses and home-made breads. "We don't have to worry about cooking - if we happen to have another bottle of wine in all this I may manage some sleep tonight."

She grinned. "I can kill a bottle of wine with you tonight, no problem! Find us some paper plates and lets get to stuffing ourselves and drinking in honor of your love; your lives, OK?"

I looked at her with tears in my eyes and tossed my hair back, taking a deep breath.

"Sounds like a plan - where's Thwack?"

We laughed a little, we cried a lot more, and we ended up almost conquering a third bottle of wine before we got enough out of our systems to consider sleep a real possibility, making sure we just kept putting more food on our plates and eating. . .

________________________________________________________________________________________



I woke up during the night, disoriented, and it was brutal to cope with the realization that my love would never be beside me again as my arm reached out to stroke her and found only emptiness.

I walked through the living room and saw Andrea sound asleep on the sofa - we hadn't managed to make it up into a bed. She rolled to her side, and I saw she had hold of Monica's rig. All I could do was smile.

It was a beautiful night outside. Escaping the walls was more of a relief than I'd been aware had been building. Fatigue hit me in the space of a couple deep breaths, and I barely remember going back inside and climbing into bed - and then it was awakening to a brilliant morning!

A little groggy I stumbled into the bathroom and started the shower. I went after the loofah with a vengeance, washing my hair twice, too, before rinsing cold.

Better.

I made my toilet and finished my morning routine in the bathroom, fingering my damp hair into a braid; dressing in black jeans and a black bodysuit and black boots. I tip-toed through the living room, seeing Angela still sound asleep and went into the garage, back to Glory.

She was in real need of a thorough cleaning, and likely a full maintenance visit at the shop - but I wanted the contents of the saddle-bags.

With them over my arms, I stroked the handelbars.

"Go," whispered Glory.

"Soon, I promise. I owe you."

I paused, a thought dawning. Setting the bags down, I saw the keys still in the ignition. Turning the bike to "ACC," I saw the aftermarket electronics light up. I dug out the PDA and entered Deirdre's text-message personal phone number. Going to the messenger menu, I thought a moment and then used the scribe:

"MONICA KILLED IN CAR ACCIDENT YESTERDAY. INVESTIGATE. FUNERAL WITH FULL HONORS TOMORROW. DONT WAIT UP FOR ME."

I dialed the overseas long distance access number and hit "SEND." I saw "MESSAGE SENT" flash, and shut the unit down. Something else was blinking regularly. My heart thudded in my chest: the ESCORT Passport 8500 display was cycling every second, rising to the limit and then off; then the cycle repeated. I grew cold, even to the borders of homicidal lethality till training kicked in.

Smiling, I took a couple deep breaths, thinking; "Coincidence can destroy any tactics! If I assume no malevolence, show no concern I should have a better opportunity to discover if something is really going on! Think, girl - keep your wits about you!"

I shut the bike down and pocketed the keys, pausing at the door to look at Andrea's CSP unit. Sure enough, as she was parked facing the garage, her radar unit was pointing squarely at Glory.

At the front door I heard the shower in the guest bath running, with its' low-flow head distinctive. I dumped the saddle-bag liners on the bed and found the contents of Monica's chest right away. I pocketed the money and put the gold and silver in the hollow steel clothes rod in her closet, making myself not react to the contents and the surge of emotions. . .

I slipped on the leather shoulder rig and checked the HK, the Kimber and its' ballistic nylon rig also needing a cleaning after getting soaked with sweat during my hard ride. The shower stopped. I went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, and tried to decide how to store all the food that had been left the day before - I had enough to feed twenty people!

Andrea came round the corner in her uniform pants and a sports bra, barefoot, toweling her hair.

"Good morning!"

I smiled. "Likewise! You slept hard - ready for today?"

She draped the towel around her shoulders and stared at me, hands on her hips. "You are something! I've seen some of the best reduced to a lump of quivering nerves with this sort of thing! Yeah - you bet! Let's get some of that coffee down and a bite to eat, and we'll hit the road." She paused a moment, taking in my choices of black, black, and black; nodded, and finished getting dressed quickly.

Her duty belt was going around her waist, mating with the liner belt pile when I came out with two cups of coffee.

"OK, now that smells way too good! What'cha brewing that with?"

I slurped, sighed, inhaled the steam and grinned. "Puerto Rican dark roast, organic - good stuff, don't you think? Enough caffeine to open the eyelids of a mastodon with a hang-over. Us, we should have our wits lit up and shining to get me through today. . ."

She snapped the last keeper in place, slurped, swallowed, and looked at me with approval. "Got a thermos around here? I bet some of this'll help with the drive!"

I ducked into the kitchen and filled our clean steel thermos, unplugged the pot, and checked the back door before joining her by the door. Andrea was checking the windows and turning on the stereo. I left the thermos on the recliner, gave Thwack his breakfast, refilled the cats' water dish, shrugged into Monica's old drover, found my cell phone and checkbook and we were both ready to go.

Checking the door was locked, we walked to the patrol car. Andrea looked at me, and I stopped.

"Walt said you'd carry all the time - and he didn't want you to break any rules - so here." She handed me something.

I looked down. A Park County Deputy badge, Reserve Unit, number 19. I looked at her.

"He said you should keep that till he's up for election again, just don't go flash it around. You're family now, girl - don't ever doubt that."

She caught me as I swayed a little, and I grabbed her and hugged her tight, trying not to lose it. We both sniffled a couple times, and she broke away, saying briskly, "Lets get this day over with!"

We pulled out, and she chuckled, reaching for the mic; "Besides, my Colonel would have kittens on the spot if a civilian was in a unit, armed. . ."

"Pueblo, six-baker-two is out, not-in-service per command Adam-one authorization."

"Pueblo copies, six-baker-two; how is she?"

Andrea grinned at my exasperated look. "We're 10/4."

"Pueblo copies, 0835 hours."

The attorney was closest, once we were in the flats. Emilio was in court, but his clerk, a charming woman in her 60's who looked barely older than me had paperwork copied and ready to sign, some to take to the insurance agent. She notarized everything efficiently, and then got a strange look on her face.

"Miss McAllister, I have something for you. Monica left it with us three years ago, an inheritance of sorts as I understand it."

She handed me a small, simple spruce box, tied shut with a cord and sealed with wax. The imprint on the seal was Monica's, the one she'd made while she was in business school. . . The sword-thrust was vicious, almost beyond bearing, coming and going like lightening.

I heard Andrea talking with her; ". . . we'll be getting that later today. I'll see a registered copy is in the mail to you before the end of the day."

"I wasn't worried. I called the coroner for the number on the certificate yesterday; so insurance won't be delayed."

I looked around. Both of them were simply waiting, aching sympathy on Irene's face. She shook my hand warmly, and turned away quickly.

Andrea had gathered up the paperwork and had it in a large envelope. We headed outside.

Back inside the unit, the doors closed, Andrea said; "I think you'd better wait to open that. . ."

I chewed my lips, and could only nod, placing it on the floor.

Next stop was the insurance agent, an overweight young man with a round, unlined face that bespoke many hours spent in effortless self-indulgence, likely in hiding from unfiltered sun and unwashed air, who dressed out of catalogues for the up-and-coming.

More paperwork, and Andrea found the forms needed to conclude things. He went into the back for a minute, returning with an envelope.

I looked at him blankly.

"The death benefits check. I'd get that into the bank before you do too much else - I don't write one like that more than a couple times a year. With your mortgage paid off now, you'll be able to live comfortably the rest of your life on that!"

I blinked. I felt Andrea freeze.

"Just how much is it for?"

"Two-point-five million. Have a nice day."

I came to sitting in a chair in the lobby, the secretary looking barely interested. Andrea handed me a paper cup of water and said, "Let's get out of here. You OK?"

Standing up, the room only tried to spin once before coming to rest. I focused on Andrea's eyes. "Yeah. I need to get out of here."

Andrea made it to the back of her unit before she got violently sick. I tossed the paperwork on the seat and poured a few sips of coffee.

She swilled out her mouth, spat, grabbed a handful of tissue I found in the glove box, wiped her mouth and stood up, handing me the cup from the thermos back.

"That asshole!"

"Yeah - and there's more fun to come. Let's get out of here. . ."

She looked at me, looked at the android behind the desk inside the building.

We left. She munched powerful breath gum, found in the console.

We didn't talk at all on the way to Gilliam and Sons.

The building didn't have some maudlin air about it - there was a simple, reasonably modern glass-and-concrete three-story structure with a circle drive in front, and parking spaces on the right side.

A well-groomed young man in his twenties rose to greet us. His dark blue suit and matching tie were decently understated - and seeing Andrea he took our names and asked us to follow him. 

Down a short hall and left, through beautiful beech and maple doors we were met by Mr. Gilliam. Almost ninety, he still carried himself with ease, radiating a sense of calm acceptance of his years in his lined face.

