Author’s note:
This fan fic contains audio/visual aids, links to music videos of the fan fic music. Watching most of the videos will take you out of the story, so if you want to just listen while you read that section, right-click the link and hit "open in new window." Then you can let it play and return to this window. Or, if you want, watch the video! I can't stop you. The performance videos might add something to the story, especially if you are not familiar with the band or the music. Hope y'all enjoy it.

Chapter 1    table of contents  

Mrs. Peabody smiled over my right shoulder and said, in her genteel old Mrs. Peabody voice, “Why, hello there.”

I didn’t bother to look around. Mrs. Peabody talked to someone over one of my shoulders almost every time I gave her medications. Thing was, there was never anyone there. Not in this dimension, anyway. I put the last spoonful of applesauce and crushed pills into her toothless mouth, gave her the rest of her Health Shake, and turned quickly, already imagining docking my medicine cart and retiring to the break room for an OJ. Instead I ran into a stone wall, bounced off, and hit the floor on the seat of my tangerine scrubs, something I tried never to do, for a very good reason. I figured if I ever did, I’d crack like Humpty Dumpty. Felt like I had.

I just sat there for a moment, dreading the pain that was to come. I was sore all over all the time, and there was no way my body would forgive this insult. Then the pain did come. My back, my neck, and, oh yeah, my ass. I closed my eyes, and let out a quiet, “Ow.”

A soft touch on my shoulder opened my eyes. Kneeling in front of me in mild distress was the strangest looking man I’d ever seen. Very pale blond hair, combed straight back, adorned a face as white as his suit was black. Silvery gray/blue eyes evaluated me worriedly. His features were so fine and even they were almost feminine, but his countenance was somehow anything but. When he spoke, his voice was as soft as his touch. Something in it reminded me of warm buttered honey overflowing a stack of pancakes. A moderate Southern drawl somewhat different from my own added just a touch of spice. “I’m very sorry; I didn’t mean to be in your way. Are you quite all right?”

“I doubt it.” I moved my legs, drawing them up to rise, and stopped. The floor wasn’t so bad. Maybe I’d just stay down here forever. I might not have a choice.

“Let me help you.” He rose to a rather impressive height, extending a very long, ivory hand. I wondered if he’d played Ichabod Crane in the school play.

I finally got my legs under me and reached up, grasping his cool hand. He pulled me to my feet smoothly. I had a sense of restrained power, much more than his slim, graceful form hinted at. Suddenly the black suit and serious manner made sense. “You must be here for a pick-up. Sorry, but I don’t know where it is. Come with me to the nurses’ station and I’ll find out.” I started again for the door and again was stopped, not by running into him this time, but by the soft touch again, this time at my elbow.

“Are you Katherine Barrett?”

“Yes, Kitty Barrett. Why?”

He inclined his head slightly. “My name is Pendergast, Ms. Barrett. We need to talk.”

A bill collector? Or...for a moment I worried that a fan had somehow bumbled into my other life, then dismissed it. This guy was no fan of mine. I took a closer look at the obviously tailored suit, the expensive shoes. I knew nothing of expensive clothes and shoes but even I could tell these were special. His nails looked buffed, an observation that made my skin crawl just a little bit. I’d grown up around good ole boys with carburetor grease under their nails and monogrammed work shirts on their backs, and try as I might to understand how the other half lived, guys who looked like they wore silk undershorts seemed a little strange to me. No fan of mine. Chamber music, maybe; opera, for sure, but not any kind of rock. But some of these prissy establishment types could get down and dirty once the suits came off. Well, only one way to find out.

“Okay, I was about to take a break. Come on.” We headed for the break room, then stopped in the doorway. It was full of loud-talking nursing assistants, apparently in the middle of some sort of sexual discussion, as usual. I backed out, but not before Lakisha spotted me and the man behind me and hollered, “Hey, where you going, Kitty? Gonna getcha freak on?”

I looked up into Pendergast’s amused silver eyes. “We can go outside for a few minutes. Just let me tell someone where I’ll be.”

***


We settled on stone benches in the shade of a dogwood in back of the nursing facility. Pendergast pulled out a slim leather wallet and flipped it open, revealing a gold badge and his picture on an FBI-ID. I was impressed. It looked just like the ones on “The X-Files.” “I’m afraid you’re in very grave danger, Ms. Barrett.”

How do you respond to something like that? I settled for raised eyebrows and a curious, “I am?”

“I have been informed that you are the next planned target of a serial killer.”

Okay, this had to be a joke. The guys in the band; maybe an early birthday gift from my ex, Jason. You could get FBI badges, along with anything else you wanted, online. I’d even seen them advertised in magazines. I had no idea where the prankster had gotten Pendergast, though. I decided to play along for a while, see how far he would go. “Who informed you of this?”

“The killer.”

“Over tea, perhaps?”

He didn’t blink. “I was having tea when I received the letter, yes.”

“Does this serial killer always let you know what his plans are? I don’t know much, but it doesn’t seem like the best way to go about knocking someone off, informing the FBI of your plans ahead of time.”

“He doesn’t always inform me, but sometimes he craves more of a challenge.”

“Why you?”

“We have a...history.”

This guy was good! He hadn’t broken character once, hadn’t had to hide a grin or grope for the right words. They must’ve hired a professional. I decided to see how good he was.

“Thanks for the warning, but it’s always been one of my fantasies...being chased by a serial killer, being tied up and ravished by some sexy lunatic. The old woman-seeking-domination thing, you know.” I rubbed my palms together in anticipation. “Any idea when he’ll strike? Just so I can be wearing something sexy.”

His lips thinned minutely. “I assure you, Ms. Barrett, this is not a joke. You would, under no circumstances, wish to meet this man. You would not survive, but neither would you die quickly. I suggest you take my warning seriously.”

Even in the bright autumn sunshine, my skin crawled into goosebumps. Damn, this guy was good. I glanced at my watch. No more time for bullshit. I had to get back to work.

“Okay, thanks for the warning. Tell Jason, or Slash, or Tooty, or whoever put you up to this, thanks for the memories. I gotta get back to work. You can go around that corner,” I pointed, “and get back to the parking lot.”

“I’m not leaving until you do, Ms. Barrett.”

“Well, you can’t stay here. Look, I appreciate the joke, okay? And you’re really good! But just because they hired you for the day doesn’t mean you can follow me around while I do patient care. Confidentially, you know.”

“I have already arranged everything with your administrator. You have been officially off duty for...” He glanced at his watch, a very expensive-looking trinket for a local actor in a relatively small town. “...five minutes now, and will be taking some time off. I suggest you clock out.”

“Sounds like fun, Agent Pendergast, but I really have to get back to work.” I rose and headed for the door. He stayed right behind me. I turned. “Look, I appreciate the joke, really, and you’re a hell of an actor, but you’re going to get me in trouble. I stay in enough trouble as it is; I can’t afford your help, okay? Now scoot.”

I opened the door and entered the facility, almost running into Dan Applewhite, the administrator. He rumbled, “Good, you’re still here. Look, I know you don’t have much time-off accrued. Maybe we can work out some sort of FMLA for this. I’ll look into it and be in touch.”

My mouth fell open. Dan Applewhite possessed all the humor of an artichoke, and about as much personality. No way was he in on some elaborate joke. I turned and gazed at Pendergast, the Real Deal, with my mouth still open. He smiled thinly. “After you, Ms. Barrett. You do what you have to do. Then I’ll take you home.”

***


I reported off to the nursing supervisor and counted narcotics in a daze, still trying to figure out what was going on. Maybe Pendergast had fooled Applewhite. It certainly wouldn’t take a genius to do it. But I couldn’t believe any of the guys would’ve had him go that far. They all knew that I always stayed a whore’s hair away from being fired due to absences anyway. Come to think of it, they wouldn’t have sent some joker to my workplace for the same reason. They would’ve had him visit me at home.

But if it wasn’t a joke...damn.

I finished getting ready to leave and turned to Pendergast. He was decidedly spooky looking. If a serial killer were after me, I’d expect him to look something like Pendergast. I decided it would be better to ask the question in front of potential witnesses than after we got back to my place. I got ready to jump back and asked, “How do I know you’re not the killer?”

But rather than becoming angry, he looked slightly pleased. “You don’t. But you can find out. Call information and get the number for the New Orleans FBI field office. Call them and ask whoever answers to verify my status and describe me.”

“But we’re not in New Orleans.”

He inclined his head. “True. But that is my home office. It will be easier to find someone to verify who I am at that number.”

I did as he said and was rewarded with a succinct description from a Special Agent Hill who didn’t seem at all surprised to receive such a call. I hung up and looked around. My coworkers hovered nearby, casting furtive glances at my visitor. I knew my ears would burn for hours, days maybe, after we left. There was nothing left to do but go with him.

***


He led me to my gold Tacoma without asking which vehicle was mine, took the keys from me, and unlocked the passenger door, seeing me into the vehicle in a way I hadn’t experienced since my senior prom, when my date had pulled out all stops in hopes of getting laid. He slid gracefully behind the wheel and started the engine, then turned to me. “From now until this is over, we must stay together. We must assume the killer is watching and knows I have come. He won’t hesitate to take any opportunity to strike now that he knows you’ve been warned, making his job harder.”

I shook my head. “I can’t believe this! Why me? What did I do?”

He drove out of the parking lot and turned the right way without asking where I lived. “You need have done nothing. It’s a game to him. He could’ve selected your name from the phone book, or spotted you in the mall, or seen your band perform.”

So he knew about the band. Probably knew all about me.

“So what are we going to do? Just hole up at my house and wait?”

He flicked those pale eyes in my direction. “What would you suggest?”

“Well, tonight I suggest going to the Paradise Bar. We have a gig there around ten.”

“Not a good idea.”

“Maybe not, but it’s been too late for about a month now. I have to go.”

“You don’t have to do anything except stay alive. That is a prerequisite for any other plans you may have.”

“Look, Agent Pendergast, it’s not my choice. This gig has been advertised for a month. The guys are counting on the money. I’m in a band, it’s not just about me.”

“Can’t someone else do your part?”

I thought of Tooty or Slash singing “Sweet Child O’ Mine” and shuddered. “No.”

“A replacement, perhaps?”

“Not this late. Probably not if they had another month.”

“How big is this Paradise?”

“It’s a bar. Seats about a hundred. Aerosmith we ain’t.”

He sighed. “We must get there early. I will have to examine the spectators as they arrive.”

“Good! I’m not eager to get a toe tag. I just have commitments, like anyone else.”

After a silent twenty minutes or so, Pendergast turned onto the gravel drive that led to my secluded place. We drove through a patch of huge oaks, the sun flickering through their flaming orange and red branches like a strobe light and, sneaking a furtive glance at him, I noticed several thin, white scars, like dotted semicircles, on his face and hands. They were almost invisible. Someone had done very good work. But when they did show up, only in the brightest sunlight, they looked like...bites. Their appearance, so unexpected and harsh on his smooth ivory skin, made me uncomfortable, as though I could feel the teeth in my own flesh.

The old white frame house came into view, nestled in its jungle of shrubs and red maples and late-blooming flowers. He parked behind the house where I usually did, and, carrying a backpack, followed me to the door, then took my key and unlocked it himself, preceding me into the living room.

“Please stay here.”

I stood by the door feeling invaded, glad I had cleaned this year. He made a quick search of the house and returned. “It seems we are alone.” I didn’t move. He smiled grimly and gestured like a butler inviting me in. “I suggest you just do whatever you normally do upon returning home from work. Try to pretend I’m not here.”

I imagined myself in my panties, or less, heating up soup while banging way more than my head to classic rock or Guns n Roses. Or plopping on the sofa to give myself a B12 injection in the thigh. Or having a romp with the vibrator that resided in my bedside drawer. Oh, yeah, just act normal. I had a feeling that, if G&R suddenly broke the silence, Pendergast would whip out a cannon and blow my stereo to hell before the first syllable of “Paradise City” left Axl’s lips.

“I usually have a shower.” I headed for the bedroom, setting down my bag and pulling off my jacket on the way, beginning to unbutton my scrub top the second I passed through the door. Turned to close it and yelped. He was right behind me, close enough to touch, and I hadn’t heard so much as a whisper on the hardwood floors.

“I am sorry,” he said, and seemed to mean it. “But we really must stay together.”

“We’re in the same house.”

He pointed. “Is there a window in that bathroom?”

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll have to ask you to leave the door open.”

My shamefully quick temper flared. “Sure you don’t want to shower with me? The tub’s plenty big enough for two. You can play with my rubber duckie.”

He looked pained. “Ms. Barrett, I assure you, it is not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable. Quite the contrary; I am trying to keep you alive. I am sorry that, in order to do so, I must invade your privacy to a certain degree. I will do so no more, and for no longer, than is absolutely necessary.”

Now I felt bad. “I’m sorry, too. I don’t mean to be such a b—”

“Please.” He held up a palm. “Don’t use that word.”

My eyes widened. Every man I knew used that word and, in recent culture, it had become a pet name. His dislike of it struck me as both old-fashioned and classy.

“Okay.” I smiled at him and may have received a slight head tilt in return. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be...so hard to get along with.”

“Quite understandable. The circumstances.”

I was tired suddenly, the way it hits me sometimes, just numb tired. I felt myself flop and knew I’d have to try to get a nap before tonight, though I couldn’t imagine sleeping. A rest, maybe. I drooped to a chair and sank onto it, taking off my shoes and socks as an excuse for the move. Suddenly I didn’t care if he undressed me himself. I just wanted to get the damn shower over with so I could lay down.

“Tell you what, Agent Pendergast. I’m going to do what I would normally do, just like you said. At least as far as taking a shower goes. You can do whatever you have to do, be wherever you have to be, look wherever you have to look. I don’t care.” I headed for the bathroom, losing my scrub top as I went, working on the pants, which came down still wearing the panties inside. All this went into the hamper and I hit the front hook of my bra, popping it off. It joined them. I turned on the water in the shower and stood waiting for it to warm up, not looking back through the open door to see where he was. If he were as much a gentleman as he seemed, he had his back to the door. If not, I didn’t want to know.

I stepped into the shower, shampooed my short hair quickly, and soaped myself as fast as I could, rinsing it all off and stepping back out in about three minutes, having forgotten to get a towel from the closet. This time I did glance at the door. I saw the edge of a black jacket arm. He was standing just outside and to the right of the door, as though in ambush. But he wasn’t peeping in. I smiled and dried off, realizing I hadn’t brought anything in to put on. Wrapping the towel around me, I padded back into the bedroom to get something and the last of my energy seemed to run out my big toe. I made for the bed instead and rolled onto it, deciding the towel was cover and comfort enough. But what if Pendergast thought I was staying in the towel to send a message, like c’mere big boy, and be sure you bring your big gun with you? Sighing, I sat back up, intending to try for the closet again.

“Ms. Barrett, I realize you are tired. I know you have fibromyalgia and I have educated myself a bit about it. Please don’t feel you have to go to extra trouble because of me. If you need to rest a while before getting up again, I understand.” He settled himself gracefully into the wing chair near the window and crossed one leg fastidiously over the other.

I lay there looking at him, fascinated. It was appropriate that he look different. He was different. Certainly different from any man I’d ever met, and in unexpected ways. “I’m not sure I have fibromyalgia, or even what it is. That’s just the latest label they’ve assigned me.”

“From what I understand, fibromyalgia is more of a syndrome than a disease. A collection of symptoms, primarily muscle pain and extreme fatigue, for which doctors have no known cause nor cure.”

“Want to know a secret, Agent Pendergast? They don’t know what causes much of anything, and they can’t cure much of anything, either.”

“That is no secret, Ms. Barrett. I find doctors come in most handy when one has sustained trauma of some sort, preferably trauma that can be mended surgically. Otherwise, I think it best to stay away. Although I do believe most doctors really want to help, their education and modalities are limited, for the most part, to the allopathic approach. I do not think that is the best approach for purely medical maladies.”

“What is the best approach?” I found myself really wanting his opinion. He spoke as though he knew what he was talking about.

“Alternative, or natural, complementary methods. And nutrition, of course.”

“I’ve tried several alternative methods. Acupuncture, for instance, and other, lesser known approaches.” I wasn’t going to list them and get into an argument about controversial concepts.

A smile touched his eyes. “And how did they work for you?”

I smiled back. “Better than being doped up to the eyeballs ever did. It’s taken twenty years and two back injuries to get me as far down as I am now.”

He nodded. I had the feeling he somehow knew my history, what I’d tried, and how it had worked.

I felt comfortable with him now, strangely comfortable given the circumstances and the short time we’d been together. “You know everything about me, don’t you?”

“I wanted to make sure I knew everything about you that he would know, so I used the same data bases and hacked the same information. It was important to see what he’d seen.”

Lying there with plenty of time to think about it now, it finally hit me. There was someone out there, someone who, without even knowing me, wanted to hurt me. Wanted to kill me. This was so far from my own perspective and experience that I couldn’t really comprehend it, but it was beginning to sink in. “It’s hard to get my head around all this, but I’m beginning to get a little scared.”

“Good, you should be scared. It will make you more careful.” He leaned forward, strange, silvery eyes intent on mine. “Please know that I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

It was a promise, a promise I believed. I sighed, closed my eyes, and was instantly asleep.

***


When I awoke it was to a dim, silent room, and I had the impression that dusk was hovering over the house, about to envelope it in the arms of darkness. I consulted my inner clock and figured maybe seven p.m. Glanced at the clock. Seven-ten. Not bad.

I felt uneasy for some reason, and it took a moment to remember why. When I did, my eyes flew all the way open and I looked at the wing chair. He was sitting there, as immobile as the Sphinx, watching me, and, seeing me awake, spoke. “I do hope you’re feeling better.”

I stretched. “I am.”

“Good. In that case, will you accompany me to the kitchen? I would like very much to have something to drink.”

He’d sat there and let me sleep when he could’ve been to the kitchen and back in less than half a minute. It wasn’t like I lived in the Taj Mahal. I moved to get up and he said, “If you’d like to get dressed first, please feel free.”

The towel came to my knees and probably covered more than my short robe did. It was no big deal. “That’s okay, I think you’ve waited long enough for a drink.”

“After you, then.”

In the dim kitchen, he didn’t turn on the overhead light, making do with the light over the stove. He closed the curtains while I opened the fridge and said, “I have ice water, orange-pineapple juice, and organic V8. Sorry, no soft drinks or anything.”

“Actually, I was thinking of brewing some tea.” He removed a packet from his suit jacket. “Green tea. Have you tried it?”

“Yes, I usually keep some here, but I’m out at the moment.”

He nodded. “I believe you’ll find this acceptable. You have well water here, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.” He looked around and I handed him the teakettle and watched him fill it, then set it on the electric stove and turn the burner on. I wondered if I hadn’t fallen down the rabbit hole. If you’d told me this morning that I’d be standing in my kitchen in a towel, watching an FBI agent in a funeral suit brewing green tea, I would’ve...well, I probably would’ve believed you, come to think of it. Life had been decidedly strange thus far, after all.

He pulled a chair from under the dining table and held it. “Have a seat?”

I sat gingerly, mindful of my sore tail, and he did the same. We contemplated one another in the growing darkness. I spoke first. “Tell me about this killer who’s after me.”

He sighed as though taking up a heavy burden. “He is very good at what he does, and very prolific. His IQ is far above genius level. He has devoted his entire life to the pursuit of instruments of torture and death. It is all he cares about, all he does.” He studied my face and seemed to come to a decision. “I feel it is only fair to tell you some things I hadn’t planned on revealing. First, I have not informed the local FBI that I am here, or that I know of this man’s plans. They would undoubtedly underestimate him, and I am afraid their interference would not be conducive to a desirable outcome.”

So he thought he was better alone than with an entire battalion of agents? I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to let him indulge his ego at what might well turn out to be my expense. I tried to find a tactful way of saying it. “Wouldn’t it be better to have some help? I mean, you can’t stay here all the time, right? Don’t you need to get home to your family sometimes?”

“No.” He didn’t qualify it.

“Well, maybe I’d feel safer with more agents watching the place.”

He looked at me levelly. “Ms. Barrett, I assure you, there is no other agent who will work harder to protect you than I will.”

“But there’s safety in numbers.”

“Not always. Sometimes numbers just make it easier to slip in unnoticed, a principle this man knows very well.”

“But—”

“I understand your point of view. Now let me be sure you understand mine. I have some friends on the way to help watch the crowd at the bar tonight. That will be our most vulnerable time, and he will know that.” He leaned toward me, his silvery eyes intense enough to be scary, sitting alone with him in the small, dim kitchen. I imagined that the man he spoke of might have eyes like that. “There will be others working with me throughout this case. I will not take unnecessary risks out of some misplaced sense of self-importance or duty, Ms. Barrett. I will do whatever it takes to protect you and to capture this man, because I have personal reasons for doing so. This case is not just another job to me, which brings me to the second bit of information I hadn’t planned to divulge. The reason I take such a personal interest in this case, the reason I will give my life, if necessary, to save yours, is because I feel responsible for every one of this man’s victims, due to the history I mentioned earlier. He is my brother.”

“I’m...I’m sorry.” It was all I could think of to say, and, seeing the depth of his anguish when he spoke of his guilt, it was true.

“So am I.” The teakettle whistled and he rose from the table.

I blinked, really beginning to hate the strange, apprehensive feeling that had permeated my life since Pendergast showed up. I needed to do something, to move around. I also needed to get with some sort of program. I had a show to do in three hours. “I’ll just get dressed now.” I started to get up.

“You really should drink this first. Green tea is best consumed immediately after brewing, while still piping hot.” His voice was even and pleasant, like he hadn’t just bared his soul and pledged his life. “The flavor is best then, as well as the antioxidant properties.” He handed me a cup, reached into his jacket again, and produced a small tube of honey, raised his eyebrows. I accepted a squirt and he fell lightly back into his chair, sweetened and sipped from his own.

I tried it. Not bad. Not bad to be served by a man, either. I could count the times I’d been served anything by a man...well, anything to eat...well, anything to swallow...well, dammit, anything like food, on one hand and have maybe four fingers left over. This Pendergast was something else. Seemed a little dainty for fighting serial killers, though. I hoped he was more formidable than he looked. His resolve certainly seemed formidable.

Suddenly his head came up like a bloodhound catching a scent, and he rose from the chair and was at the kitchen doorway before I was sure I’d seen him move, a gun seeming to sprout in his hand like an instant mushroom.

“What is it?” I hissed.

“A vehicle is approaching. Please come with me.”

“It’s probably my husband. I just remembered I’m expecting him.”

“Husband?” His eyes, beginning to appear slightly luminous in the steadily darkening room, speared me.

“I mean my ex-husband.”

“Let us hope so. I would not expect our nemesis to introduce himself so blatantly, in any case, but it’s better to be prepared.”

In the dim living room, he glided over to stand beside the window. I headed for it and he showed me a palm. “Please do not come near the window.”

I stopped and peeped out past him. Headlights approached the house. When the vehicle stopped and the lights were doused, I could make out Jason’s slim silhouette getting out of his Camaro, his long blond hair in its usual ponytail. “That’s him.”

Pendergast relaxed somewhat, but moved between me and the door. A moment later the door was thrown open. My ex-husband put one foot in and stopped, catching sight of Pendergast in his dead black suit and me in the background, still in my towel. He recovered quickly, in true Jason fashion, and made a whoa gesture. “Oh, sorry, Kit. Should I not come in right now?”

“It’s okay, come on in,” I told him, knowing that, whatever I told him, I’d never hear the end of his version of this little scene. Humor mixed with concern in his slate-colored eyes, confirming it.

He stepped in, leaving the door open behind him, and stuck out a hand toward Pendergast. “Hi.”

Pendergast inclined his head, then, when the hand didn’t disappear, finally acquiesced. His long, white fingers clasped Jason’s shorter, normal-colored ones for a split second. He said nothing. Jason’s open face turned toward me like a neon question mark.

“This is Agent Pendergast from the FBI,” I said. “He’s here because...someone’s after me.”

“Wha...?” Jason’s eyebrows hit the stratosphere at the same moment Pendergast stepped past him, presumably to close the front door.

That was also the moment that Maddie, my five-year-old collie-shepherd mix, nosed open the screen and barreled through, having spent the day with “daddy.” She had never met a stranger, and she made for Pendergast like an eager puppy, throwing herself against him. The effect was instantaneous and astonishing.

Pendergast seemed to make some sort of martial arts move and recognize the situation at the same time. The result was Maddie on the floor, penned down by a knee, a serrated blade aimed at her neck, then just as quickly disappearing back into the black suit. He stood up quickly and Maddie, oblivious, jumped up to continue the game, going for him again. Then Pendergast’s second reaction, to get the hell away from the overeager fur ball, kicked in, and he backed up quickly, his pale face about three shades paler than usual. He held his hands down, trying to fend her off. Maddie took this as an invitation to play and went for his ankle, doing one of her pretend-bite things. Pendergast, realizing he couldn’t get away without hurting the dog, stopped dead still and just stood there, his eyes fixed on me and glowing in the dim room like a vampire’s in an old movie.

“Maddie!” I yelled, and the dog whirled and came to me, panting and grinning and dancing like she hadn’t just sent my FBI protector into catatonia. I put a hand on her head. “Sit! Be still.”

Maddie sat. All was quiet. Jason and I stared at Pendergast, who stared back like a zombie. A moment later, he seemed to get his breath back. His shoulders slumped a little, and he sank into a chair that was, luckily, right behind him. Had it not been there, I’m not sure he wouldn’t have hit the floor. “Forgive me,” he said, his usually soft voice almost a whisper. “I had...an unfortunate episode with a pack of dogs in Italy recently.”

I remembered the faint bite scars on his face and hands and my heart went out to him. I made it across the room in three steps, fell to my knees beside him, and grasped his hand. I’d always had an overpowering urge to touch my patients, or anyone in distress, and he certainly qualified. The strong fingers trembled slightly in mine.

My touch registered in his eyes as surprise, maybe almost shock, and his fingers twitched uncomfortably. I let go of his hand, hurt somehow, though it made no sense for me to feel that way, and he noticed my expression and murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“Er...someone’s after you?” Jason asked from behind me.

“Yes, a serial killer.” I turned to face him. “Do you believe this shit?”

“Do you?” His eyes went to Pendergast. “Sorry, but are you sure this guy’s who he says he is?”

“Yes, I’m sure, and yes, I believe him,” I said. “My question was rhetorical.”

“Okay, okay,” Jason held up his hands in a conciliatory manner. “So I guess you’re not doing the show?”

“Of course I am. The guys are counting on me.”

“Look, I’m no FBI agent, but it seems to me that up on a stage in a bar is one of the worst places to be if you want to lay low.”

“He’s right,” Pendergast put in, his voice almost back to normal. “You should reconsider.”

I looked from one to the other. “I have to get ready to go. I don’t want to be one of those scary-movie twits who refuses to do what is obviously best for her in a situation like this, but I have to do this one thing. Then I’ll lay low. Okay?”

“No use arguing with her, man,” Jason told Pendergast. “When she gets a bee in her bonnet, you might as well give it up.”

Pendergast nodded gravely. I guess he figured Jason should know what he was talking about. I headed for the bedroom to get dressed, but not for the stage. I would wait until we got to the Paradise for that. Once again, Pendergast was right behind me. He took up position outside the bathroom door again. I saw Jason stick his head into the bedroom, obviously wondering what the dressing arrangements were. He grinned at me from across the room and I gave him the finger. Just like old times.

When I came out of the bathroom wearing a long denim skirt and camisole, Pendergast asked that I stay in the bedroom while he took his turn. He carried his backpack in with him. When he came out, he was dressed in the most generic way possible for the Paradise crowd, in worn jeans, white running shoes, a white tee shirt, and an open, long-sleeved, blue chambray overshirt. A blue Tarheels cap adorned his head, hiding most of his white-blond hair. If no one looked too directly at his intense eyes, he would fit in like a fly on the wall.

***


The bar was packed by 9:30. I figured standing-room-only was exceeded by about fifty percent. I paced as best I could in the broom closet that passed for a dressing room while Jason, Slash, and Tooty lolled around in various stages of boredom. They had another band and traveled up and down the east coast playing clubs almost every weekend. This was old hat to them, but would never be to me. It was my one thrill, and I was as excited as Maddie got when we went for a ride. Pendergast was somewhere near the bar’s front door, eyeballing the crowd as people filed in, apparently comfortable leaving me hidden in the dressing room in the company of three grown men armed with guitars.