He handed both of us into gold brocade upholstered Queen Anne chairs.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the rather small simple birds-eye maple box on his desk.

I started to lose control.

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

I looked around and saw Andrea weeping openly.

Mr. Gilliam simply sat quietly. Andrea took a handful of tissues from the desk and blew her nose; another handful to wipe her eyes. She stuffed the tissues in her pants pocket, shook her head and caught my eyes. I nodded.

Mr. Gilliam took a deep breath, and let some of it out.

"Miss McAllister," he began.

"Rose."

He nodded.

"Rose, I'm truly, truly sorry for your loss."

I couldn't speak.

"I've already spoken with the Sheriff, and the coroner. Everything's been taken care of. I need one signature, and you can bring her home."

I stood, and the room tried to spin. I leaned on the desk, and cleared my head. "I will not fail, my love. . ."

He handed across a form, and indicated where I should sign. I did, and the young man who had shown us in came and took it, saying; "I'll be just a moment with your copy."

Andrea stood when he returned and folded the paper into her breast pocket.

Mr. Gilliam stood and came around his desk. His assistant handed him another, slightly larger box of the same beautiful wood.

"Her effects."

He took my hand.

"I was her Sunday School teacher when she was in the third grade."

Andrea was moving to take the box of Monica's effects, and she turned to look at me.

I smiled into the eyes of that old man and opened the doors in my heart for a moment.

"Then you know something of my loss, Sir;" I said softly.

"Yes, a little; perhaps."

I shook his hand and turned, taking the surprisingly heavy box of some six pounds in my arms. I took a deep breath.

"We're done here, Andrea."

I exhaled when we were outside. Andrea reorganized the front seat, putting all the paperwork in the trunk, giving me room to hold Monica's ashes. Her effects went at my feet. 

As we hit the road, I looked at her and saw she was about to break the steering wheel - the bones in her hands were clear.

She glanced over at me and saw my pointed look.

"I'm done with the City, Andrea - let's get the rest of today over with."

She nodded, took a ragged breath and shook her hands out one at a time. "Think you can manage a cup of that coffee?"

"Sure."

She drove flawlessly, and we made it to Fairplay and the Sheriff's Office in an hour and thirty-five minutes.

We parked by the side entrance. The parking lots were full. I looked at her.

"We have active GPS on all our units, as of this year. They stay on even when the car is shut down. Everybody knew when we'd get here."

She got out, and opened my door for me. I handed her Monica's ashes as I stood, stripping off the drover; and with a second thought, pinned on my badge. I turned in time to see her kiss the lid, tears streaming down her face. My self-control got ragged. . .

She looked at me. "I'm sorry. . ."

I managed a lopsided smile through my own tears, nodded, and took the box from her hands. She grabbed the last of the tissues from the glove box, handed me some, and we dried and blew together.

"Ready?'

She nodded.

"Grab my cigarettes from the drover, will you?"

She grinned, dug them out and we headed inside, setting the security system on her unit with the remote.

________________________________________________________________________________________



Down the hall, second door on the right. Andrea punched the code to the lock and held the door for me.

There were at least forty people inside. Uniforms from dozens of agencies, many familiar from the fires, some, not. Walt was foremost, and as people moved aside, I saw a small card table with a single, large scented candle burning. I shook a little as I set Monica's ashes down.

The room was silent.

One by one, heads bowed.

I looked around the room, and then at the single flame. A wave of fathomless love crashed over me, cleansed me, and I knew what to do.

"You are her family. All our lives have been touched, changed by the unquenchable light of her spirit."

I took a deep breath, and continued.

"Never has there been any hesitation, never has there been rejection for her openly being a lesbian woman - nor my love and partner for life - because when the call went out, all of us here knew if she responded, one of the very best would be on-scene to render aid with complete professionalism, with marvelous skill and compassion."

I smiled, and felt tears of joy flowing down my face. I sighed, and shook my head, unnoticed.

"She lived with a proud, fierce intensity; but never was this more clear than when she faced the impossible, the mass casualty, the hopeless victim - she never faltered, never flinched; a clear and steady light in the darkest moments for any and all she attended."

Sobs shook me, and my voice faltered.

"That you are here speaks of the honor you shared. It is right that we know this private moment to remember her, because as long as we never forget her, her wry sense of humor, her unstoppable energy - than she will never truly die."

I sank to my knees, almost gasping, resolute to finish.

"She will always be a hero to me - and my love for her will never, never die!"

Grief took me.

The room remained silent for a time.

I found a semblance of control and came to my feet with a little difficulty.

Page tones split the air.

"District six, South Park Fire, South Park Ambulance, please respond to a two-car 10-50, injuries reported, Red Hill Pass; repeat District six, South Park Fire, South Park Ambulance, please respond to a two-car 10-50, injuries reported, Red Hill Pass - no further details."

I looked around and saw no one had moved.

Walt coughed, and tried to laugh a little.

"Business as usual!" 

I grinned, and was handed a box of tissue - and I handed it back. Everyone in the room needed some. . .

Wiley looked a little embarrassed, and turned his pac-set down. He came over and hugged me till I felt his joints creak. Though his radio was turned down, I caught code replies from full crews - and I felt several pairs of eyes on me.

I looked at one man, a little familiar from Elk Creek, and laughed.

"Old habits die hard."

He grew a lopsided grin, and shook his head. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and faced Walt. He had circles under his eyes - and he cleared his throat.

"Before we get into the nuts and bolts of organizing this Final Call, there's something I want all of you to witness."

He reached and removed the badge I wore.

"Rose, please raise your right hand and repeat after me. . ."

In front of everyone there, he swore me in.

"I know this hardly an every day occurrence, but I know Monica has been your family, your anchor all these years. I want you to know without any question that all of us will do our best to stand in your stead - and I could think of no other way to make that a reality than having the honor of swearing you in as a reserve Deputy of mine, and all of Park County."

I wiped my eyes and shook my hair back. He reached behind him to the counter and produced a leather wallet for the badge, and handed me an identification card to sign, passing it to his secretary to laminate.

He looked at me with warmth in his eyes, and some mischief.

"You are pagan, aren't you?"

I nodded.

"How long is your time of mourning?"

"Eight weeks."

He grinned.

"Then, you're required to present yourself at the bi-monthly team meetings in District Two after that, without excuse or exception, understand?"

"Yes, Sir!"

He saluted me crisply, and I returned it - and the room broke out in cheers, wolf-whistles, and applause.

A thought crossed my mind - and I couldn't resist. . .

"Um, Sheriff?"

He looked at me, still smiling.

"What."

"Does this mean I have to carry that POS Smith .40 you issue?"

The room fell apart with laughter, and he grinned ear-to-ear shaking his head. His secretary came in, handing him the laminated ID card. He was still chuckling as he slipped it into the wallet, affixed the badge and held it out to me. The room quieted.

"Deputy McAllister, welcome to the force!"

I was hugged and I shook hands - often both - by everyone in the room. I came to stand in front of the little table, the candle burning bright behind the quiet, lovely box of ashes.

Laughing and crying, I showed my new badge and ID to Monica.

"Look, my love! You don't have to worry - I have a family now!"

The room fell completely silent, and the agency heads and reps filed past, each briefly touching the box, many murmuring briefly.

Folding chairs were placed, and everyone took a seat. Wiley and Walt waved me up to the podium, and I took Monica's ashes, Angela taking the candle, and someone brought the table to the front of the room.

Walt opened, explaining that since Bailey Mountain Rescue was a volunteer agency and wasn't run to a military tradition, he and Wiley had discussed the matter at length; coming to decide that the basic format would be used with only minor changes.

I watched Wiley, a paramedic for twenty-seven years, fight to explain the changes; mentioning that in all his years, Monica was the first and only crew member he'd ever reflexively thought of as his partner on any call. I began to visualize the ceremony, and my mind tried to completely reject it.

My mind wandered a little, thinking back to the few times Monica and I'd discussed dealing with the death of the other. . .

We'd wanted to be allowed to bathe the other's body, a final respect and act of love; and we'd agreed on trying to get permission to build a pyre with our own hands for the cremation, seeing the remains interred the following morning. We'd wanted an acutely personal, pure act to be performed for the other, closing the cycle of our union with love - though neither of us had thought such a time would come for decades.

I looked at the birds-eye maple box.

No!

I wanted to take her ashes and run, run barefoot, run till I found a sacred place on some wild, un-named raw granite peak and alone spread her ashes to the restless winds, to set her free - anything but this ceremony, this formality run by Western men!

I tore my eyes away, and screwed my eyes shut, fighting back the tears, the rage.

You can't be dead!

And I felt the touch of her hand caressing my face, her lips on my forehead. The abyss of darkness, of rage and rejection and madness vanished.