Fiasco finished their set and things quieted down. We could hear the patrons, most of whom were apparently already well-lubricated, whistling and clapping and yelling. I wondered how Pendergast was liking the scene. I’d watched him screw a pair of earplugs in when we’d reached the bar and he’d seen me watching and said, “My hearing is very acute, and the noise level in places like this is actually quite painful to me. I’ll still be able to hear you sing.” He said the last as though afraid I’d be offended.

I had laughed. “That’ll probably be quite painful, too. Maybe you should put in two pair.”

Now he slipped through the door and the guys all stood up. They had been apprised of the situation but hadn’t met my protector yet, and obviously wanted a good look at him. “No one else will be allowed in,” he told us. “Where is the best place for me to watch the room during the performance?”

Slash rose and grabbed his top hat from the handle of his guitar where it stood against the wall. He affected the dress and mannerisms of his namesake, down to the cigarette that hung constantly on his bottom lip while he played. “Not onstage, bro. You’ll be blinded by the light, as the song says.”

“I guess right down in front, like where security would stand, if we had any,” Jason put in. “You can face the crowd but the lights won’t be hitting you.”

“Very well. I shall take up position at center stage, with flankers at stage left and right, and others behind and above the crowd.” He looked at me, taking in the long, dirty-blond wig with its wrap-around bandana, the torn tee shirt and black spandex pants. “Break a leg, Ms. Barrett.” With a trace of a smile, he was gone.

“What a spook!” Tooty exclaimed. He didn’t have to try to look like anyone, already bearing a striking resemblance to Izzy Stradlin. A trace of white powder under one nostril showed how he’d gotten his nickname. I wiped my own nose pointedly and he followed suit, getting almost all of it.

Our last band member, Joe, straggled in, carrying his usual drumsticks, and we were ready to go. Jason gave the word to Mack, the bar owner, and he introduced us with our tribute-group name, Bad Apples. We hit the stage and I felt my pulse pounding, my adrenaline pumping, a high that most people achieved with sex. Since I wasn’t having sex, and hadn’t for some time, this was the next best thing for me. The crowd yelled and I spotted a few regulars who showed up at all our infrequent shows.

I saw Pendergast almost directly in front of me. He turned from perusing the crowd and a husky, dark-haired man at stage left caught his eye, then turned to glance at me. One of Santa’s helpers, I presumed. I looked for the one on the right but didn’t see anyone suspicious. Slash’s guitar rang with the crisp opening notes of “Sweet Child O’ Mine” and Pendergast flinched. I felt sorry for him. We hadn’t even gotten to chords yet. Tooty came in on bass, Jason on rhythm, Joe on drums, and the beauty of the timing and combination of sounds hit me and I started moving.

As always, I promised myself to take it easy, but by the time the guys hit the beat with “Sweet Child O’ Mine” I was dancing.

It’s just always been impossible for me to stand still if there’s any kind of rhythm going. I kept it to a minimum, doing the trademark Axl Rose snake dance, which the crowd preferred anyway, rather than the foot-stomping high-energy romp I yearned for. I made my voice harder and a little more nasal, but not much deeper, and sang the first verse, loving the way the words and music came together, the way Tooty came in for the higher-pitched harmony on cue, the way Slash’s guitar backed me up on the short chorus. Started the second verse and Pendergast turned to look at me and I found myself singing “She’s got eyes of the silver skies” when it should’ve been “bluest skies.” He smiled. Maybe he knew the song. I found myself singing the next line to him: “I’d hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain.” Our eyes held for a moment; then he returned to his survey of the room.

We hit the instrumental bridge and Jason turned up at my mic and came in with deeper harmony as we crooned with it, our lips about an inch apart on the “oooooooh.” Another verse, following Axl’s vocals as closely as I could, the strain already making my voice huskier. That would come in handy in the following songs. The next bridge. I loved it. I was floating, levitating to my favorite guitar solo. Fuck the snake dance. My feet started flying with the beat and I was free suddenly, just free with the music.

Sudden stop to the “where do we go” part, Jason’s sexy voice alone and then backing up my own, which suddenly turned strident, then trailed off into a demonic knife edge with the last note. I was not Axl Rose by a long shot, but the crowd was happy with the unreasonable facsimile they had, and I was just happy to be one with my all-time favorite music for a while. I wouldn’t have cared had I never seen a stage, but it was the only way I could sing with the band. They did this for a living and weren’t about to rehearse with me just for my own pleasure.

Right into “Paradise City,” getting the biggest hits out of the way first.

Started off slow and rather sedate, then the chords kicked in, purring in my solar plexus. Slash doing his thing, winding up to the real thing. I pulled out my whistle and blasted it into the mic and Pendergast whirled as though looking for the fire. I managed to start singing on time, swallowing a snort of laughter. The music picked up and my feet started flying. I needed to take it easy but it was just fucking impossible. Slash stepped up beside me, playing accompaniment in and around my voice, and we rocked together, facing each other, til the last note broke the spell.

We swung into “Welcome to the Jungle,” and the hoarseness from “Sweet Child” paid off, especially in the beginning. I began the scream with the first chord, climbing up and up as the music built. Pendergast turned to stare at me and I almost laughed, which would’ve blown the sinister aspect of the song.

A huge bearded ogre near center stage was waving his beer bottle and yelling, something about me coming down there and sucking on something. I noticed Pendergast’s plugged ears perk up. He moved a step closer to the ogre, who probably outweighed him by 200 pounds or so, the beef divided equally into slabs of fat and bulges of muscle. The other fans closed up on Pendergast when he moved and I wondered what they would think if they knew they were snuggling up to the FBI. They probably thought the guys peering over the crowd from stageside were our security, which wasn’t too far off, but only for tonight.

The ogre yelled something about a certain body part that I tuned out. It was easy with all the racket we were making, but he was pretty good at timing it between lyrics, and he was almost right in my face, after all, probably about six feet away. The Paradise didn’t boast a very big stage. The ogre raised his beer bottle as if to throw it. Pendergast stepped into the ogre’s space and said something. His profile was toward me and I could see a slight, cold smile playing about his lips.

The ogre didn’t like the smile, or whatever Pendergast said, one little bit. The ogre didn’t like the smile, or whatever Pendergast said, one little bit. As I sang, “I wanna watch you bleed,” and faster than I would’ve believed possible for his size and inebriated state, he swung the beer bottle at Pendergast’s head, but Pendergast was faster still. He ducked the swing and his own right hand shot out and just seemed to tap the ogre’s wrist. The beer bottle fell from the ogre’s hand. He looked down as though surprised to see his fingers open and his weapon in pieces on the floor, then snarled at Pendergast and made a grab at him, again moving much faster than he looked. Pendergast danced lightly back out of reach. One of his long white hands gently beckoned the ogre and I was reminded of the “Come to poppa” gesture Lawrence and Keanu favored in “The Matrix.” The people around the combatants moved back, allowing them a big enough circle to make it a good fight.

I was singing on autopilot and knew the guys were playing the same way. We’d seen some interesting stuff from the stage, including more than one episode of frenzied, clumsy sex, but nothing as good as this version of David and Goliath. I wondered if Pendergast would whip out a slingshot and topple the ogre, and blew a lyric laughing.

The ogre had friends. Two guys almost as big as he was stepped from the crowd and lined up with him, facing Pendergast. I could see Pendergast’s husky friend fighting his way desperately through the mob but there was no way he would get there in time. The ogre and his friends waded in and I was debating doing a little stage diving when Pendergast moved. His left foot left the floor, then his right foot shot out and up, connecting with the chin of the closest assailant. He landed, spun, and his right leg shot out again, this time to the side, where the ogre’s other friend just happened to be standing. His foot hit the friend in the chest and he flew backward as though shot out of a cannon. Then Pendergast motioned to the ogre again to come to poppa.

The ogre roared and ran at Pendergast, who sidestepped neatly and whacked the ogre a good one on the ass as he went by. I thought Pendergast must really dislike the ogre. He was torturing the poor slob.

The ogre ran at him again, but he had now apparently tired of his game. It happened so fast that I’m not sure what he did, but I think he hit the ogre in the throat. The ogre’s eyes bugged out and both his massive hands grabbed at his throat. His tongue popped out. He looked like a cartoon. Pendergast spun him around and wrenched an arm up behind his back. Over the music, I heard the ogre make a sound like a rusty wheel. Pendergast nodded curtly to his husky friend, who had finally reached the fray. The friend took over Pendergast’s hold on the ogre’s arm and frog-marched him through the crowd toward the entrance as I sang the final line: “It’s gonna bring you down...hah!” Seemed appropriate enough.

All this happened so fast and so quietly that most of the spectators were not aware that anything was going on. Those in the circle around the fight applauded Pendergast, who turned obliviously to check out the stage and the area vacated by his husky friend. Jason and I looked a “whew” at one another.

Thinking the crowd could use some comic relief at this point, I signaled for “Used to Love Her.”

I loved this song with it's funny lyrics and rather countrified sound. I sang, “I used to love her, but I had to kill her...” Pendergast turned and raised an eyebrow. I thought, wait til I get to the part where she's buried in the backyard.

***


Diogenes Pendergast had watched the big man’s unceremonious exit from the Paradise Bar from his vantage point in a nondescript white utility van parked across the street. Diogenes had been killing time, had had no intention of making a move when his brother would be most expecting one, and had been happy with this unexpected turn of events. He knew it was D’Agosta who threw the big man out, but from his obvious extremity of discomfort he guessed, correctly, that it was Aloysius who had really ruined the fellow’s evening.

Diogenes had watched the guy stagger around on the sidewalk for a few minutes, alternately walking in quick, jerky circles, then bending and retching, until he’d seemed to get his wind back. Then he’d started the van and made a sedate U-turn, pulling up beside him. The window hummed down. The guy turned to see who was messing with him now. Diogenes, ever the jokester, said, “Pardon me, boy, I think I know the chap who screwed you.”

The big man didn’t appreciate the pun. Diogenes thought he may have gotten the joke if he’d actually sung the words, then got a good look at the dullard’s eyes and decided that Glenn Miller’s entire band wouldn’t have made any difference. He sighed and tried again. “I thought perhaps you’d like his address.”

Chapter 2    table of contents  

“Used to Love Her” wound down amidst much cheering and guffawing. Time for some kickass rock. We returned to our original playlist with “You Could Be Mine.”

Jason joined me on the chorus. Another verse, another chorus, and an instrumental bridge. I ran to stage left where I’d spotted my friend Marie. My head-on charge seemed to startle Pendergast’s husky pal, back from ejecting the ogre, who made as if to catch me as I leaned out over the crowd to accept the two Darvocet Marie laughingly held out. He scowled at me and I felt a sense of protective purpose emanating from him that reminded me of my dad. Then I was running back to Joe’s drum kit where a fifth of Jack sat hidden near his pumping foot, using it to swallow the pain pills, getting back to my mic just in time.

Right into “Dead Horse.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m beatin a dead horse...I guess some things will never change, ooooh, never change...” A nice long instrumental bridge. Gotta love those long bridges, especially after vocals as strained as these. I ripped out the last word and spun away from the mic, flying in my head, with no worries, no Pendergast, no serial killer, no fibromyalgia, no Mrs. Peabody eternally waiting for her medicines. Then had to return to sing the more sedate last verse.

“Dead Horse” ended and it was time for my break. Tootie stepped to my mic and Joe pounded the opening drumbeats of the Straddlin song “14 Years.”

I heard Mack starting the keyboard track right on schedule, just offstage. I passed him on my way to the dressing room and he made a playful grab at me. I stuck my tongue out at him over my shoulder.

In the dressing room, I opened the miniscule fridge and took an OJ, downing most of it in one pull. I set the bottle down and raised my tee shirt, wiping my face with it. When I dropped it, Pendergast was standing in front of me. I wondered how far up the shirt had come and figured he hadn’t seen more than the lower two-thirds of each lace-covered boob. Damn.

“Want something to drink?” I asked him, to be polite and cover my embarrassment.

He shook his head, watching me closely. “How are you doing, Ms. Barrett?”

“Okay, except I wish you’d lay off the Ms. Barrett and call me Kitty.”

“Very well.”

“You sure shut down the ogre. Thanks.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“That big guy, the one with the loud mouth and the two friends.”

He nodded his head silently, still studying me.

I fidgeted. “Is something wrong?”

This time just one brow went up.

“I mean, you’re looking at me like I just offered you a ride in my spaceship.”

“I’m just wondering what you took with the Jack Daniels. From your eyes, I would guess it was neither a barbiturate nor an amphetamine. You display no lateral nystagmus nor pupil dilation.”

I didn’t blink. After being a nurse for fifteen years, I had perfected a poker face to cover being mad as hell. “Actually, there should be some pupillary constriction, if anything. It was an opioid analgesic. Darvocet. For which I have a prescription.”

He inclined his head.

“And I only sipped enough Jack to get it down. I’m well aware of the dangers of mixing drugs, Agent Pendergast.”

“Of course, Ms. Barrett.”

“I said to call me Kitty, dammit!”

“I thought perhaps you’d changed your mind.”

I had to get back. I started around him and felt the soft touch on my elbow. I couldn’t help contrasting it with the tap on the ogre’s wrist and what that had done. I wouldn’t mind learning that move when I got over being mad at Pendergast. I turned and he said, “My job is to protect you, Kitty, if only from yourself. I really don’t know you or what your proclivities are.”

“Well, they don’t include stupidity of that magnitude, Agent. I may OD on Darvocet but I’m not gonna mix it with alcohol.”

He released my elbow and I hurried back, getting to the stage just as “14 Years” ended and the guys swung into the weird little riff on “Anything Goes.”

The prolonged scream at the beginning was easy now, the sexy lyrics funny as hell. “I was thinking bout, thinking bout sex, I was hungry for something that I hadn’t had yet...” I caught Jason’s eye and we laughed, each remembering actually acting out the song one fine night about four years ago. “Panties round your knees with your ass in the breeze, doing that grind with the push and squeeze...tied up, tied down, up against the wall...” I was surprised to see Pendergast turn and shoot an annoyed look in my direction.

Then, “Think About You.”

I sang directly to Jason: “I said baby you been lookin real good, you know that I remember when we met...funny how it never felt so good, it's a feelin that I know I know I'll never forget...ooh it was the best time I can remember...ooh and the love we shared...lovin that'll last forever...” Another verse. “I think about you...honey, all the time my heart said yes...deep inside I love you best...you know you’re the one I want...” I sang to this man, fourteen years my junior, whom I would always love but could never again live with, then wound up into a scream ending with maniacal laughter, vintage Rose.

I was into the next verse, and turned away from Jason to sing: “Honey now you're my best friend, I wanna stay together to the very end...”

We kept going, working our way up through the GnR albums, saving the best for last. Finally, it was time for my all-time favorite power ballads. I settled myself at the piano at the far right corner of the stage, wanting to make this one as authentic as possible, wishing for orchestral backup that would never be there for Bad Apples. The crowd quieted slightly, sensing what was coming. I adjusted the piano mic and played the opening of “November Rain.” Mack started the symphony backup tape on schedule, thank God.

It was a song I hadn’t been able to listen to for over a year after splitting with Jason. The GnR music had been our favorite stuff, and “November Rain” and “Don’t Cry” our favorite songs. It had taken a long time for me to become able to sing either, and I still teared up regularly, though not too badly to keep going. Jason looked over with an encouraging wink. I winked back and started singing.

“When I look into your eyes, I can see a love restrained...” Then the part that got to me. “Nothing lasts forever, and we both know hearts can change...and it’s hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain...”

My voice betrayed the emotions the song always dredged up and I saw Pendergast turn around. He seemed to study me so intently I felt like a bug under a microscope. Damn, what eyes. There was no such thing as an un-intense look from him. At least it kept me from getting teary eyed, even on the last line, which always got me: “Nothing lasts forever, even cold November rain.”

One good ballad deserves another. “Don’t Cry.”

We warmed back up just a little with “Patience.”

I had to whistle a long, slow verse at the beginning, and prayed Pendergast wouldn’t turn around again. That stare would probably dry up my whistle. He did turn, but only near the end, apparently to see who was whistling. Seemed a little surprised to see it was me.

Warmed up a little more with “Estranged.”

Still contemplative, but a little faster, with “Yesterdays.”

And then the big finish, the fastest, craziest one yet. “Lost in the Garden of Eden.” I figured if Pendergast lived through this one, he had become a rock aficionado for sure.

The crowd yelled their approval. We finally bowed together and left the stage.

In the dressing room, I was both euphoric and sad, as always after a show. Euphoric because I enjoyed it so much and sad because it would be a while before I got to do it again, except along with my CDs at home. Sitting now on the raggedy sofa, I saw Pendergast near the door, talking with the stocky guy from stage left whose name, I had learned when being introduced, was Vincent D’Agosta. Joe walked by with his drumsticks tucked into his back pocket and Pendergast said something to him. They talked for a few minutes, then left together. Vincent stayed put, watching the door like he expected all the devils of hell to come pouring in at any moment, though Mack had already locked up and then Pendergast had searched the whole place.

In the bathroom, I took off my wig and ran cold water over a paper towel, swiping it along my arms and around my neck. Heaven. Through the bathroom door, faintly, I heard someone throwing down on the drums. I opened the door and looked a question at Vincent, who also seemed curious and was happy to follow me as I followed the drum solo to the stage.

Pendergast sat at the drums, working Joe’s Yamaha stage custom kit in a syncopated, somehow quirky beat. Joe stood by, nodding in time and smiling like a proud papa. From the way Pendergast had to concentrate on his sticks and where each drum was, it didn’t seem he’d been playing long. But he was catching on fast, and my feet were tapping. He glanced up, saw me and D’Agosta, and wrecked his rhythm, then, looking only a little embarrassed, immediately started over, this time with a pretty decent rhythm that made me think of the tango. Long limbs flailing, white-blond hair now falling over his forehead, he brought it home. I glance at Vincent, who looked as though he was watching a UFO hovering over the stage.

I started moving a little bit, just a little. I never could stand still when any kind of rhythm was going. My hips swayed, my feet pranced. I ran my hands through my hair to loosen it up from the wig and that’s when Pendergast glanced up and saw me dancing. He glanced down at his sticks, then back at me, down and back, down and back, starting to hit harder and a little faster. One two THREE, one two THREE, one two THREE, ONE TWO THREE FOUR. I laughed at the sight of him, this guy I’d mistaken for a funeral director earlier in the day, now looking more like a kid on Christmas morning. A kid who’d just gotten exactly what he’d asked Santa for and was trying it out and loving it.

I spun around and grabbed Vincent’s hand and his expression changed from UFO to oh, shit. Obviously not a dancer. Oh, well. I grinned at Pendergast and kept going, noticing a subtle change beginning in his rhythm. I went with it, seeing Jason watching at the edge of the stage. The rhythm kept morphing. I tried to figure out where it was going, then decided to just enjoy it. I whirled and stomped and shook my ass, loving this little encore that was all I’d have until we played again, probably not for a few months. Suddenly the beat slowed a tad and changed to something that very much resembled a burlesque back up. BAM, bam ba BAM, bam ba BAM BAM BAM. Pendergast’s lips were scrunched down at the corners, resisting a grin, but his eyes were laughing a challenge too clear to ignore. Slash walked by with a towel around his neck and I whipped it off and used it for a half-assed veil, bumping and grinding to the beat. Slash just shook his head and kept going.

Pendergast finally wound down and I stopped shimmying and we regarded one another happily across the stage. Two peas in a pod. Would wonders never cease. I guess, if you looked hard enough, you could find something in common with just about anybody.

Pendergast stood up and handed the drumsticks to Joe, bowed slightly, and, with a rather sad farewell glance, bade the drums good-bye. He came to us, his expression saying he expected a certain amount of noise from Vincent. It wasn’t long in coming. “Soooo, Aloysius. Does Charlie Watts know you’re after his job?”

Pendergast looked pained. “Now, Vincent, what did I tell you about using my first name in public?”

“We’re not in public. Whatsa matter, paparazzi already after you?”

Pendergast thinned his lips in D’Agosta’s direction, then turned to me. “Congratulations on a successful performance, Mi...Kitty. Your audience seemed quite pleased.” He inclined his head and it had the effect of a bow.

“Well, congratulations to you, Agent Pendergast, for keeping me safe, and for banishing the ogre, and for your ass-kicking performance on the drums.” I dropped the towel to my hips and used it as a skirt to curtsey with.

“Actually it was my first experience with real drums. I couldn’t resist. Hopefully, my performance will become more ass-kicking as time goes by.” He smoothed his hair back, then noticed the return of Vincent’s UFO stare. “Vincent, I experienced a bit of unplanned percussive entertainment during my short stay at that Federal hotel. Another guest taught me that drumming is good for the soul. I fear I have missed certain...experiences and lessons in life. Perhaps it is time I reconnoitered.”

Vincent stared, shaking his head slowly, like a man watching something he simply could not get his head around. Clearly, these two had an interesting history, one in which impromptu Pendergastrian drum solos had not figured prominently.

Pendergast put a hand on the small of my back, urging me across the stage toward the back door. “Let’s go. Our ride should be waiting.” He stopped for a moment, taking D’Agosta’s hand. “My dear Vincent, thank you so very much for your help. I do hope your headache resolves tout de suite.”

“Sure thing. Stay in touch, okay?”

“By all means.” We walked passed the piano, sitting at far stage right, and he stopped there, seemed to ponder a moment, then leaned over and played the opening bars of “November Rain” perfectly, his long ivory fingers nearly as white as the keys. He stopped, somewhat reluctantly, I thought, where the drums should kick in, and continued on his way. I walked beside him, thinking I’d seen frustrated musicians in my day, but damn.

Outside, a huge fancy silver thing pulled up in front of us. It looked like something the queen would ride in for a parade. Pendergast opened the back door and ushered me into creamy white leather. He turned, spoke to D’Agosta, and followed me in. The driver pulled away from the curb without asking where or which way and we headed for my house.

I sat in a pleased silence, remembering the music. Pendergast glanced at me from time to time. I did not see him do this, but felt his gaze. Finally, as we neared the house, he spoke. “This is Proctor.” He nodded toward the silent driver. “He will be watching the house from a good vantage point tonight.” He turned toward me, giving me the full impact of those eyes. “And I will be inside with you.” He paused, then said, very seriously, “No harm shall come to you this night.”

Wow. Nobody had ever made a statement like that to me before. A simple “thanks” didn’t seem to cut it. I looked at him as seriously as he had looked at me. “I feel safe with you, Agent Pendergast.”

A faint smile touched his lips and he turned to look out his window. I noticed a slight, rhythmic movement of his fingers and realized he was still playing either the drums or piano in his head. I knew that feeling perfectly well, having a tune playing in mine most of the time, whether I wanted it there or not.

Back home, I stayed with Proctor while Pendergast searched the house. The post-show pain was setting in big time. I fished two more Darvocet out of my purse and chewed them up to make them work faster, washing them down with the last of an OJ from the bar, then added one more, wanting at least four but afraid for my liver; Darvocet contains acetaminophen. I needed something stronger for pain but couldn’t afford to go to the doctor to get the script, and so far I had resisted stealing from my patients. These three, on top of what I’d taken earlier, would give me a nice buzz and take away the worst of the pain.

I wanted to take the opportunity to ask a question of Proctor, who seemed to know Pendergast well, but my decibel-numbed brain refused to cooperate. Finally one occurred to me.

“Mr. Proctor, is this his car?”

The shadow in the front seat spoke. “Yea, ma’am. He required some deliveries, so the car was brought down also.”

“Deliveries,” I mused, and tapped the window glass. “Mr. Proctor, this glass looks really thick. Is it bullet proof?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wow. The FBI must pay well.”

Silence.

I had one more question, the one I’d meant to ask all along but had dreaded the answer to. “Mr. Proctor?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Can he really protect me from his brother?”

A long pause. Then: “Miss Barrett, I once watched him resuscitate a Vietnamese baby while being whipped repeatedly by a Cambodian general. The whip kept coming, and he kept covering the baby with his body, breathing for it, beating its heart. This went on until blood flowed from at least fifty slashes on his back and shoulders. The ground around him was red with it. But that baby lived. At least as far as we know, it lived.”

I couldn’t breathe. I’d never heard something like that about someone I had actually met.

“When the baby finally cried, he handed it to its mother, who was hovering nearby in hysteria, and turned to face the general who was screaming at him to stop, to drop the worthless baby or die. He just looked at him. There was no fear in his face. Nothing in his face. The whip kept coming, dealing lashes to his torso. He staggered with the force, but did not back down or try to move away. He looked the general in the eyes, and very soon the man raised his arm but could no longer wield the whip. He dropped the whip. Pendergast walked away.” He paused. “He was nineteen years old.”

Silence in the car. I saw Pendergast step out the front door and motion me inside. We had turned on no lights, but the moonlight reflected off his very blond hair, and his eyes, when he turned his head suddenly, gleamed a momentary shiny, reflective silver, like an animal’s eyes gleam when a beam of light catches them just right in the dark.

I sat still for a moment, unable to move, then asked an unplanned question that just slipped out. “What is he, Proctor?”

Proctor did not seem surprised at the question. “He is many things, ma’am. First and foremost, he is a good man. You will be safe.”

I sensed that Proctor had made a very unaccustomed speech. I touched his shoulder, whispered thanks, and exited the car. Pendergast held out a hand and I went to him. He took hold of my elbow and steered me toward the door. He was not rough, but there was no question that I would go, and quickly. I stepped inside, turned, and saw the flowers, trees, and Pendergast himself bathed in full-moon light for a second before he stepped through the door and closed it behind him. I gasped softly at the sight. For the first time in my life, I wished for the talent to paint what I’d just seen...an elf, or perhaps a wraith, gliding through strange daylight on another planet, might’ve looked like that.

He heard the gasp and said, “Are you all right, Kitty?”

For a moment, I remained speechless and shocked by what I’d just heard and seen. Then I nodded and whispered, “Yes, just tired.”

He was at my side instantly, hand back on my elbow. “Do you need to lie down?”

“No need. I won’t be able to sleep tonight. After a gig, I usually hang out in here and play games with Jason, or watch a movie.”

“I am not Jason, but I am at your disposal. I believe we will be safe tonight, with Proctor in the vicinity. Still, we will maintain caution at all times.” I didn’t move or say anything, so he continued. “Why don’t I brew some more tea. Then you can decide what to do.”

“Okay.” I felt so shy in front of him suddenly. He had gone from being an already-impressive ass-kicking FBI agent (and not a bad fledgling drummer) to the role of savior, or hero, in my eyes, and I was totally discombobulated. Because my own constant pain was so hard to bear, I could glimpse what he’d gone through to save that baby, and because my own reserves of power were getting so low, I revered him for it.

My eyes must have changed. He looked at me curiously and intently, his black pupils wide in the dimly lit house. Their dilation and darkness, ringed with silver, made his eyes appear huge. And so very lovely. How could I have thought him scary looking?

Looking back now, I realize that was when I started to care for him.

Chapter 3    table of contents  

I was surprised to find a corner of my living room stacked almost floor to ceiling with boxes of fancy foods from places I’d only read about in books. Most of the labels I couldn’t fathom. Pendergast’s deliveries. Something about this evidence of humanity lessened my awe and I turned to him quizzically. “I have food in the house, you know. I am human. I eat food.”

“I’m sure you do have food, for you and yours. You did not know I was coming and did not shop for me. I have no desire to invade your space and consume your food.”

“Play it any way you want to, you obviously have selective tastes and thought my food wouldn’t do.” He opened his mouth to protest but I kept going, enjoying myself. I was always in a good mood after a show and the Darvocet were kicking in. Without Jason there to fret, I needed someone else to pick on. “It might surprise you to know, Aloysius, that I have very good food here. Natural foods. Foods whose names are comprised of only one or two syllables. English syllables. Foods like ap-ples, oat-meal, and car-rots.”

His face didn’t change but his eyes gleamed a bit. “Indeed.”

“Yes, indeed. They require no sauces, no special utensils nor cooking appariti, and no fancy boxes from unpronounceable establishments.”

“I’ll make you a deal, Kitty. We will share. You may try any of my ‘fancy’ foods, should you so desire, and I will try one of your ap-ples.”

And that is how we came to be sitting in the kitchen, sharing eats, at 2 a.m. Pendergast had cut the apple into painfully thin slices and arranged them artfully on a saucer with some sort of luxuriously dark honey from one of his many dainty little tins. He was alternating apple slices with bites of some sort of dark substance with a meaty-looking texture. I asked what it was and he offered me a bite. “Uh uh,” I declined. “Not til I know what it is. Might be mashed cockroach for all I know.”