I opened my eyes and looked around at the silent room. At the podium, Wiley was looking at me with concern.

"Can you go on, Rose - or do you need to take a break?"

I took a deep breath and felt vertebra in my spine crack. I nodded.

"I can do this."

He waited.

"Wiley," I said, "Monica lived to be on with Rescue. It gave her meaning and balance to counter having to hold a corporate day job; something she could really apply herself and make a difference. She was competitive, almost unbelievably so to most of you, unless you got to watch her train and fight in martial arts competitions."

I wiped my nose with my fist, and some of the guys grinned at that.

"I know you saw it during the fires, maybe a few other times - Rescue was what she loved."

I smiled, and shook my head.

"I was up for the duration of nearly every call she went on, covering the phones for the second out crew, talking her down when she came home till she could get at least a nap before having to get up for her day job."

I looked out at the agency and department heads.

"I know an awful lot about an awful lot of you - and most of that won't ever be repeated, trust me!"

Chuckles spread, and a few whispered asides were exchanged with truly wicked looks.

I stood.

"Guys, I know it's traditional to eulogize the fallen endlessly, both as a way of paying respect as well as putting on record in the hearts and minds of all who attend the facets of our perceptions, our knowledge of honor. We pass on the histories of our fallen to all who attend, both as a legacy and a challenge to meet and exceed the standard bourn and chosen by them.

"This is right; this is how is must be - but I would ask you to select no more than three among you to speak tomorrow, before Walt, Wiley, and my benediction and public adeau to my love. One hour, start to finish, after we assemble, before Final Call sounds."

There were some shocked faces. Such rituals frequently lasted several hours, with any who wanted to speak being unquestionably so allowed.

"No more, please. I am finding strength beyond my means, so far, through all of this - and I will not dishonor her by collapsing like a school girl.

"There is no hymn that I know of, for EMS. Monica was not affiliated with any religion. I would welcome a brief comment by the Chaplain, as he and Monica grew to be something of friends over the years with him manning Fire Base, or giving Last Rites to the dying at blenders and MCIs.

I took a deep breath.

"I need some coffee, and a cigarette, and some fresh air. Those are my thoughts and wishes - please try and work this out with that in mind."

I smiled briefly and made it into the hall before my knees tried to buckle. Andrea appeared a moment later carrying two mugs of coffee and nodded to the back door.

Outside, I lit up and pulled the smoke deep, holding it for a two-count, letting the nicotine hit before I exhaled slowly out my nose. I slumped against the cement block wall of the building, and took a mug from Andrea. She looked at me with amazement.

"OK, now you're making history! Those apes were ready to turn tomorrow into a Protestant circus! That's fine any other time - but you coming out and letting them politely know what you thought of that was priceless!"

I took a deep swallow of the scalding brew and almost choked.

"What in the name of heaven is this?"

She beamed.

"Generic store-bought, pre-ground! We get it in five-pound cans! You like?"

I bared my teeth, and she giggled.

"Nothing but the best for Colorado's finest!"

I sighed, and smoked, looking disconsolate at the steaming mug of inky blackness. . .

"You think they'll work it out in there?"

She shrugged.

"Probably - nobody knows for sure, but if your hand-to-hand skills are anywhere close to Monica's they won't dare risk having you come after them later and pound them into a tree!"

I gave her a wrinkled-nose smile, and she beamed.

She pulled an envelope from her back pocket.

"I got the Certificate from the front desk. That about takes care of everything - you just gonna call her boss down in the City?"

My shoulders slumped.

"I don't suppose you could get me to the evidence room - I could adore a good joint, first."

She did a double-take so fast she sloshed coffee on the gravel.

"You shit! Oh, you really deserve kick in the ass for that!"

"Give me the damn phone."

"Where's yours?"

"In your unit - OK, my dime. Let me in, will you?"

We walked over to her unit and I dug out my cell. Hitting the speed-dial, in seconds I got the receptionist, knowing how to by-pass the automated system.

"Bob Tonsing, please."

"Who may I say is calling?"

"Rose McAllister, returning his call."

"One moment."

I stubbed out my cigarette and pocked the butt, taking another draught of the recycled carburetor cleaner used to substitute for a decent cup of coffee.

"I'm sorry, he's unavailable; may I take a message?"

"Yeah. Tell him Monica's funeral is tomorrow, and the cemetery is open to the public from eight-to-five weekdays."

"I'm sorry, whose funeral?"

I hung up, spat in disgust over my left shoulder and shut down the phone.

My stomach growled.

" "I'm sorry, he's unavailable; may I take a message?", followed by, "I'm sorry, whose funeral?" I parroted the receptionist with viciousness.

Andrea stared. "OK, I knew I had a hard time understanding civ's any more - that's just nasty, when you think about it."

"And then some. Let's go see if negotiations are wrapped up - I'm hungry, and I want to take Monica home."

We went inside. Wiley tried to show me the plans and schedules, but all I could do was look at Monica's ashes. Andrea took some notes. I looked around.

"Everybody - thank you. I need to get home. It's been a hellacious day, and tomorrow will be the hardest of all."

They all stood at attention when I took Monica's ashes in my arms and headed for the door. It was more than I could stand.

Andrea got me into the unit and we drove to the house in silence.

I don't think I stopped crying the entire way.

________________________________________________________________________________________



We got home by dusk. I sat in the unit a minute, pulling myself together to face the empty house. We'd passed 109, a Deputy I knew a little, at the driveway. He waved, flashed his lightbar briefly, and drove away.

Thwack started whistling at the sound of my keys, but there was no sign of either of the cats.

I put the ashes on the coffee table and made it into the bathroom before I started throwing up. Dry heaves, and too many of them.

Andrea was turning on lights, and puttering in the kitchen. I washed my face, brushed my teeth and flushed the toilet, running a brush through my hair. The reflection in the mirror shocked me. The woman I saw sort of resembled me, but for the cut under the blonde bangs, the black circles, and the nearly gaunt look.

I tried a smile, looking for something familiar. Barely.

Curious, I was a little shocked to see the bathroom scale show that I'd lost easily eight pounds - some of that from the hard ride home, I hoped.

A car pulled in the drive. I went to the door, and saw Wiley coming up. I opened the door for him, and saw the last few days had aged him a decade.

"Rose - I'll just be here for a minute."

I munched my lips, suddenly understanding what he wanted, and dreading it. I nodded.

"I'll get her second uniform and cap, and spare boots, her Rescue coat too."

I turned and took the clothes without letting myself look, bringing them to him in a rush.

He took them and could only look at me, frozen in place for a second before he turned to his car and drove away.

A chirp from inside refocused me. . .

I got Thwack on my shoulder and, heading into the kitchen I saw the cats' water dish was low, their food dish, too. I made them my first priorities, clicking my tongue and calling them gently. Nothing. At least they were still around somewhere.

I hoped little Kallis hadn't gone feral. . .

The Fed-EX truck pulled in the drive. Marty honked and waved. I went outside and met him half-way. He got a good look at me and froze in the middle of handing me a padded envelope.

I took the envelope, curious. Seeing the Chicago address my heart started pounding.

"Rose, what's wrong?" Marty was a casual acquaintance, the weather never stopping his boundless spirits to have a route up out of the City.

"Monica's dead."

"Oh, shit. . . did she die on a call?"

I could only nod.

"I can put a hold on deliveries for you for ninety days - you want that?"

I nodded again, and saw him with tears streaming down his face.

"You bet. She'll be at Crow Hill?"

"Yeah."

"I'll drop by there in a week or so and spend a few hours with her - she was the best."

I nodded, signed for the package and went back inside, opening the envelope.

Out spilled my new watch, my jewelry, everything save clothes. Inside was a note:

"D and I have talked. You are invisible to CPD.

These are safe for you to have, always.

We are beginning the hunt.

Some day I will call you my home.

K"

Andrea was heading out the back door carrying my tray piled with bowels of soup, breads, cheeses and fruit. I fount the last bottle of wine left as a gift and silently thanked whomever it was that had the presence of mind to bring that as a gift.

Andrea looked at me, sitting wearily.

"You're just going to chew the cork out, huh?"

I glared at her and slumped back, breathing the familiar scents, trying to relax. She came back with the corkscrew and two glasses, setting them on the bench, and ducked back in the house.

"Just sit a minute, will you?" 

She reappeared reasonably soon, dressed in her sports bra and black fatigues, Glock on her hip.

"That's better! I can't stand to be in uniform a minute longer than I absolutely have to. What, you don't have the wine open yet? Need some help, do you?"

I swatted her hand away with a growl, and popped the cork in short order, filling both glasses.

She lifted her glass. "To a hell of a day, with a worse one just ahead!"

Glasses clinked, and we both drank deep.

"So, what did you get?"