“No, that’s in the other tin.”

I froze in the middle of a chew and he flashed an ephemeral grin. “Just kidding. It’s wild boar. Very nutritious.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with the apple. I’m not much of a meat eater.” I decided to ask about something that was bothering me. “Why did you give me such an angry look during the show, right after we came back from the dressing room?”

“Angry? It wasn’t meant to be an angry look, only a warning.” He laid down an apple slice. “I was listening to the lyrics and imagining how Diogenes—my brother—would react to them.”

“The lyrics?”

“’Tied up, tied down, up against the wall, we got Rubbermaid, baby, and we can do it all.’”

The lyrics of “Anything Goes” sounded so crazy, spoken in his soft Southern drawl, that I started to laugh, then stopped when he spoke again. “Not the kind of words you want your stalking sexual sadist to hear you speaking.”

Pendergast suddenly reached into a pocket and extracted the thinnest cell phone I’d ever seen. He pressed a button and listened, murmured “thank you,” and rose to his feet. “We have company.”

A spurt of adrenaline left me momentarily breathless. Was this it? Had his crazy brother come for me?

Again we waited by the window. Again I made out the slim form of my ex-husband as he got out of his Camaro and headed for the door. Again, he used his key and entered without knocking. At least Maddie wasn’t with him this time. “How’s it going?” he wanted to know, glancing from me to Pendergast and back.

“So far, so good,” I replied. I saw him eyeing the stacked boxes in the corner.

He looked at Pendergast. “Moving in, are you?”

“Only for a time.”

Jason looked displeased. “How long a time?”

I sighed and rolled my eyes, managing to keep it discreet.

Pendergast looked at Jason levelly. “As long as it takes.”

Jason eyed him for a long beat, then turned to me. “We always get together after a show. I didn’t even know when you left.”

“We were kinda in a hurry. Evading pursuit and all that. Want something to eat?”

“Yes, do join us.” Pendergast gestured toward the kitchen.

He joined us at the kitchen table, casting suspicious glances at Pendergast’s strange little tins and at the dark stuff on his plate. “Wild boar,” I told him.

“Oh.”

“Be my guest.” Pendergast opened another tin and handed it to him.

Jason made no move to try it. “So where do you get this stuff? FBI paying for it?”

Pendergast almost smiled. “Not hardly.”

“Mafia paying for it?”

Pendergast’s silver eyes narrowed a millimeter and, though Jason didn’t seem to notice, it scared the hell out of me. I leaped up. “Jason! I need you to see something in—in the bedroom.”

Jason grinned. “I think I’ve already seen—”

“Just get your ass in there!”

Jason stood up to go with me. Pendergast stood up to go with us. I sat back down. Jason, still grinning, sat back down. Pendergast, not grinning, sat back down.

Stalemate.

“So, Pendergast,” Jason said amiably. “You like watching my wife dance?”

Oh, crap.

Pendergast eyed him coolly. “I assume you are referring to Kitty. But she refers to you as her ‘ex-husband.’ I believe that would make her your ex-wife.” He raised an eyebrow. “As in, no longer your wife.”

I watched Jason’s right index finger start tapping the tabletop, a surefire clue that he was getting very teed off indeed. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, and he cut me off. “Okay, ex-wife. You like watching her dance?”

I couldn’t move. I’d seen Jason do some boneheaded stuff, but this was above and beyond. How could he be jealous at this late date? And jealous of someone who was only trying to protect me? And who had demonstrated the ability to kick his teeth down his throat? I opened my mouth again, and again was cut off, this time by Pendergast.

“She is very talented. I’ve always admired the ability to abandon oneself to something, as she does to music. It is a talent I do not possess.”

Jason looked the teensiest bit mollified. “You saying there’s a stick up your ass?”

Pendergast looked slightly amused. “If I understand that metaphor correctly, that is exactly what I’m saying.”

Jason laughed and I relaxed a little. He was diffusing, thanks to Pendergast, who received a sincere look of gratitude from me that Jason thankfully missed. Jason turned to me. “Well, Kit, maybe we can help Agent Pendergast with his problem. Let’s put on some music.”

“Not a good time for that,” Pendergast said. “We need to be able to hear.”

“Seems like the perfect time, to me,” Jason countered. “Since you’ve got that big ape watching the house outside.”

Pendergast’s expression betrayed faint surprise. I felt a small stab of pride in Jason. He was a cretin sometimes, but he was a very observant cretin. The cretin stood up and held out his hand. “Come on, Kit. We can’t play GnR cause it’s sacrilege not to blast em, but we can play something else, something we can keep to a mild roar. Maybe “Closer.” What do you say?”

Nine Inch Nail’s “Closer!” I loved that friggin song. Loved dancing to it. With Jason. I didn’t dare do it when we were alone in the house, but it had been far too long. The Darvocet insisted that it was a fine idea. I could enjoy the song and the dance and Jason, and Pendergast would be there to chaperone. I was already done up for the night, in full drug-seeking pain mode, and a little more wiggling wouldn’t make it much worse. I stood up, noticing only a touch of dizziness from the orthostatic hypotension that always plagued me when I OD’d, but not enough to worry about. Jason headed for the living room and I followed. Pendergast followed me.

My living room was a jungle, with animal posters on the walls, lots of plants, and everything natural from rocks to birds’ nests. I had also set candles everywhere, partly because I enjoyed skulking around by candlelight and partly because the old house was subject to power failures from summer thunderstorms and winter ice storms. Jason drew the curtains and took out a lighter and proceeded to light all the candles, which made the animal posters seem to come alive and cast just enough light to create interesting, spooky shadows on all the walls. He went to the stereo and searched through the stacks of cassettes, records, and CDs for Nine Inch Nails.

Pendergast stepped close to me. “Kitty, this is really not a good idea. Proctor is watching the house, but we need to be on our guard.”

“We won’t play it loud,” I insisted, watching Jason bend over to plug in the CD. Nice view. He turned around and caught me looking at him, took the elastic from his shoulder-length hair, and let is cascade around his face. He knew what that did to me—I’d told him often enough. I had a long hair fetish from way back and he knew it. I began to think that, even with Pendergast present, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. After all, he wouldn’t be here in the coming weeks when I replayed this evening in my mind’s eye and Jason came around. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t be here, either. Suddenly current events made my standoffish attitude toward Jason seem pretty foolish. I could be dead tomorrow and I wouldn’t have enjoyed my last couple of years much at all. Well, I could at least have one last dance with the only real love of my life.

Jason stepped to me and held out his arms. I stepped into them just as the music began. The passionate lyrics, and actually touching Jason, smelling him, hit me like a ton of Spanish Fly. We started off slowly, just moving to the music separately, holding hands, but by the second verse we were dirty dancing like we always had, moving as one body, our hips describing what could only be termed stand-up fucking with a beat. Our arms extended overhead, then he brought my hands down and behind me, trapping me against him. I bent backward, letting him hold me and control me, and he bent with me, squeezing me against his growing erection, lips pressed to my throat, his hair, way longer than mine, obscuring my view as my eyes slipped closed. Oblivious, we rocked to the beat. There had never been any problems in this area, or between the sheets. I was lost in a memory haze of times we had done the real thing while this song played over and over, one or the other of us often tied up, sometimes moaning into a gag. My body responded as though it was happening again. A hot flush suffused me and I shook all over, nothing but stiff nipples and gasping mouth and throbbing sex. I had forgotten just how delicious it was to be held by muscular arms in the aura of male heat, to breathe in male musk. I felt my loneliness like an oppressive shroud. Being touched again was like someone dying of thirst being thrown into a pool. My very pores seemed to open, begging for more.

The growling guitars ended, the song wound down. We straightened up and Jason loosened his hold on my arms. They automatically went around his neck. He kissed me for the first time in a couple of years, a sweet, familiar, kiss, then murmured against my ear, “You know I still love you, Kit.” At this, I snapped out of it enough to step back a little, confused by my feelings and the circumstances and the pain and the drugs. Jason saw it and let me go.

All was quiet.

I don’t know if Pendergast meant to distract us or just break the tension. He spoke into the suddenly quiet room. “I believe I’ll see what I can find in your collection, if I may.”

“Huh? Oh, okay.” I glanced at him and saw a new faint tinge of pink in his cheeks and lips. Apparently our performance hadn’t been wasted on him. Embarrassed suddenly, I turned away from both men, started to leave the room to be alone for a minute, then realized they would only follow me. God, what a clusterfuck. I sank onto the sofa instead. Jason watched me from across the room, his slate-blue eyes unreadable.

Pendergast held up a CD. “I believe I’ve found something I like. Something that may help me with my ‘problem,’ as you put it.” He inserted the CD into the player and selected, crossing the room toward me as the strains of “Por Una Cabeza” began drifting through the air. It was the tango music from the soundtrack of one of my favorite movies, “Scent of a Woman.” “Kitty, would you do me the honor?”

Oh, Lord.

I stood up, light-headed again, and waited like a lamb for slaughter. I don’t know why I felt that way. Maybe it was the intense depth of his assassin’s eyes, or the knowledge that whatever he was about to do, he’d be trying to outdo what Jason had just done, and I didn’t know if I could take it. He stopped in front of me, so close I could smell his apple breath when I looked up. He waited. I realized I hadn’t answered his question. Those eyes didn’t really give me a choice. I nodded, then followed it up with, “I don’t know the tango.”

The music was fast approaching the dramatic moment of da-da-da-DAH. Pendergast took my hands and pulled me gently against him. I looked up into silver eyes that glittered with anticipation, or competitiveness, or maybe just candlelight. “Just follow my lead.”

He kept my right hand, but placed my left around his neck, his right arm snugging around me, hand warm and firm on my back. The music reached the critical point and I became a marionette. He pushed my hand in such a way that I was flung away from him, then brought me back against him hard enough to scare me, but he eased me in at the last second until our bodies touched softly. I found it easy to follow him because I could feel every twitch of his muscles. We stepped together, back back back, forth, forth, forth, around, around, around; the latter with our right hips just touching, eyes locked, like two cats about to fight, or perhaps mate. The footwork was intricate but slow, and I was able to follow it easily. The music approached the big moment again and this time when he flung me back, he let me go. I thought I was dead until his other hand snaked out and caught the back of my neck, pulling me against him again, whirling me. His movements were forceful when he maneuvered me, almost violent, but so controlled that he didn’t hurt me. He was slender like Jason, but taller, pure muscle, his body like marble covered by silk. His every move was as graceful as the sway of a cobra, and I sensed the same restrained energy and power as that of the coiled snake, ready to strike. As always, he was gentle but firm, his hands and body not just suggesting my movements, but dictating them. He led me so masterfully that I found myself wondering if he would be the same in bed, and tried to stop wondering before I blew a gasket.

Being so close to him, feeling his hard warmth and confidence and the somehow dangerous aura that surrounded him, becoming one with his graceful, powerful movements, was as hot as what I’d just done with Jason; hotter maybe. With Jason, the sex was out there, right on the surface and in my face, two people with one goal. With Pendergast, it was implied, more felt than seen, his power such that he controlled not only my sexual response but my very ability to move, to even draw breath. I knew, and believed that he knew, that he could do anything he wanted with me at that moment, could inflict pain or pleasure at his whim, and I would be helpless to resist it. And all this force totally painless and even pleasurable, like a fist in a velvet glove.

He dipped me almost to the floor, brought me up, swung me to the other side, and dipped me again. This time he left me down there, bending over me, strange eyes all pupil and intent on mine. I felt like a rabbit about to be devoured, gladly, by a wolf. His hands were at my waist and the back of my neck, and now it was his body I was being squeezed against, his erection...or was it? He moved quickly and I couldn’t be sure if I’d really felt anything or not. But when we faced each other again, he didn’t hold me quite so close. We were nearing the end of the music. Again he flung me away and caught the back of my neck, pulling me back toward him. This time he stepped forward and laid me gently backward over his knee as he kneeled, bending over me. His lips just brushed my throat as the music ended. I felt it all over, and moaned softly.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then Pendergast rose easily, a hand on my back bringing me up with him, and set me on my feet. He stepped back, took my hand, and bowed, bringing his lips to within an inch of my fingers, murmured, “Thank you.” Then he looked at Jason. “Now that you have successfully removed the stick from my ass, may we return to the serious business at hand?”

Jason took a step toward him. Pendergast suddenly reached into his pocket and took out the cell phone. He pushed a button, listened, murmured, replaced it. Looked at Jason again. “Are you expecting anyone else?”

“No. It’s usually just me and Kit after a show.”

Through the window, we saw the shadow of a vehicle approaching the house without lights. It stopped about halfway up the driveway and someone got out. A big someone, who now slunk toward the house on foot.

“Is that—?” I began.

“No,” Pendergast said.

We waited in the candlelit living room, watching as the figure came closer. It paused by Jason’s Camaro, then kept coming. When it reached the front steps, Jason whispered, “Are we just going to stand here and let him come on in?”

Pendergast held up a palm. I heard Jason’s exasperated sigh and turned toward him, too late. In two steps, he’d already reached the door and was opening it, stepping through. I heard his steps on the wooden porch, heard him say, “Who—?” Then a thud.

Pendergast had his gun out and was by me before I could speak. He spoke two crisp, non-accented words: “Stay here.” Took a peek around the door frame.

A thick voice called, “Hey, you albino fuck! I’ve got your guitar player here! You better come out! And you better not be packing when you do!”

My eyes froze on Pendergast’s. He whispered, “It’s the ogre.”

“But how did he know—?”

“I can make a good guess. He’s armed. Stay here.” He stepped into the ogre’s view in the doorway and raised his voice. “I’m putting down my weapon.”

“No!” I cried. He was going out there.

He looked back, gave me a solemn wink, and stepped through the door. I ran to the door and peeped around the edge, seeing Jason on the ground near the ogre’s feet. Pendergast walked out onto the porch, leaned over, and placed his gun at his feet.

As I watched, the ogre reached down and yanked Jason up, then motioned Pendergast to keep coming. Pendergast, hands raised, walked slowly down the porch steps into the yard. The ogre propelled Jason away from him, then pointed a gun at Pendergast. Jason began to turn back and I heard Pendergast hiss, “No, go on! Take care of Kitty!” Jason paused in indecision, then hurried toward me.

He reached me and pushed me back inside, shielding me protectively. I peered over his shoulder at Pendergast, who had almost reached the ogre. The ogre yelled, “That’s far enough, Whitey!”

Pendergast took another step and stopped, white hair shining like a halo in the moonlight. He spoke to the ogre, his voice so low I could barely hear him. “Please. Don’t do this.”

It sounded like a warning to me, like supplication to the ogre, who barked a laugh. “Begging already. Some tough guy.”

Pendergast spoke again. “Put down your weapon and you’ll live through the night.”

Jason eased toward Pendergast’s gun where it lay on the porch. I wanted to stop him and didn’t want to. My breath stuck in my throat and I couldn’t have spoken had I made up my mind. He was almost to the gun when the ogre spotted him and yelled, “Hold it!” His gun barrel swung minutely away from Pendergast, who went for him immediately with the speed of a mongoose rushing a rattlesnake. He glided across the ground as though on wheels. The ogre only needed to swing his aim back about an inch, and almost managed to do it. I heard the gun fire and saw Pendergast spin at the same time that something unseen seemed to grab his shirt tail and yank it backward, then he was on the ogre in a blur of flying limbs and sickening crunching sounds.

The ogre was a man attacked by a windmill. He dropped the gun and I saw his incredulous face for a split second before he went down, mouth open in a perfect O of shock. I’m sure I looked the same way. It was over in about three seconds. Pendergast stood over his victim for a long moment, then turned toward the house, eyes flashing another momentary silver shine. I heard Jason’s breath catch when he saw it. So it wasn’t my imagination.

Pendergast mounted the steps and picked up his gun, easing it back into a holster under his left arm. He had danced with me wearing that thing? And, with all the whirling, bending, and squeezing, hadn’t even let me feel it. He looked at Jason. “Good work.”

Jason looked confused. Pendergast walked past him and stopped in front of me. “Are you all right, Kitty?”

I started to nod and surprised myself by almost collapsing instead. My knees gave way and I started to crumple. Pendergast caught me deftly and lifted me in his arms. My arms went around his neck reflexively as he turned quickly to stare up the driveway, where a gleam of silver stopped behind the ogre’s car. I saw a man get out and approach the house quickly. Proctor. He was older than Pendergast, with salt-and-pepper hair, but his bearing was somehow the same—he emitted an air of quiet, graceful confidence. He stopped at the porch steps, standing as straight as a plumb line, and Pendergast said, “Took your time.”

Proctor looked up at him, expressionless. “Line of fire.”

I thought they both sounded faintly amused, but surely that was my imagination. Pendergast tilted his head at the heap on the ground. “Take it away.”

I saw Proctor bend over the heap and start to lift it. Then Pendergast carried me through the doorway and on into the bedroom, placing me gently on the bed. The shakes had me now and I didn’t want to let go of him. He had to sink to one knee beside the bed to avoid a broken neck. I saw candlelight from the living room through a new, round hole in his shirt tail, remembered seeing it jump when the gun went off, and took hold of it, lifting it up to show him. “He—he almost—you—he almost—”

“Kitty, it’s all right. It’s over.”

“But—”

“Shhhh. Rest. I believe the excitement is over for tonight. I’ll pour us some tea.”

From Fred Astaire to Jet Li. From Jet Li to Mrs. Doubtfire. My pain-wracked, Darvocet-laden brain struggled to make sense of this entire night, failed, and shorted out. I went to sleep.

Chapter 4    table of contents  

***


“She’s usually in too much pain after a gig to sleep.”

I heard Jason’s voice from far, far away down the rabbit hole, then Pendergast’s murmured answer. “I believe she has overcompensated with medication.”

“Yeah, she does that, too, but who can blame her? Damn doctors.”

I was floating on a wave of warm dizziness, not awake, not asleep, not anything. And that was just fine. Soon enough it would wear off and I’d be back in Fibro Land. Which lucky body part will win the Pain Competition tonight? How long will it be before Kitty has energy enough to even complain about it? Never a dull moment in Fibro Land, boys and girls!

Pendergast’s voice again. “I must thank you for distracting the ogre. You guessed my plan and did your part perfectly.” I smiled at his obvious placatory flattery.

“I didn’t guess shit.” I smiled again at Jason’s trademark stubbornness, refusing to be flattered. “I was just hoping for the best.”

“Still, it worked.”

“Yeah, thanks to you. Where’d you learn all those moves, anyway?” I recognized Jason’s tone. Having grown up without a father, he was still looking for male role models, for someone to hero-worship. Sounded like he’d found his latest. Well, it beat his previous attitude problem.

“I have learned many things in many different places.”

Silence for a time. I had almost drifted under when Jason spoke again. “I checked her Darvocet bottle. She’s out. She’ll need more when she wakes up. Think I’ll run out and get a refill.”

I wanted to tell him that I had some in my purse, but couldn’t wake up enough to do it. My head felt light and floaty and way too big. Dried out as a scarecrow. My body, however, was at peace for the moment, and I relished that.

Pendergast spoke again. “Need I remind you to be careful. Pay close attention to anyone who parks beside you or walks behind you. If anyone approaches you, anyone at all, do not engage him. Get away from him, and to a populated place, as quickly as you can.”

“You think this guy’s watching us, don’t you? You think he’ll go after anybody he can.”

“I would not be surprised. He has done it before, to try to obtain leverage. He will do it again if he can.”

“So you’re saying it worked when he did it before.”

Long pause. Then, “Yes, it worked. For a time, at least. I really must suggest that you wait until morning to go out.”

“No, she’ll be hurting when she wakes up. Hurting bad. I’ll be careful. It’s not far.”

“Very well.”

Jason’s light, quick footsteps left the room. I heard him go to the kitchen, then to the door, which opened and closed. His Camaro growled to life outside, then, with a crunch of gravel, he was gone. All quiet in the bedroom.

I expected to drift deeper and didn’t, then made an effort to drift deeper and couldn’t, then realized that the pills were wearing off and I was beginning to really feel every dance step I’d taken. If I took more now they would make me sick; I needed to wait at least another hour or two. My legs ached, my arms throbbed, my back and neck muscles rested uneasily over a sheet of broken glass. Couldn’t lay still anymore. I rolled over, eyes still closed, hoping and praying that I’d find a comfortable position and go back to sleep. Rolled again. Twisted into a ball. Nothing was working. Electric shocky feelings started running out my arms and legs, like centipedes in cleats crawling under the skin. When it was this bad, there was nothing to do but get up and try to walk it off. I opened my eyes and was surprised to see Pendergast sitting on the side of the bed. I hadn’t felt it move.

“Jason has gone out for more Darvocet,” he said.

“I heard.” I twisted, bending backward to see if that would relieve any pressure. It didn’t.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes.” I closed my eyes again. “Take out your gun and shoot me in the head.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of massage therapy.”

I thought about it. Sometimes it helped a little bit. It was one of the things I missed most about being with Jason; having someone to rub my back. But I didn’t trust myself with his hands on me these days. Pendergast should be a safer bet. “Okay, but only if you promise to shoot me if it doesn’t work.”

“You have my word.”

My eyes flew open to see the now-familiar scrunches at the corners of his mouth. “Ha. Ha.”

He flashed the ephemeral grin again. “Turn over.”

I turned onto my stomach and realized I was a little breathless, awaiting his touch. Oh, crap. It was bad enough I still lusted after my ex-husband. Now I wanted to boink the FBI. I really had to get a life.

This time I did feel the bed move slightly, then his hands on the small of my back. “Is this the area?”

“Yeah. It’d be hard to miss it, actually. The area is about the size of...oh, about the size of my whole friggin back.”

“I see.” He began to knead my muscles gently, working them with his fingertips, then his palms. His hands were very warm. They slid over my silky camisole, growing warmer as he continued. Almost hot. It was like having a living, sentient heating pad. I thought he was doing more than just massage, but didn’t want to mention it and maybe be wrong. Didn’t want anything to distract him.

My back pain began to ease somewhat, and I moaned in relief. “Oh, where have you been all my life?”

“I assume that is a rhetorical question.”

“Ummmmm...”

“Was it worth it?” His soft voice had grown softer still, as though a little embarrassed by his own question.

“What?”

“I’m just wondering if the enjoyment you got from your singing and dancing was worth what you are going through now.”

“And then some.”

“Indeed...” He seemed to ponder. Then, “I hope our dance didn’t contribute to your pain. It had been a long time for me, and I’m afraid I got a little...carried away.”

It sounded almost as though we were discussing something else. “I thought you said you never got carried away with anything.”

“I may have been mistaken.” His wonderful hands moved higher on my back, now caressing my shoulder blades.

“Bet that doesn’t happen often.”

“Quite often, I’m afraid.” His fingers were so long they covered the entire upper half of my back with delicious heat and pressure.

“I think you’re just being modest.” My voice was barely there. I felt as though I could melt and just drip off the bed. “Oh, God, you touch me so good.”

I heard a rather sharp intake of breath and his hands left my back. Oh, no. “Please don’t stop...”

He shifted but didn’t return his hands to my back.

“Please put your hands on me...” Dammit, everything I said sounded like we were having sex. “I mean—please touch me. It’s so good...”

He took a deep breath. “Kitty...”

His husky voice quickened my own breath. My skin was hypersensitive, almost aching for more, my back beginning to ache again for real. “Aloysius, it hurts. It really hurts.” My voice quavered and I hated myself for being such a baby about pain. You’d think, after all these years, I would be impervious to it. But it didn’t work that way. For a while, it had, but not anymore. These days pain just drove me crazy.

“All right. Shhhhh...” He touched my back again, the naked skin above the camisole, and I gasped a little at the contact. I could hear him breathing now, a little shaky on the exhale, but he didn’t falter again.

My mind insisted on replaying our dance, the strength of him, the feel of his body pressed to mine, the intense depth of his eyes as he leaned over me. The masochist in me squirmed and whined for more. My little sadist demanded to know just what it would be like to have him trussed and helpless under my hands. My vagina chimed in with a hearty, throbbing alacrity all its own. I was on fire, suddenly and completely. I couldn’t stand it. This had to stop, one way or the other.

I turned onto my back and wished I hadn’t. The sight of him hovering over me, lit only by the soft glow of more candles on the nightstand, was too beautiful to bear. I fisted my hands to keep from reaching for him. “Okay,” I breathed, trying to find the strength to sound sure and barely finding enough to speak at all. “That’s good. That’s enough. Okay. Thank you.”

My nipples were so stiff they tingled, and I knew that they were standing up like marbles, practically screaming for attention. They got it. He broke eye contact, glancing down, and his gaze lingered on my breasts for a beat; then, with obvious effort, he dragged them back to my face. Once again, they held mine. “Are you sure?”

I couldn’t lie to him, and surely I couldn’t speak the truth. That wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all. He was going to be here a while; he was my best protection against something too horrible to think about. I needed him for that, needed him on his toes, and needed to be comfortable with him. Didn’t need to regret saying something stupid and putting a wall between us, making us uncomfortable with one another. I opened my mouth to say I was sure and what came out was: “No. But it’ll never be enough. Not with you.”

Oh, crap.

His face didn’t change. His face didn’t change, but he stopped breathing. Stopped on the exhale, and grew still as stone. After a moment, his lips parted and he took a breath, seemed almost to wake up. “I don’t...” It was almost a whisper.

Now I just wanted more than anything to make things the way they were before I opened my big mouth. “Hey, it’s okay.” I tried to smile. “I’m sorry, I just have this honesty compulsion. I seem fated to say what I’m thinking, no matter how stupid or inappropriate, unless it will hurt someone. I didn’t think that would hurt you. I’m sorry. Forget about it.” I tried to chuckle. “I’m used to not getting what I want. As mama used to say, I’m old enough that my wants won’t hurt me.”

His eyes stayed on mine for a long moment, then he looked away and stood up. I sighed in mingled disappointment and relief, and turned over, facing away from him. I wasn’t even embarrassed, really. I had only been honest about my feelings. Maybe it wasn’t a good thing, but I didn’t know any other way to be. I just hoped he could deal with it okay, wouldn’t be too uncomfortable with me now.

I felt soft movement behind me, a hand on my arm, turning me back. Looked up into silver eyes, only inches away. Felt a hard-muscled arm slide under me, then warm, firm lips on mine, soft, searching. A hand touched my face, long fingers stealing around the back of my neck, holding me captive to the kiss as his tongue parted my lips with gentle insistence and he pulled me tight against him. I melted, hands finding their way to his shoulders, sliding down his back, moaning a soft sound of utter longing into his mouth, and he responded, the kiss growing deeper, the hand on my neck caressing, yet holding my mouth firmly to his. My body throbbed in time with the soft licks and thrusts of his tongue. I pulled him down onto me, felt his weight on me, parted my thighs and felt his erection pressing between my legs. To hell with foreplay. I wanted him inside me, inside me right now, and my wants were hurting me, killing me.

I suddenly felt something vibrate between us. The cell phone. We moaned a soft, short duet. He raised up, sitting on the edge of the bed, and took out the phone, pressed a button, listened, murmured, pocketed it again. Turned to me. “Jason’s back.” His voice was deadpan, his expression unreadable.

“Aloysius, don’t...”

“I shouldn’t have done that.” He shook his head and got up, walking away from the bed. “I haven’t been myself lately.”

“Maybe you’re being more yourself lately.”

He regarded me almost coldly. “You don’t know me.”

Though I knew it was true, his words and expression were like a slap in the face. I was on edge emotionally from the pain and the drugs and the situation and the contact, and quick Darvocet tears sprang to my eyes. “I see that I don’t.”

He took a step back toward me, stopped. We heard the Camaro, then Jason slamming the door and, a moment later, entering the house.

Chapter 5    table of contents  

I awoke with thin morning light hitting me in the face, still lying on top of the comforter, still wearing the long skirt and camisole, with a vague memory of a candlelit Jason putting two pills and a straw in my mouth. My head felt like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon and I could’ve drunk the ocean dry had it been fresh water.

I raised up and saw Jason sleeping on his belly beside me. Peered around, looking for Pendergast, feeling very abandoned for someone who’d only had a watchdog for less than a day so far. He came silently out of the bathroom, still wearing the jeans, tee, and bullet-holed overshirt, paler than ever in the anorexic dawn, and stopped by the wing chair, glancing at Jason, nodding to me.