I spilled the contents of the envelope, keeping the note from Katria private. I took my plastic watch off, smiling wryly as I saw the display was blinking, feeling a peaceful, happy sense to have my new watch back. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it, not to mention my silver-and-turquoise and the rest of my jewelry.

Andrea's eyes widened.

"To Monica, I was the most precious, the most coveted, the most joyful truth and love in her experience. This is only a little of that demonstration. The watch is from an old friend. . ."

All she could do was stare for a minute.

The phone rang quietly.

I looked at her.

"There are 28 messages on your machine, and I just don't feel like working my way through that right now. I figured out how to turn the ringer off on the kitchen phone, and the volume way down on the office. The world will just have to wait!"

With that she ate like a survivor of the Donner party. It took a little coaxing for me to convince my stomach that food was a good idea, but before long we were down to a little fruit and cheese. I'd gotten us a pitcher of water, to help the wine to last - and both were more than half-way down.

I sighed.

"OK, let's have it - how's tomorrow going to work?"

She stretched hard and long, patting her stomach.

"Much better!"

I waited. She got up and brought my tray back into the kitchen with her, returning with her pocket notebook.

"The stuff you have to think about?"

I nodded.

"We'll have to get up by no later than eight, to be at the High School by ten. Wiley will stay with Monica, and I will be at your side the entire time. Procession and colors at eleven, eulogies for an hour, and Final Call at precisely noon."

Tears were flowing again.

"Internment at one. Wake back at the High School with an open bar till ten."

I looked at her.

"Yep - Walt simply told the school board that was going to happen, and they didn't argue, as it wasn't going to be open to the public."

I grinned tiredly.

"I'm impressed - but I'm not going to the wake."

She nodded.

"I'll get you straight back home."

I stood, and went in, coming back out with Monica's ashes, placing them on the little table with us in the spreading night.

I stroked the maple.

"This was one of our favorite times of the day, you know? As often as we could, we'd be out her watching the stars come out, talking about her day, keeping an ear on the radio - always with the radio on."

Angela nodded, her eyes brimming.

"Monica was almost a folk legend with us in CSP, did you know? I've probably heard as many stories about her as anybody; everything from the time she stayed on-scene in a blizzard keeping three stoned teenagers warm in her car while one of our units responded from Fairplay, one of your Deputies huddled in his unit with a faulty heater waiting to arrest at least one of them and take them to jail - to the kid who was trampled by a buffalo, and Monica was first on-scene! She casually got the critter back in his fence and triaged the kid until I showed up just ahead of South Park! She slipped in manure when she stood up, and laughed her ass off. . ."

I grinned.

"There are probably hundreds of stories. . ."

I nodded, filling our glasses with the last of the wine, stroking the glossy maple.

"There's so much more to our lives, our years together that you'll never know, can't know; even shouldn't know - and nothing in my life will ever be the same because of her."

Andrea went stock still.

"I still wish I could've known her better - even just a little, if she would've let me in."

She took my hand, her eyes full of tears.

"Everybody knew you were the most important person in her life, Rose. Lights went on in her eyes whenever your name was mentioned! The rest of the time, no matter what, those doors were shut. . ."

We held each other and cried till the moon was high in the sky.

I got the sofa made into a decent bed that night, and I stripped, rinsing quickly with cold water before climbing into the bed, hair still wet, under the covers for the first time.

I fell asleep to the sound of someone singing in the distance, and the sound of wings. . .

________________________________________________________________________________________



I awoke before dawn to the sensation of the big tomcat staring at me from atop her pillow. Little Kallis was curled in the crook of my shoulder, a furnace, almost desperate in his need to be close enough to chase his nightmares away.

Moving to look, the tom raced off, the thudding of his paws going through the house. Disturbed, Kallis abruptly arched and hissed terrifyingly, and he disappeared over the edge of the bed. He squalled briefly, and fell silent.

I stretched, feeling real hurt in my body from the unrelenting stress of the past four days beginning with my last in Chicago - it seemed a lifetime ago. I heard Thwack stir, and then flap his wings in terror, crashing around in his cage.

Lifting the blue cover I saw him huddled on the far end of his top perch, shivering.

I opened the cage, but he wouldn't move but to try and edge further away. Reaching in, speaking softly, I tried to coax him onto my hand - and he bit my index finger savagely, shaking in naked fear!

"He knows," I thought. "They all know."

I saw him fed, and went to the other side of the bed, to the night stand where I'd placed her ashes.

"Today, my love - I have to let you go."

I sat on the edge of the bed and hugged her ashes, letting the grief take me till the worst was past.

A little clearer of mind, I splashed cold water on my face, slipped into yesterday's jeans and went quietly out the front door, barefoot. Andrea was buried under the covers, on her side with her back to me, still sound asleep.

The skies were overcast, but broken; the cool morning air wonderful on my naked torso and arms. I went into the garage, back to Glory. Waking up the electronics again, I found a message waiting on my Palm Pilot:

"ACCIDENT REAL. NO PREDETERMINATION I AM CERTAIN. THEY MAY BE AFRAID OF YOU. SEND HER WITH WILDFLOWERS OF MY HEART. A CANDLE BURNS THAT WILL NEVER BE EXTINGUISHED HERE."

I hit the auto-acknowledge, using the scribe briefly:

"ENVELOPE ARRIVED - EVERYTHING UNDAMAGED. I MISSED YOUR TOKEN.

BE CERTAIN OF EVERYTHING TWICE.

I WILL FIND MY WAY."

hitting 'Send' and powering everything down, ignoring the blinking indicator on the radar detector. Glory was silent.

"I wish I could be as strong as you, today," I whispered.

I walked around in our yard for a few minutes, picking a handful of wild herbs and native perennials. I reached to the nape of my neck and twisted a finger, yanking abruptly. A pencil-thickness of long hair from my scalp came free, and I quickly twisted it into a simple twine, binding the bouquet with it.

Apt. . .

Back in the house, I showered, using the anti-bacterial soap, washing meticulously. I shook at the sight of Monica's toothbrush, her sparse toiletries. I threw them all in the trash, going to the kitchen to empty the little wastebasket.

Anger hit me when I looked in the mirror again. "What a stupid waste! I want to know who that driver was!"

It began to boil and rage uncontrollably - and the thought hit me like a shock:

"What, girl - are you planning on killing a corpse?"

Sanity came back with the abruptness of an arc-light. I looked at my forehead. The cut was healing. I peeled the butterflies off and touched a trace of ointment to it.

"What do I wear to your funeral, to Last Call?"

The thought hit me like a cave-dweller's club. Then I knew.

I went to my sewing room and opened the trunk, taking the blue gown and one pair of stockings. A touch of the steamer and the fabric was perfect.

"One last time for my finery, my love."

I dressed quickly, hearing Andrea stir in the guest bathroom. I added the diamond solitaire pendant, and the matching studs. I braided my hair wet, planning on brushing it out when it was dry - the style that was the most personal between us. I chose my new boots, the ones the three of us had gotten together that day in Fairplay.

With just the espresso bull-hide foot peaking out, I knew a wry smile at the fashion faux-pas, but I couldn't care less. I left my hands bare, the thought of choosing from the collection my love had gifted me over the years impossible.

Looking in the mirror, I smiled.

"Yes. Beautiful enough to meet you for the first time, beautiful enough to say farewell. Understated enough to satisfy the formality of the day, too - and they can bite me if anyone looks twice at my boots!"

I found a black jump bag in the closet, a little smaller than a duffle that zipped the entire length on top. I moved purposefully, selecting a few things, placing them inside along with the white leather box Tom had given. I paused, and opened it.

A bear, the size of my thumb, carved of flawless moonstone. A funerary fetish, tribal and pagan to give protection.

Yes. I zipped the bag shut.

Andrea walked in, wearing only black girl-boxers and a sports bra. She started, and almost fell against the door jamb.

"Holy shit, gal! You'll make the angels cry, looking like that!"

She was almost whispering, eyes almost a little too wide, looking me up-and-down, catching sight of the bouquet.

Calmly, quietly, I asked; "Is this appropriate - did I get it right?"

"Yeah." She swallowed. Her mouth opened, closed. She turned abruptly, saying over her shoulder; "I'll brew some tea. I doubt caffeine is a very good idea."

I looked in the mirror. Calm, and focus wrapped around me; and I fastened it tight to the boilerplate around my heart.

"I will not fail today."

I was sure it would become a mantra.

________________________________________________________________________________________



We had green tea and bread and jam on the deck with Monica, watching the day break bright together with few words.

Finished, Andrea looked at me.

"Rose?"

I smiled, nodding.

"Seeing you this morning I get a glimpse of that part of you two that always remained closed."

I poured the last of the tea, my hands steady.

"She and I will meet again, Andrea."

She nodded, looking at her watch.

"I gotta get into my Class-A, and do a quick detail of my brights and brass - I have half an hour. Meet you back inside?"