“Where did you sleep?” I asked in a low voice.

“Thank you for your concern, but I was quite comfortable.”

I stood up on sore, shaky legs, and walked around the bed, heading for the bathroom. I staggered a little and Pendergast was by my side instantly, hand on my elbow. His nearness and his touch sent waves of longing through me. I had screwed up big-time. How would I ever survive the rest of this siege if I could hardly breathe every time we were close? I wondered what he was feeling, if anything. Remembered his cold expression of the night before. Probably feeling nothing. The hurt returned and I yanked my elbow from his grasp and hurried on into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.

I peed, washed my face, sort of combed my hair, and opened the door. He stood there, silver eyes rebuking me silently. I ignored his stare and headed for the kitchen, where I also ignored the pot of green tea and fixed myself a protein shake. Manners die hard and I had to ask. “Do you want a protein shake, or can I make you something else?”

“I’m fine.” He picked up an already-used cup and poured tea. “Would you like some tea?”

“I’m fine.”

Stilted, self-conscious conversation and stiff, formal body language from us both. Just what I had feared would happen if I did what I had gone right ahead and done. Not for the first, or millionth, time, I cursed my free-wheeling, impulsive nature. Could I never keep my friggin mouth shut?

He sat at the kitchen table. I wanted to go anywhere but there, but didn’t have the heart to be that rude to someone who could’ve just left me to whatever his brother had planned. He had done nothing, really, that I hadn’t done. He had been himself, as I had. He had said nothing that was untrue. I didn’t know him, and the feelings I was beginning to have for him made no sense. Never mind that I believed in love at first sight, with several good reasons, the latest one currently asleep on my bed. Love at first sight, or just simple portent. Maybe this portent had nothing to do with love, though. Maybe I was just feeling for him because of what was to come....something bad, maybe. I looked across the table at him, thought about him getting hurt or killed trying to protect me, and drew a deep breath, which he heard.

Concerned silver gaze. “Are you all right, Kitty?” He didn’t sound cold now.

“Yes. I was just...just hoping nothing will happen to...anyone.”

“We will do our best to see that nothing bad happens.” A line he would’ve spoken to a child. I wondered if he saw me that way—a helpless, pitiable child.

Suddenly I hated myself and my situation in a way that I hadn’t for years. I had grown accustomed to it, even felt proud that I had made it this far without going completely crazy or just saying to hell with it and checking out with the bottle of Ambien I kept in my stash. But suddenly it all came rushing in...all the ways chronic illness had stolen my life. I looked down at my glass, unable to meet his clear, calm eyes.

I had wanted to be a doctor, or an astronaut, or perhaps an FBI agent. Something exciting and worthwhile. Nursing got pretty exciting at times, and was certainly worthwhile, but I had wanted more. I had wanted choices, at least. Getting sick in college as a biology major, I had dropped in and out for years before finally giving up and forcing myself through the one-year LPN program, taking two years to complete it, just so I could make a living working a few days a week. Even that was getting too hard lately, and I had been wondering just what I was going to do to make ends meet for the rest of my life. I didn’t feel capable of working full-time and couldn’t survive on part-time pay that was less than nursing pay; couldn’t buy pain meds and see doctors on it, anyway. Oh, crap, I had enough to worry about right now without thinking about the rest of my life. If Diogenes Pendergast got his way, maybe it would be really short and I wouldn’t have to worry about it.

Jason blinked his way into the kitchen, kissed the top of my head, and sat down at the table with us. “How you doing, Kit?”

“The usual, but not too bad.”

“Yeah, right, sure. I bet. Hey, why don’t you go to the hot tub? I gotta leave with the guys for Hilton Head, but G-Man here can take you.” It was Saturday and the band was playing a weekend gig, as usual.

“What about Maddie?” I asked.

“Tooty’ll bring her. He’s coming by to pick me up.” Jason and Tooty shared an apartment.

I looked at Pendergast, worried about him and the dog. He seemed to read my mind and said, “It’s not a problem. Where is this hot tub?”

“At the gym she goes to. A couple miles from here.”

“It would be best to stay inside,” Pendergast told him.

“Yeah, it would, but she’s hurting, and the hot tub helps. Surely you and the big guy and that tank of yours can keep her safe.”

Pendergast appeared to think about it. I did, too, and realized that the whole subject might be moot. Bud Bundy, who owned the gym, had dreams of selling it and moving to Florida. He had stopped fixing anything that broke, and often didn’t even open for business when he was supposed to, much to my neverending woe, since the hot tub really did help my pain a lot. Well, I could find out with a phone call. I grabbed my cell phone from the charger on the table and called the number, which was programmed into the phone. The damn gym was closed so often lately that I never went without calling first.

Bundy answered on the third ring and said nobody was there and he was just about to lock up and go home for the day. I hung up, forlorn, and repeated the conversation. Pendergast gave me his intense stare for a moment, then held out his hand. “May I use your phone?”

“Sure.” I handed it to him, wondering why he didn’t use the one in his pocket.

He hit the button that redialed the last number and got up, walking into the living room, where his voice was just an unintelligible murmur. Jason and I looked at one another, wondering what was up. It was a long conversation. When Pendergast returned, he thanked me for the phone, sat down in his chair, took a sip of tea, then looked at me. “If you want to go to the gym, it’s at our disposal.”

Jason managed to look pleased and annoyed at the same time. I was just happy. I could already feel those jets hitting the small of my back, chasing away some of the soreness and pain. I didn’t know what he’d done, and I had a feeling I’d know just as much after asking him, so I didn’t. I just said a very heartfelt, “Thank you!” and asked when we could leave.

“Anytime you wish. I’ll just call Proctor and have him bring the car.”

Now Jason seemed to be having second thoughts. “Are you sure she’ll be safe riding around in public?”

“No problem, it’s got bulletproof glass,” I told him.

He looked amazed. Pendergast looked a little piqued. I felt the need to defend Proctor. “I asked Proctor while you were searching the house last night, so he told me.”

“I see.” He reached into his pocket and extracted the cell phone. I thought he was going to call Proctor and give him hell, but he was receiving a call. He hung up and asked Jason, “What kind of vehicle does your friend Tooty drive?”

“A white Explorer.”

“Then he is just arriving.”

“Oh! Okay.” Jason stood up and looked at me, waiting. I went with him into the living room. Pendergast gave us our privacy. Jason hugged me. “I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to.”

“I know.” I hugged him back. “The guys are counting on you. I trust Pendergast. I’ll be okay.”

“You better be.” Jason looked past me as he said it, and I turned and saw Pendergast gliding toward the front door. He heard Jason, gave him a cool glance and a cooler smile, and opened the door for Tooty and Proctor, a very unlikely twosome indeed. They were engaged in conversation, obviously about the Rolls Royce, which Tooty was stroking as though it were alive, rich, and female. I wondered if he was thinking how it would be to drive it through town, or how much blow he could buy if he sold it.

Maddie rushed into the house and came to me for a welcome-home hug. I looked apprehensively at Pendergast, but he was apparently okay with her. I guessed it had been the element of surprise that had so affected him the night before. The dog paid her respects to mama and daddy and trotted over to Pendergast, who gave her head a rub. He turned to me. “We can go any time you wish.”

I started to answer him and Jason stopped my words with a lingering kiss on the mouth. He looked a silent message at Pendergast, who leaned casually against the wall and began whistling “Por Una Cabeza.” Jason’s right foot began tapping. Pendergast smiled a wintry, chilling smile. I lost all patience. “Oh, why don’t you clowns just whip em out and measure em?”

I stomped into the bedroom, the sudden silence and duel looks of chagrin doing my heart good. Men.

***


At the gym, Proctor pulled the big car up close to the door and I saw the red “CLOSED” sign. “Oh, he’s already gone!”

“Never fear.” Pendergast got out and stood before the door, doing something with his hands that I couldn’t see. Maybe ten seconds later, he pushed the door open. A burglar alarm immediately began braying, and I saw him step across the foyer to the security keypad and punch a few keys. The sound stopped. He returned to the door, looked around, and motioned me in.

I went, astounded, and turned to him. “You mean Bud Bundy gave you his security code? And how’d you get in, anyway?”

He smiled. “Mr. Bundy was most accommodating.”

I was beginning to realize that this guy was very good at not answering questions. Well, whatever. I needed the hot tub, and it was here, and I was here. He could keep his little secrets if it made him happy. He had probably threatened to sic the IRS on Bundy.

He motioned to Proctor. “Come on in. We have the alarm. It should be safe enough.”

Proctor exited the car and Pendergast relocked the door behind him as he entered, reset the alarm, then flicked the light switches, looking around. “I do not like these big windows.”

“The weight room doesn’t have windows. Back here.” I led the way to the huge weight room, where the dark blue carpet was littered with free weights and Nautilus machines.

“Excellent.” He looked around as though cataloging everything. “What do you think, Proctor? It’s been a long time since I used equipment such as this.”

“It seems very well outfitted,” Proctor said.

“Indeed.” Pendergast strolled over to the bench press and laid a hand on the bar, which appeared to hold a hundred pounds of weight. He looked at Proctor. I couldn’t read his expression, but apparently, Proctor did. He joined him at the bench. Pendergast said, “Who first?”

“Flip.”

Pendergast reached into his pocket and took out a quarter. “Call it.” He flipped the coin and Proctor said, “Tales.”

Pendergast caught the quarter and slapped it onto the back of his hand. He bowed. “Be my guest.”

Proctor arranged himself on the bench and lifted the bar off its rack, then into the air, and back to the rack. It was obviously not a problem. He got up and gestured to Pendergast, who waved a hand. “Why bother?”

“Because I did.”

“Very well.” Pendergast lay back on the bench and lifted the weight, then got up and said, “Increment?”

Proctor thought a moment. “Forty.”

“Agreed.”

Each of them added a twenty-pound weight to the bar. Proctor took the bench. Pendergast turned to me. “Please forgive us, Kitty, but the temptation is too great. I believe you will be safe if you want to go ahead and use the hot tub.”

“No, I don’t want to miss this,” I said. I picked up two three-pound free weights and began doing curls, glad for the two Darvocet coursing through my veins. “Please, go ahead.”

He nodded and started to turn away, then turned back. “Are you sure you should be doing that?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll hurt whether I do anything or not. I have pain medicine, so I might as well enjoy myself a little. The hot tub will counteract it.”

He nodded and took Proctor’s place on the bench, lifting the hundred-forty pounds easily enough. Each added another twenty to the bar and Proctor performed the lift, a little slower now. Pendergast took his place and I held my breath, but he lifted the weight as easily as he’d lifted the hundred pounds.

He got up and glanced my way. I couldn’t help it; I had to grin. He flashed his own teeth fleetingly and picked up another twenty-pound weight. I marveled at the difference between the two men—Proctor big and muscular and solid as a pit bull, Pendergast thin and muscular and sleek as a cat—yet he was keeping up with Proctor without breaking a sweat. “Very impressive,” I said.

“Not really,” Pendergast said. “I lift almost that much every time I do certain yoga poses. It’s just a little more than my own weight.”

I looked at his thin frame in pretend awe. “You weigh almost a hundred and eighty pounds? Where is it?”

“Between his ears,” Proctor intoned.

I laughed and Pendergast’s lips scrunched at the corners.

Two-twenty now. Proctor lifted the weight rather slowly but without difficulty. Pendergast took his place, seemed to still himself for a moment, took a deep breath, and pumped the iron bar and weights as though they were filled with air. He rose and took off his overshirt, and I saw the muscles the exercise had delineated and was no longer surprised by his performance, or his weight.

Two-sixty. Proctor assumed the position and lifted, definitely slower now. Pendergast followed him. I forgot I was doing curls and just watched. Again, he seemed to still himself, then grasped the bar and lifted. The weights were now noticeably bowing the bar, but he showed no hesitation. The bar went up and back onto its stand as usual.

Each man added another twenty, to take the weight up to three hundred pounds. This time when Proctor lifted, Pendergast spotted him, but it was not necessary. Pendergast laid down on the bench and Proctor took the spotter’s position. Again, it was an unnecessary precaution. The weight went up as though drawn by a pulley.

Pendergast got up and the two regarded one another. Neither spoke. As though on cue, each bent, picked up another twenty-pound weight, and added it to the bar. Three-hundred-forty pounds! “Er...guys?” I ventured. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Proctor took his place on the bench. Pendergast assumed the spotter’s position and glanced at me. “No problem.”

Proctor lifted the weight off its rack, hesitated, and put it into the air. It wavered a bit, then was lowered back onto the rack. He blew out a breath and got up. Pendergast took his place and Proctor stood behind him, ready to catch the weight if necessary.

Pendergast closed his eyes for a moment, took a few deep breaths, grasped the bar, and put the weight up, holding it there for an extra beat, as though defying it, then lowering it, in complete control, back to the stand. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and heard Proctor do the same.

Pendergast stood up and glanced at us, raised a brow. “O, ye of little faith.”

I laughed. Proctor smiled. Pendergast looked at him, waiting. Proctor said, “Challenge.”

“Accepted.”

Each added another twenty pounds for a whopping total of three-hundred-eighty. Pendergast laid his thin frame on the bench. I swallowed a lump of apprehension. Proctor got ready to spot him.

Pendergast seemed to meditate for a moment, then took hold of the bar. His muscles bulged. The bow as the bar left the rack was quite pronounced now. The weight went up, wavered a bit, and settled back onto the rack. He rested for a moment before regaining his feet.

Proctor nodded to him. “Well done.”

“Likewise.”

They regarded one another, obviously pleased, then Proctor said, “I believe I’ll return to the Wraith. To be sure there are no surprises when you come out.”

Pendergast nodded. Proctor turned, nodded to me, and left the room. Pendergast followed. “I’ll just reset the alarm.”

“Okay.” I looked longingly at the leg press but didn’t quite dare. Instead, I decided to stay with the upper body, which hadn’t been quite so abused the night before. I sat down on the inclined press machine and started doing reps with very light weight, just to tone. A screech suddenly blared through the building and I nearly came off the machine before realizing it was just Bundy’s sound system complaining as it came on. A moment later the screech resolved into a familiar song, the last couple of verses of Elvis’s “Jail House Rock.” Bundy had a bunch of compilations, mostly old stuff, no rhyme or reason to the arrangements except one good-beat song following another.