I grinned.

"You're going to be in a hurry - go! I'll be in soon."

She slammed the door in her haste. I looked at the morning sky and watched the overcast shred and tatter. I heard the sound of wings.

I looked to the sound. A barn owl stood on the little table by Monica's ashes. His beak rapped once on the lid, then three times more, leaving a scratch mark in the varnish. He walked around the box and looked at me, bobbing his head twice before he flew off in the direction of the big blue spruce at the front of our home.

Taking the box in my arms, I let go and found a benediction, and complete peace.

Andrea opened the door.

"Let's do this, and do it right," she said. She looked every inch the immaculate professional, even a little distant in her Class-A uniform with her short jacket, white gloves, and her hat under her arm.

I went to the bedroom and took my black purse, quickly getting my snubby .357 and my badge in it, and a packet of tissues. Brush, house keys, cigarettes and lighter and I was set.

I looked at Andrea.

"Do I need gloves - yes."

I found the dark blue calfskin pair, slipped them on, and Andrea gave me her arm. She picked up the jump bag without question, and I cradled Monica, holding the wildflowers close.

________________________________________________________________________________________



Andrea started her unit, looking straight ahead, and took the mic.

"Pueblo, six-baker-two, 10-41, honor detail." Her voice was crisp and emotionless.

"Six-baker-two, Pueblo copies."

"Pueblo, show six-baker-two 10-23 to Bailey Mountain Rescue Service Base."

"Six-baker-two, Pueblo copies; 0800 hours."

Andrea pulled onto the unpaved road, faced us down the road and hit the lights and siren.

I started, and stared at her. I saw jaw muscles work for a second, and then she sat perfectly erect.

It had begun.

We drove down the ridge to the County road, and to the highway slowly. At Rescue Base, I saw both new rigs in the driveway, the Star of Life on the building draped in black. We pulled in, and Andrea shut her unit down.

Andrea handed me out, and I saw Wiley coming towards me wearing white gloves, a black stripe of tape across his Rescue patches. 

In that tableau I gave him Monica's ashes. He bowed, and went to the open doors of 290. The Ferno gurney was gone. In its' place was a simple, stainless steel coffin.

I got tunnel vision, only aware of formal, white-gloved hands helping me into the rig. Andrea appeared, passing up the black jump bag.

I opened the coffin and placed Monica's ashes at the head of the royal blue lining. I turned, and took the items from the jump bag one-by-one, arranging them to my satisfaction.

I closed the coffin, stepped out and faced Wiley.

"Sir, I release the remains of Monica Kirkendal to you, that she may be shown honor today. I present her for Last Call." The words came to my lips unbidden.

"She is received to the honor of friends."

He saluted me, his face carved of stone, and returned into the rig. Rescue members closed the doors, and stationed themselves at the corners of the rig at attention, a driver at the wheel.

Andrea took my arm and we walked inside. Nearly everyone was there. They had their game faces on, masks that revealed their hearts only when our eyes met. I formally shook hands with each in turn, murmuring my thanks.

I wandered into the empty bays, and opened one of them, pulling a chair from the back.

I sat, smoking, looking at the closed doors of 290.

Andrea came and stood one step behind me, at parade rest.

After a while, Kim and Lonnie walked up.

"Can we get you anything?"

Not looking away, I smiled quietly and said, "A cup of tea would be lovely; thank you."

They left.

________________________________________________________________________________________



"Miss McAllister?"

I blinked. Andrea stood in front of me, her right hand outstretched.

"It's ten-hundred hours, Ma'am."

I stood, a little stiff. Somewhere I was aware of a cup of tea come and gone, the passage of time, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the closed doors of the rig. I lost sight of it when Andrea handed me into her unit.

We headed to the High School.

Not taking her eyes from the road, she asked quietly, "Are you OK? It's going to be hard from here on out."

I smiled, not noticing the traffic.

"Thank you, Lieutenant; today I honor her. I will not fail."

I saw her nod slightly, and the mask slipped back into place.

We approached the driveway of the High School, and I was overwhelmed with the sight of easily a hundred units, from every branch of emergency services creating a serpentine driveway to the doors of the auditorium. We made a sharp left at a gap in the line, and she parked her unit at the third vacant space from the top.

Everywhere there were men and women in uniform, and it felt like all eyes were on me as Andrea handed me out of her unit. My bag over my shoulder, I was escorted into the auditorium. Two bouquets of flowers almost the size of mini-vans flanked the podium, with flags of the Republic, the State, and one of deep blue with the Star of Life were spaced behind it for the time being, to be taken soon by the color guard. On a small platform behind the casket stand, in front of the podium lay Monica's uniform and empty boots, elevated enough to be clearly visible when her coffin was placed in front. At the right side of the podium stood the brass bell. There was still some last-minute setting-up going on, and Father Peter came up to me, his Catholic robes making me uncomfortable.

"Rose."

We shook hands.

He noticed my look and said, "This is a sacred ceremony. You're straining tradition to the limit - please understand. I won't read from the Bible, nor will I give any sermon; but my presence will help them in the end."

I could only nod. I noticed I was chewing my lips, and stopped.

"Can you find me a pound of salt?"

He looked at me, eyes widening; and he nodded.

"That's fair - I'll share your symbology and learn, as you accommodate the needs of everyone else. I can do that."

I smiled quietly, looking him in the eyes, looking around.

"I will be discrete, and I doubt many will notice the salt on this linoleum floor. . ."

He nodded. "I'll be right back. They'll be finished setting up in a few minutes, and I'll get you five minutes here alone."

I looked over at Andrea. "I'll be easy to find."

Turning to go back outside, I walked around the corner and back behind a huge MCI Incident Command rig from the City and lit a cigarette.

Andrea looked around slowly, and relaxed; taking a deep breath. She snagged the smoke, and took a deep drag, letting the smoke trickle out of her mouth; handing it back to my astonished stare.

She hugged me quick, and her eyes sparkled. "Gal, I quit smoking after my accident; but if there was ever a time for it, that's right now!"

I grinned and sat on the bumper. She was having a hard time fighting a huge grin, herself.

"You made Father Peter blow a couple circuit breakers, that's for sure - I'm proud of you!"

I grimaced and stretched, hard.

"Oh, yeah. Now if I can purify that room without getting caught and burned at the stake I'll breathe easier!"

She glanced at me, coming erect in tacit warning, speaking quietly; "Nothing like taking on the Roman Catholic Church during a funeral and winning to give you perspective. . ."

I stubbed out the but and dropped it in my bag, slipping it over my shoulder as I stood. I held my flowers in my hands. A crew chief from North Metro Fire was walking up.

"Miss McAllister, Father Peter would like to see you inside for a moment. It's ten till, so please don't be long."

I smiled and nodded.

Andrea and Father Peter and I were alone inside. The doors were shut. He held out a pound cannister of salt.

"If you don't mind, for my conscience I would wish to remain for this."

"If you'll hold my purse and bouquet, sure."

Andrea was at the doors.

I moved quickly, laying a single, light line of salt around the perimeter of the room. Some to the top of the wide door jambs, and a lighter scattering from there to the podium, up the aisle. The stand for Monica's coffin was in place and draped. There, concealed, at the head I poured the spiral I'd found at the trail. At the foot I sketched the symbols for fire and water.

"Rose, time." Andrea's voice was terse. I got the nearly empty cannister on a shelf inside the podium and ran for the door, taking the bouquet and my purse from Father Peter. I took a deep breath, and straightened.

We walked outside, to the foot of the steps, and I looked around.

Easily four hundred men and women stood at perfect attention along the serpentine created by the rigs. I took my place at the right of Father Peter. I saw Walt, across from me, raise an eyebrow incrementally, his eyes never wavering.

Andrea came to attention one step in front of me.

Sirens in the distance, approaching slowly.

Escorted in front and behind by on-duty Park County Sheriff's units, I saw 290 alone turn into the drive and stop. All sirens shut down. The Deputies parked nose-to-nose, closing the entrance, their lightbars flashing.

At a crawl, 290 turned into the lane, the three-man color guard carrying the flag of our Republic next to the State flag, next to one of deep blue with the Star of Life in front of the rig, Monica was shown honor.

As the front bumper of the ambulance passed the first parked rig, an Alpine Search & Rescue mobile command van from Lake County where she was born, the entire hundreds snapped to attention and saluted, white gloved hands to the count of hundreds motionless at their temples.

There was no sound but the quiet rumble of the engine and the soft footfalls of the honor guard. My heart pounded in my chest as they grew near.

290 came to a halt directly in front of me. The honor guard stepped forward to the stairs, the crew emerging from the rig, opening the doors with Wiley last to emerge, taking the left front position, the light burden bourn as if it were most precious, fragile. The rig backed into place at the head of the line and shut down.

Monica's casket was carried by faces I recognized immediately, but my focus was only the steel as it moved by, Father Peter leading it silently in, followed by the color guard and Rescue.

As I turned to follow it, I heard the sound of the salute completed.

The casket placed on its' stand, the bearers took seats to the left, remaining standing. I took the second to the right, Wiley at my left and Andrea on my right. My heart threatened to burst from my chest. The urge to touch her coffin was almost unbearable. The color guard stood motionless behind the podium, behind Father Peter.

They filed in, the hundreds, marching quietly, filling the room. I heard the doors to the auditorium close.

________________________________________________________________________________________



Father Peter raised his arms to shoulder height.

"In the name of all that each here hold holy and sacred, I add my blessing to those you carry in your hearts this day. Please be seated; be at ease for a time."

As one, we sat. A collective sigh spread throughout the room; quieted.

Father Peter began again.

"It is not my place today to enforce any dogma upon any, but I was with our fallen sister and friend when she shared a common prayer with a dying man who was crushed under a car as I was administering Last Rights not ten feet from her to his brother.

"It is my entire eulogy to Monica Kirkendal to ask you to know that moment with me, and join me in "The Lord's Prayer."

I bowed my head and wept as they prayed: I could hear her voice from that night, feel her reaching out with her very soul to ease the terror and anguish of that man. . .

"I didn't know what else to do, Rose! I had no 'Western' faith to give him, so I opened my heart to share the certainty of the love you and I share, the sum of the power of the wild places I look for to find peace, to renew myself! I haven't said a prayer in decades, but I found the words, leading him when he faltered; when he had no more breath. It was my voice alone that spoke 'Amen,' and I saw Father Peter closing the eyes of that man's brother through the pouring rain as we both knelt in the mud. . ."

I crossed my arms across my breasts, and found a space to let go of her a little. I was calmer when I raised my head and shared "Amen," with everyone.

Wiley stood from my left, and took the podium.

"We are here to remember Monica, not so that we can forget her, but to look within each of us to remember; binding all we shared with her to a common consciousness in this shared moment. She was my friend after the first call we ran together. It was a three a.m. call to a girl coughing up blood - we didn't know anything else till we got on scene.

"Monica was a brand-new EMT then. I think this was maybe her fourth or fifth call she'd ever been on. She saw the front door was ajar, and called out. A weak voice answered. She went in, and we found a paraplegic in a wheelchair that was on its' side - blood was everywhere. We started checking vitals, and Monica gently asked her how she'd fallen.

"The patient replied, "My dog knocked me over!" I was getting ready to backboard her, satisfied that the patient had a flail segment that had penetrated a lung - but it looked safe to get her packaged. I heard Monica ask, "What kind of a dog do you have?

"I glanced at the door and answered very clearly, very, very clearly; "It's an Irish Wolfhound, right?" Monica froze, and the patient nodded.

"This dog was the size of a lion - and he was all bared teeth and hackles that went straight up. The floor vibrated with the growl. "Waldo's very protective of me," our patient managed, and then she passed out cold. I saw "Waldo" take a half-step back and crouch.

"Monica calmly said, "If he moves, I'll take care of him. . ." and the beast lunged!

"Monica swung the gurney O2 tank like a bat and knocked "Waldo" out cold without blinking. She handed me a blood pump before I could ask for it, and we got the patient loaded fast.

"I'll always remember her coming on the radio cool and calm as could be, calling us out emergent to Swedish; ". . . and send Animal Control, or a Deputy to this location ASAP. There's a very large dog that's going to wake up with a bad headache before too long!"

Laughter rolled through the auditorium, and Wiley held up his hand.

"After that, Monica was the only EMT I wanted, either at my side or watching my back, no matter what the call was!"

Wiley looked at me directly.

"Rose, I will miss her more than anyone I've ever worked with, much less had the pleasure of knowing as a friend. The combination was like no other. She will be missed."

He sniffled a couple times, nodded, and stepped back.

A man I didn't recognize, wearing a Forest Service uniform came up next. He introduced himself, a name I don't remember, and spoke about her thirty-two hour day checking the line firefighters as they came in, two years ago when it seemed much of the State was burning.

A Search & Rescue supervisor from Lake County was next. He spoke of her waiting all day at the base camp for a plane crash, hoping they might bring out a survivor. When the team finally came out of the back country on snowmobiles with only corpses, he spoke with tears running down his face of how she stayed and checked every team member out before releasing them.

Walt was next.

"I came to be elected Sheriff when the story of Monica was already full-fledged. I didn't know what to make of her, as she was only talked about in larger-than-life terms. Then came the bus crash on top of Red Hill Pass."

He paused, and looked at me.

"I'd been Sheriff for all of two weeks by then, and I was on the scene of a mass casualty incident with sixty victims, ambulance companies responding from five Counties away. I get out and the first person I see is Monica, triaging with the coolness of a battlefield medic amidst the screams and blood and body parts.

"Eighteen were flown out that morning, and thirty-one others were transported by ambulance crews. Of the eleven fatalities total, only one was lost on scene after the first Rescue and Fire crews arrived.

"In my mind, clearly some of that success will always be due to her.

"I got to know her after that, and I met Rose when they both came in to renew their Concealed Weapons Permits. I'd been left a brief file by my predecessor, but the background checks don't cover much.

"I've worked some thirty calls with Monica. I came to respect her unbreakable professionalism, her calm and competence, and her dry sense of humor in even the worst of situations. I was struck most by how absolutely private she was when it came to her personal life with you, Rose; how completely you filled her life as her one and only love.

"Such is becoming more rare in this world. Monica's gift was her drive to exceed any need or demand; to always answer the call even when she had a rare day off and a second call went out. She never stopped caring about the residents of this County, never went off the clock.

"Today I join you in saying farewell to her. It will remain an honor to know something of the woman and hero in the truest sense of the word that she will remain as in my heart for the rest of my life."

I stood.

Walt continued.

"As their bond was to be the totality of family to each other, with Monica's passing I decided to swear Rose in as a Reserve Deputy for and of Park County, at the very least to the end of my term. I hope it will be for life; I hope that all here today will stand in Monica's stead as Rose's new family."

The applause was deafening, and it went on for several minutes unabated.

I walked to the podium and silence fell.

"Hear me, my love. . ." I thought silently.

I looked out at the packed room and I faltered, my throat choking for an instant. I took a deep breath.

"I stand in the presence of greatness. Not only that of my love, but of all of you. That we are here today, so many of you new to me, speaks volumes of the greatness of your hearts, the power of this fellowship that holds the breadth and depth of emergency services as you give honor to Monica.

"You are a mystery to the civilians you serve, even as so many of you are volunteers, answering the call without hesitation or thought to your obligations to family and a paying day job that puts bread on your table and a roof over your heads.

"Monica Kirkendal's life can be summed up simply: she lived to protect. She lived to stop the terror and pain of the injured; she lived to provide a home and safety for me. She always spoke the truth, unbelievable as that may seem, bluntly as she often delivered it. She never showed fear, never hesitated when the chips were down and things went straight to hell in a hand-basket.

"She cared. Beyond any words I can speak, she cared for everyone she came in contact with, either as co-worker or neighbor, as drunk or stroke victim, on the front lines of a firestorm or standing in line at the grocery store. She didn't know how to see someone's ethnicity first, not their wealth or lack thereof; she saw flesh and blood; she saw everyone as equals - OK, most of the time. . ."

It was getting hard to breathe, and I saw Wiley smile.

"Her greatest fear was to ever fail. We'd sit up for hours after every call, and she'd review the smallest detail of a patient's care, looking for something, anything she might have missed, something she could improve upon the next time. I'd talk her through them, prompting her to visualize so acutely that it was almost as if I were there by her side. She'd end up with knotted muscles and bruises from scenes and transports, blinding headaches from sleep deprivation - and when page tones sounded again she'd never hesitate.

"I can probably hold the total number of days she ever turned the radio off in one hand. Too, the number of quiet meals we shared were barely more.

"And she is gone, senselessly slaughtered in a car accident.

"She had plans of serving for decades, to advanced age in some capacity when she became too old to run calls. She talked about it on occasion, speaking of how, regardless of any advance in medical technology there would first and always be an absolute need for humanistic, compassionate field medics at the top of their game to respond."

I looked out at the sea of uniforms.

"We are here to say farewell. It is your challenge to overcome this loss, for when one such as she falls, all must rise up united, to hold chaos at bay.

"She will always be my hero, standing amongst you in spirit, in the company of greatness."

Silence.

Father Peter came to my side.

"All rise for Last Call."

They stood as one, like a forest of obdurate iron. Many faces were streaked with tears, but honor held true.

It was the stroke of noon.

Radios crackled as the repeater clicked.

"Bailey Mountain Rescue 208, Fairplay."

Silence.

"Bailey Mountain Rescue 208, Fairplay"

Silence.

"Bailey Mountain Rescue 208, Fairplay."

Silence.

"Negative contact. Fairplay clear at 1200."

Silence.

Father Peter moved to the side of the podium to the brass bell.

Some four hundred hands rose in salute.

The bell rang three times, slowly, so slowly.

Tears ran down my face as the last echo faded, and no one broke the final salute.

And the salute was completed.

Monica's pallbearers took their positions and lifted her casket gently and walked in step out the doors, and the auditorium emptied quietly. I followed them out, with Father Peter and Andrea and Wiley.

I watched 290 pull out slowly with Father Peter riding shotgun and make its' way to the highway followed by 291 and Walt in his black Yukon Denali, all the lightbars and strobes on. The two Deputies at the entrance turned their units around and stopped traffic with lights and sirens as the three vehicles pulled into traffic, the Deputies taking the lead.

I watched them disappear down the road, and I found I had no more tears left.

________________________________________________________________________________________



Wiley and Andrea walked me around the corner, out of sight of most everyone. I fished out a cigarette and sat on the grass still holding my bouquet. They sat next to me, and I leaned my head back and looked at the flawless, impossibly azure sky. The sun felt wonderful on my face.

"How are you holding up, Rose?" Wiley came into view and I realized I hadn't lit the smoke in my hand as I leaned forward.

I looked at each of them. Wiley was munching his lips. Andrea screwed her eyes shut and sighed hugely, catching my eye on the rebound. She didn't look much worse for the wear so far.

I tried a smile at Wiley, and it failed.

"It's good that we do this for her."

He nodded.

Andrea stretched, and swiped my cigarette, and rubbed her eyes. "You may as well light yourself one; this is all mine!"

I did, and we were silent for a few moments.

I stood suddenly and started walking back, rounding the corner. No one else had left. I took a deep breath, stubbed out the butt and dropped it in my purse. Bouquet in my left hand, I walked up to the nearest person, a medic from Teller County and took his hand in mine, looked him in the eyes and thanked him quietly, moving to the next, and the next, and the next endlessly.

Some were wide-eyed, some were fighting tears; I tried to touch them all with my thanks.

One refused to let go. Matthew, 119.

"Put it on, Rose."

He meant the badge. He'd worked the blender with Monica a little over a week ago. . .

"I think she'd want you to. I think she'd want to see that you would never, not for an instant be alone."

I nodded, and retrieved it from my purse. Andrea appeared, and helped me orient it perfectly on the velvet.

He looked me in the eyes and said, "As long as I'm on the force, I'll fight for your right to wear that."

I looked at him and a wry smile came over my face.

"Thank you. "Course, now, if you were a girl and having a few questions about relationships. . ?"

He spluttered. Choked. And laughed.

"I see your point!" He shook his head, wiping his eyes. "It's good to know you'll have my back if I ever need it, just the same."

I moved on.

Andrea came and took me by the elbow.

"It's time to go to the cemetery."

________________________________________________________________________________________



In her unit and on the highway, I looked behind and saw a growing caravan of emergency vehicles, most from the 285 corridor lining up behind us.

She checked her mirror.

"That was something the guys worked out among themselves - locals for the internment. Crow Hill Cemetery is tiny, and it would be wrong to have the entire crowd trampling on graves just to be there. . ."

We pulled to the shoulder of the highway by the gate, as there was never any parking area; the cemetery going back to the first homesteaders over a century ago, the trail becoming a road and the road a highway that was crowding the wrought iron perimeter fence.

We got out together, and she gave me her arm.

I saw the casket by the mound of dirt and the finality struck me, knees buckling.

Going to stand with Father Peter I could see the open grave and I had to face fully the finality of what was to come. The freshly-turned topsoil reminded me of the one and only time I'd tried to have flowers growing around our home. . .

It was the first official week of Spring, the first we shared.

I'd spent the entire day bringing halves of old whiskey barrels up to our home from the garden center down in Aspen Park, with potting soil in fifty-pound bags, and several flats of bright perennials of all kinds. I didn't know the names of anything - I just loved their colors and fragrances! I was determined to have everything planted and arranged before Monica came up from the City!

I'd finished, even to getting cleaned up with less than twenty minutes to spare, and I was almost bursting with excitement!

She drove up, and as I stood in the front door, I saw her amazed look when she spied the new landscaping; to the point the had to repeat trying to back into the garage!

When she cam out the side door, I should've known something was up, as her wry smile that grew as she came up to me only widened.

"Beautiful - absolutely gorgeous! You've been busy, girl, haven't you?"

I nodded, and jumped into her arms. "I wanted everyone to see that it matters to me that our home has a little touch that could only be my doing! "Did I do OK? Do you like it?"

She picked me up in her arms and looked at me.

"In order - they will; and yes; and absolutely I do."

I sat that smile wasn't going away. . .

"But. But what?"

She walked to each container resting on the stony ground, carefully looking at my choices of color, at the decisions I'd made for the flowers to lead the eye to the next container.

"I hope all your work lasts a week - you do remember we have deer and elk up here?

Crestfallen, I nodded.

"You spent all day setting out a beautiful snack buffet for them!"

My shoulders slumped.

Monica laughed warmly and long, giving me a hug that re-aligned my spine and left me breathless.

"And you wonder why I love you so much, girl!"

As it turned out we didn't get that week - everything was gone, to the potting soul being mostly dug out and the barrels overturned the morning of the second day.

She brought me home a dozen red roses that night without my knowing about it till I woke up after a night of incredible dreams to start her breakfast - and found myself covered in their petals!

I looked around. All of Rescue was lined up behind us in rank, with everyone else now standing in a semi-circle around the grave site. It was a glorious day, and I looked over the sloping valley below us, to the lush pasture land where some five quarter horses were grazing quietly and over to 285, seeing the highway winding up the hill and out of sight. . .

"Her spirit will add to the guardianship of these mountains, those travelers who pass by;" I thought.

I became aware that all there had become silent.

Father Peter raised his arms in blessing.

"We are gathered her to commit the remains of Monica Kirkendal to the earth; that she may know peace and be at one with those who have passed before her and chosen this place to be theirs. She is in much good company, with homesteaders, their families, and many others who carved this County out of the wild they found."

Pallbearers took the straps and lifted the coffin clear of its' supports.

"Monica," he continued, "I commit you to the grave with the united blessing of all here, both present and in their hearts though absent. Fire and sky and water now unite with you to complete the elemental balance into which you were born. The cycle is complete."

He stepped back, and all bowed their heads silently as she was lowered.

The bearers stood back.

I stepped to the edge of the open grave, seeing the stainless steel lid of her coffin resting in the safe depth of the land and I gave her my bouquet, seeing it land at the head of the coffin.

I reached to the mound of earth piled high, and took a handful, sprinkling it in.

"Wind to water, wood to stone, fire to ice - Goddess I surrender my love to your care," I whispered aloud.

"Bring her spirit into your arms and keep it burning bright; take her to dance with you in the starry night. Look upon her with favor, with love - and know that I will seek her out when my time here is done that we may begin anew in some future age. . ."

I stepped back, and one by one, everyone from Rescue paused to add some handful of earth, most pausing to whisper their personal farewell.

Father Peter raised his arms in benediction, his back now to the grave, and he blessed them in the traditions of their Protestant faith.

I stood and took the hands of every one as they filed past, no tears left to me. A howling grief was building within me, and I held it at bay with desperation.

Wiley was the last to come to me. He stood, tortured and empty in his eyes. He couldn't speak.

Everyone else had left, save Andrea who was standing near, behind me.

"Later, after I have mourned her: I have the box of her personal effects recovered from her body. I want you to have them. Maybe there is something there you would have as a keepsake, if you want."

He nodded.

"You stood guard over her; you were her partner - it's only right."

He shook, trying to smile.

"If her name badge survived the fire, it would mean a lot if it were placed in a small frame, to be hung in Rescue Base so that no one forgets the standard she set or what it means to be Rescue."

He straightened.

"I can do that, Rose." The man's eyes cleared a little, and he hugged be briefly; then walked away and climbed into 290, the last unit to leave save Andrea's. I watched the ambulance drive away.

I looked at Andrea, seeing the trail of tears, though her eyes were dry.

"I need to be home. I need to be alone."

She nodded.

"I'll pack up as soon as we get there. I'll see to it you aren't disturbed, though one of us will be pretty close by as often as possible for at least the next week or so."

I was home within half an hour, and alone soon after that.

When the door closed and her unit was out of sight, I disconnected the phone.

I undressed and sat on the bed in silence.

I flung the doors to my heart wide and my grief, my loss, my pain and fear came howling out.

________________________________________________________________________________________











































































The Pages of Emptiness

It is two weeks since she died. This is the first time I can bring myself to confront the tearing pain of being alone, to seek some understanding of what I have to believe is a period of transition that may see me discovering myself reborn beyond the crisis of my heart.

I am no longer tearing my hair in my sleep, or munching my lower lip till it bleeds - but rest, sleep that knows no tears eludes me still. Fatigue weighs me down, both in my face and gait and eyesight. It feels like an entire Age has passed since I rejoiced to see the sunrise, felt the Goddess near, pondered the fulfillment of each day with pleasure and peace as the colors from Her majestic paintbox washed across the sky.

I know a sense of despair I had not remembered since I was young, to the abyss of darkness that trapped me as surely as my then unknown kidnapper's bonds. Alike, yet so very different, too: I feel as if there were a revenant from the charnel house - a personae unknown and faceless - who is chained to me at the waist, someone of slighter stature than myself's own image in dream-time. We move as horribly inept dancers, me with two right feet and one numb arm and quite blind, and she dressed against my nakedness in river-salvaged scraps of chain link fence and stone boots with heavy, spiked soles. There is a vile reality of decay about my ever-present partner, and I would do anything to see her gone, returned to the earth to decompose in peace - but I am powerless to raise even the thought of acting against her in my heart.

Why, I do not know.

I am bloodied about my feet from tripping over her shod feet; I am scraped raw again and the sores do not heal but are snagged with each chill link of old, rusted dank steel as we seem to seek movement, even balance to some unheard musicians' feast of woe; emptiness. My mind drowns in her foetid stench, yet I hold her to me as some unknown, dear and priceless truth - and I gag, embarrassed. She never speaks, my brutal, patient partner. . . When I awake, I am left with a tantalizing scent of the cold sea, the clear sea-tang ripping through me with longing as if I was hearing an actual cry spilt from lips I should remember but do not.

My faculties have not left me in these impossible weeks, though there were sterile hours where no life was felt to be remaining within me. I cognicize dispassionately, a survival mechanism that hopefully will not consume me into analytical Moebius-loops of pointless introspection. I can guess that I must know ravages and a sundering of the fibers of my soul, saving each seemingly ruined filament and fragment for I know I must build a new tapestry to house my being someday - I am compelled to frantic attention in the fear I may reject some of who and what I was and have been; and the evolved synthesis of my balance will be perhaps inherently flawed.

That I endure, for now; that is progress. That I prize any concept at all of a future of my own cries out to me - for a part of me cannot yet accept that I must forever move forward without her. Yes, I do actually know and feel your spirit with me always - but the treasuries of all the fabled kingdoms of the earth would not sway me to trade on the want of your arms around me once more.

I miss you my love.

You know all my secrets, all my fears, all the impossible hopes and dreams - and you gave me a different reality of fullness and ecstacy and strength and laughter so incomprehensibly different and beyond my limits of thought and perception that each moment has been an adventure into the marvel of living my own life, of knowing a most personal definition of love. Our secrets are now solely in my keeping, a shaky trust in a vessel least seaworthy - but a place impregnable to anyone but you. I will not shield these wonders of our lives - and risk drowning myself along with them were I to cling too tightly to the strongbox; rather I will learn to allow myself to see them return to the sea and the sky and our forests as I build a life, pouring this into the new moments and experiences.

Tears leak quietly down my face as some of the emotion of my heart visualizes what it will be like to see even the most mundane events of the days and years to come and witness the all-but-imperceptible shimmer of gold and fire threads of your hair in the sky at dawn, to feel your hands in the touch of the wild storms here. . .

Kallis cries inconsolable, and is curled now into my lap exhausted. He does not purr anymore, his feral little heart seemingly abandoned to a lament of his own as he goes about his duties stolidly; even his old game of stalking my beautiful little bird holds no passing fascination. He seems delivered into a more basic primal life, trying to guard his territory as well as me, his charge with lethal dedication in your absence. Of the big tomcat there is no sign since the night before Last Call.

My cockatiel tries to get me to join him in a few bars of song from time to time, and when I falter, weeping, he sits on my shoulder, bright crest down and shivers suddenly. He screams in panic if I leave him for even a moment - so we go about the routine of cooking and eating and bathing together.

I taste nothing see nothing, feel nothing.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

It is now seven weeks since I laid you to rest, your sword and your knife beside your ashes, your EMS uniform folded ready, your run bag on top of your worn boots. I ache to know, seeing the coffin lid close with finality that I would never share another night on the Pass with you, nor see you move so easily through the forest as we hunted for our meat together in silence.

I dreamed a dream from my childhood last night, one that I told you about only once before:

There was an old bridge from the war that connected the two islands across the cold water. My home was a cabin my mother had purchased from the government on a rise called Strawberry Hill. It was very plain, its' simple construction a reflection of the utilitarian haste demanded by the time of great conflict; a time when the still visible trenches were built and the bunkers located and poured. Our home had the old coal pot-bellied cast iron stove, and I remember the thick warmth and sense of safety it generated in my small chilled body when Mom and I would return from the bar when the longliners were in looking for food and strong drink.

I would help wash up in the kitchen and be an ever-cheerful bar back for her in the raucous room crowded with strong fierce men who had faced the Arctic waters of the deep and returned with fortunes in the holds of their proud ships. Mom's face was a landmark to me, her thick wavy brown hair a reminder of the nocturnal visits her father had pursued the week the gypsies had passed through her town half a world away. She was tall, taller still through my eyes, but her voice was an alto flute of silver in the cactaphony of sea-hardened men and the sound of it clove through the evenings with untroubled purity to my ears.

I remember that she would, when the first crush to drink had passed and it was quieter, call to me and I would find myself lifted to sit on the bar, her strong hands with their slender fingers stroking my long hair; and she would hand me the cards and it would grow still. It would happen more often when the ships were to set out again. . .

I would read the cards for any who wished it, and I found myself so frequently in a dream, a dream where I was in a meadow of wondrous calm and light; and the patterns of the cards spoke to me from within me and above me. Time meant nothing, but it always seemed that before long I would find her stroking my gold hair, her voice calm and yet welcoming, beckoning me to return, and I would laugh, finding myself in a now still room so familiar, the hour late and but a few men remaining.

I hugged her, and whispered that she had told me not to speak in our native tongue in public; wasn't that our secret? She would always hug me back, and place the small reindeer drum back out of sight.

On those late nights, after being tucked into my bed beneath my down comforter and leather spread I would frequently have this dream:

I was walking along the path that led past the old sub pens, walking past them to the connecting bridge between the two islands. It was a cloudless, brilliantly starred night, and it was quite still. I was walking barefoot, an impossibility as the unpaved road would have torn my feet to shreds, but I felt no injury, and looking down I saw that I was wearing my Mom's wedding dress of embroidered white linen, and it seemed to fit me.

As I set foot on the bridge, facing the small onion dome atop the old Russian church across the water I sensed a presence lurking beneath me, beneath the footings of the bridge; something old and very wicked, something that wanted me again, somehow, and as I continued it found its' way to the causeway behind me, a growing eagerness - and yet I remained completely unafraid.

My journey saw me to the doorstep of the old church, its' faded wooden structure gleaming in the moonlight; the sense of dread now almost overwhelming and immediate behind me - but I turn and calmly face only the quiet, still night canopied above with an impossible brilliance of stars and I walk again back home. I pause before entering, and turn aside to the lee of my home to the old plate of stone Mom had brought with her from her homeland. It rested on two flat-topped old rocks, and the simple design carved into it was far too easily seen from just the light of the moon and stars. 

I reached out with my left hand to trace the design, worn smooth, and seemed completely unsurprised that my fingers glowed softly the purest pale blue, like very old turquoise lit somehow from within; and as my fingers touched the beginning of the first arc of the carving the stone warmed and the contact brought tiny fiery sparks from within the plate that led my touch to complete the design.

I smiled, completely at peace, and lifting my arms above my head and closing my eyes, spoke in a voice I did not know then:

"Wind to water, fire to stone; Goddess, I live to serve."

My love, I awoke in an empty bed, tears of joy streaming over my face, soaking the pillow. Kallis was sitting at the foot of the bed completely alert, and he came across the embroidered cover to me and rubbed his face into my neck.

I think I understand.

I feel no regret - for I sense I am beginning to let go of the grief. The endless hours that saw me wracked with both mourning and the implacable zombie that was constructed of the heart of the child I was, the hopes and needs that formed me, the hurt and despair that forged me have been shed without regret and laid quietly most unnoticed to rest.

It is time to heal, to begin again.

Someday I will return to those islands and recover my mother's wedding dress and fasten it about a new love, a woman yet to be known to me as such a bride; and I will do so with joy, for you brought me into your life and cherished me, taught me how to laugh and know ecstacy.

My name will be Rova.

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Trisha Marie Neimi
Kathryn Reasoner
tandk9200@earthlink.net