Pendergast returned. “Music to sweat by. The alarm is on.” He looked around as though deciding what to do next, perusing each machine and dismissing it. Then he spotted a punching dummy in a clear area across the room and headed for it. I was surprised. Somehow he didn’t seem the boxer type, unless maybe it was kickboxing. He neared the bag and Elvis finished, replaced by Patty Smyth’s

He stretched for a moment, hamstrings, quads. Kicked off his running shoes. Then he drew a bead on the dummy and took two quick steps toward it, spun on one foot, leaped into the air, and roundhouse kicked it to the floor. The dummy rebounded and he did the kick that had dropped the ogre’s first friend, but this time when his left foot left the floor, it struck the dummy a millisecond before the right foot did. The dummy flew backward and rebounded again, only to be met with a side kick of the type that had sent the ogre’s other friend flying. I watched, amazed, as he threw himself into the air, long legs windmilling as he flipped, then landed lightly in a fighting stance, only to throw himself into a back flip and land in a different stance. He continued, each flip different, landing in a different stance, until finally, landing lightly on both feet, facing a blank wall, he took three running steps on the floor, three more on the wall, and, throwing his legs back over his head, rebounded, to land again on his feet. He spun into another roundhouse kick, aiming at the dummy, and this time when he hit it, it flew across the room and smacked into a mirror. The mirror shattered, leaving the dead dummy stuck in the middle, a shard of glass protruding from its stomach. Pendergast looked sadly at the mirror, then at me. “Seven years’ bad luck.”

With nothing left to kick, he flew into motion again, performing lethal-looking punches and kicks at the air. Each time a limb sliced the air I heard his breath as it hissed through his teeth, apparently his preferred vocalization of the yells I’d seen some martial artists deliver on TV. A line of moisture was appearing down the back of his white tee shirt. He noticed a sign above him, hanging by two chains, that pointed the way to the wet area. It showed a stick figure relaxing in a hot tub. He threw himself once more into the air, his feet spinning over his head. One foot connected with the center of the sign and cleaved it in two. He landed and grinned like a small boy in my direction. “I hate cartoons.”

He looked more closely at me, then hurried across the room to grasp my shoulders. “Kitty!”

I came back to myself, looking confusedly at him. “What?”

“You...you’re pale, and you were falling off your seat. What’s wrong?”

“I...” I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what had happened. Except that I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen. Couldn’t believe that he could do what he’d done, when just a little dancing had left me in the shape I was in. I tried to make sense of it and explain myself. “I don’t understand why I’m...why I can’t...”

He understood immediately, and his eyes darkened with compassion. I looked at him, feeling my own eyes fill, hating it but unable to stop it. “I wanted so much more...I wanted to be strong...”

He knelt in front of me, his eyes level with mine. “You are strong, Kitty. To go through what you go through every day, and still get up and do it again the next...to keep working a hard job and helping people while in such pain. You are very strong.”

I laughed through my tears. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. But we don’t always get just what we want.” He reached out and caught a tear under one eye, then the other, wiping them away. “You want strength, and you have it. Your strength is that of heart and mind.”

I reached out and caressed his shoulders, his arm muscles. “I want this strength. I want...I want to move like you, to at least be able to...to have that choice.”

He smiled. “I’d like to be able to sing and dance like you, and to let myself go like you do when the music has you. I think you move pretty well.”

“But...”

“You can become stronger. I’ll show you. But first—” He raised his arm and sniffed the pit, made a funny face, obviously trying to make me laugh. “First, let’s enjoy that hot tub. I do believe my deodorant gave out about the same time that dummy did.”

Chapter 6    table of contents  

I had surreptitiously chewed a couple more Darvocet during the big contest, and they were beginning to kick in, which probably contributed to the emotional mess I was feeling. Not that much had to contribute to it—I was that way most of the time lately and, what with Jason, Pendergast, the gig, and the maniac after me, I don’t know why I thought I should actually feel more together.

Pendergast took my hand and helped me off the machine and we started walking across the acre of blue carpet toward the wet area. “I’m sorry about last night,” I said. I wanted to clear the air.

He stopped, looking down at me. “You need not be sorry. I’m sorry, for snapping at you, when you were apparently right.”

My drug-hazed brain tried to remember what I was right about. He saw that I didn’t. “You said that maybe I was being more myself. Perhaps that is true. I’ve been...going through some changes lately. Things have happened in my life during the past year that...things have been hard for a long time. I feel as though it’s all catching up to me.”

I understood perfectly. “I know what you mean. When bad things just go on and on, it does something to you. It changes you. I’ve found myself doing things during the past few years that shock me, but seemed perfectly right and normal at the time.” I suspected he was going through his own sort of post-traumatic stress; from what, I didn’t know, but I could certainly commiserate with what he was feeling. “It’s like...you start looking for relief where you wouldn’t have before. You’re desperate for it. Your defenses are lowered.”

“Yes!” His eyes gleamed with revelation. “That’s exactly right. I had my life perfectly arranged the way I wanted it, down to the number of black suits in my closet. I thought it would always be that way, that I was so accustomed to rolling with the punches that I could handle anything. But sometimes...I feel I don’t know myself at all anymore.”

I nodded. “I was online a few months ago and came across a psychological quiz that was supposed to tell me what sort of work I’d be best at. Since I was worried about losing the job I have, I decided to try it. But I couldn’t answer the questions! It was like, I could’ve answered them easily a few years ago, maybe, but that person doesn’t seem to exist anymore. Yet I don’t know who does; don’t know myself now. Especially with being sick so much...some of the questions I could’ve answered easily if not for that, like the one about whether I enjoy challenges. The old me could’ve given an unqualified yes answer. But now...it’s enough of a challenge to get out of bed. So I’m not that person anymore who used to love a challenge, and I don’t want to be the wuss who doesn’t, so I don’t know who I am.”

It was his turn to nod. “My own changes are more mental and emotional than physical, but have the same effect. I may have responded the same way to your challenge question. From an unqualified yes to a maybe, or a hell, no, depending on the day.”

We looked at each other silently, but our eyes spoke more common emotions and feelings than either could voice. I was surprised to find a compatible confidant under the cool exterior. It was hard to believe that a man who could make the moves I’d just seen him make could be hurting and confused, despite his obvious strength of body and will. I wondered what had happened to him to give him so much in common with a person who’d been chronically ill for twenty years, and guessed that having a serial-killer brother was surely most, if not all, of the problem.

He reached out and smoothed an escaped strand of hair back behind my ear, a half-smile flickering across his lips. “You’re easy to talk to, Kitty.”

“So I’m told. I think it’s because I’m so screwed up, nobody’s ashamed to tell me about their own stuff.”

He thinned his lips at me. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. I’m kidding, kind of. Don’t be so serious.”

We began walking again. The anonymous instrumental dance music that had begun playing after “Warrior” wound down and suddenly Salt n’ Peppa’s live “Push It” vibrated through the gym.

Of all the songs to try to stand still to...no way. Absolutely no way. I could’ve been dead for six months and I’d still have to move something to that one. I tried to keep walking and ignore the beat, but became jerky, then started double-stepping, then just gave up and started dancing in “Soul Train” splendor, mostly hips and arms, the music and rhythm making me feel good for the first time that day. I couldn’t do all I wanted to, but I did more than I probably should’ve.

Pendergast stopped, too, looking down at me as I danced around him like a kid around a Maypole, turning to watch me like he didn’t trust me behind him. I completed the circle and looked up at him, grinning. He scrunched his lips and shook his head. I grabbed his hands. He made the same oh, shit! face Vincent had made when I’d grabbed his. But I wasn’t going to let this one get off that easily. I wouldn’t push it too far, though. Just something simple. Hell, if he could do all the acrobatics I’d just seen, a little dancing shouldn’t kill him.

I started just swinging our hands in time to the music, my right hand and his left, my left and his right, back and forth beside our hips, to a 1-4 beat. At first I had to push and pull his hands and he resisted just enough to make it a little difficult. I guess I was obviously having so much fun that he hated to just stop. But I think the beat finally got to him. His hands loosened up and he began allowing, then helping with, the swing.

His arms were so much longer than mine that the longer swings actually turned me side-to-side a little, so I used that motion to get some hip action going, hoping he would follow suit. He didn’t, but did seem to be getting more into the arm swinging. I stepped closer to him and let my head turn with the swing, side to side. Began moving my feet, just rapping my heels at first, then shifting my weight from foot to foot with the arm swings, then stepping a little bit in and out, all that movement transferring through our arms to him, making him sway whether he liked it or not. I remembered dancing like this with Jason, and how, the closer we danced, the easier the arm swings became. I stepped closer to Pendergast again. Now the arm swings were turning both our bodies a little in time to the beat, swaying us farther side-to-side. I looked up at him and remembered the swaying cobra he’d reminded me of during the tango. I remembered feeling every twitch of his muscles when he held me against him, every little movement of his lean body. It had been like dancing with a panther. Now I was trying to teach the panther a new dance.

His feet began copying mine, though I don’t think he realized it, and we were actually dancing instead of standing there swinging our arms. He seemed to notice how far the arm swings were still going, and stepped closer to me to keep them lower, apparently afraid of hurting me. Now we were almost touching. I caught a whiff of clean sweat and pheromones and suddenly my thoughts and the lyrics became amazingly similar. I eased against him, still moving in sync, and let my feet wind down, mindful of his shoeless toes, til only my heels were moving and rapping to the beat. I began moving my shoulders more than my arms. Again, he seemed to follow without realizing it.

Our shoulders moved, our bodies swayed, hands locked, and I brought his arms around my waist and left them there, sliding my hands up his arms and around his neck. Even his neck was muscular, the ends of his short, white-blond hair wet from his workout. Now we swayed back and forth, shifting our weight from side to side, our bodies turning slightly in sync, so close I could feel his body heat. I looked up into smiling silver eyes and realized he was enjoying this, if only because it made me stop crying for five minutes. I smiled back happily and moved my hands from around his neck to behind my own. Now he was pretty much holding me up as we swayed. I leaned back a little, trusting him not to drop me, and he saw that trust and a smile actually escaped the scrunches. A lock of hair fell over his high forehead and he ignored it. I let my eyes close and he pulled me a little closer as though to compensate. Our lower bodies touched. I leaned further back, increasing the contact, knowing I shouldn’t and not giving a damn. Soon, there was no mistaking the erection, and this time he didn’t move away.

The music ended suddenly. Way too suddenly. I opened my eyes and he straightened me up and we stood there, not wanting to let go. He didn’t move his hands from around my waist. My own hands started to slide helplessly up his arms and around his neck again. As though God intended to finish me off, Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded” began playing. Oh.

Dazed by more of my favorite sexy music, and his proximity, I automatically went into the dirty dancing mode I’d practiced for years with Jason. I stepped forward a little with my right foot. He stepped back a little with his left. Then I kept my feet still and just began rocking my hips gently back and forth against him, the motion moving his body in time with mine. I heard the same sharp inhalation I’d heard the night before, looked up into the same intense wolf’s eyes. Any resistance vanished, and his body moved rhythmically against mine. We were only moving slightly, but the way we were moving made the dance a lot more intense than “Push It.”

I reached up and grasped his shoulders, saw heat in his eyes, and melted against him like butter. Felt his heart flying, like mine. His arms tightened around my waist. I slid my arms around his neck. Our bodies ground together, describing small, tight circles. We moved together, stand-up fucking with a beat. Half of me couldn’t believe it was happening, the other half couldn’t settle for it and wanted a lot more.

He leaned me to the side to better reach me and I felt his breath on my neck, dropped my hand to his waist to give him better access. Felt him breathing me in, getting his own dose of pheromones. One of his hands moved to the back of my neck and he took control of the dance, letting the hand on my back slide down over my ass and underneath my thigh, lifting it gently, bringing our hips more into alignment, pressing more tightly against me, making the pseudo-sex all the more real.

I felt his lips on my neck and would’ve toppled over had he not been holding me up. This song had always made me crazy and the combination of the song and the man was the stuff spontaneous orgasms are made of. I whimpered, turning my face toward his, his wide pupils and silver-blue irises hypnotic. Now all the hair he usually kept combed straight back had fallen over his forehead, leaving a center part, most of the strands hanging in two big commas around his eyes like inverted devil horns. He breathed, “Kitty...” and captured my lips with his in a sweet, light kiss that quickly grew deeper as his tongue explored my mouth. I was dizzy with Darvocet and lust. I wondered if I were asleep, dreaming the last twenty-four hours or so. Prayed I would never wake up.

The burglar alarm wailed, and I found myself suddenly alone in the middle of the room. In two leaps he had reached the weight bench and snatched the big pistol from the belt holster lying with the shirt on the floor beside it; in two more he had returned and shoved me behind him. I peered around him at the doorway as he crouched slightly, aiming at the figure coming through the door.

Proctor.

Pendergast raised the gun, pointing it at the ceiling, and the red dot that had appeared on Proctor’s forehead disappeared. Proctor stopped in his tracks but didn’t look very surprised. He spoke over the last few notes of “Hot Blooded.” “I tried calling, but this must be a dead zone.”

Pendergast lowered the gun. “What’s going on?”

“Just checking in. You’ve been in here a while.”

“Working out. Still have to do the hot tub.”

Proctor’s eyes were unreadable. I wondered if he’d seen us dancing. “Then I’ll wait in the car.”

Pendergast went with him to reset the alarm. I fidgeted, hot as a firecracker, and hadn’t even been in the tub yet. Maybe the tub wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe Pendergast wouldn’t want to hang around for it now. He probably thought me the world’s biggest ho, and, though I hadn’t had sex in a long time, at the moment, I was tempted to agree.

But when he came back, he motioned me in the direction of the wet area. Thinking that, for me at least, it was very appropriately named, I followed him, noticing that the music had changed to another anonymous dance mix. I changed quickly into the only bathing suit I owned, a leopard print one-piece, and hurried to the tub, not crazy about being seen in it. Constant pain didn’t make for much incentive to exercise beyond the stretching and light walking that I was able to do along with the shifts at work, and I felt even more out of shape than I looked, just weak and puny. I heard him turn on a shower on the men’s side of the wet area, then cranked the knob for the hot tub and stepped into its delicious whirls.

The hot tub was a concrete pit in the floor, about six-by-six, with bench seats that lined the entire space, except for the steps. As the jets came on, the room filled with a hissing, bubbling sound, drowning out the music. I started out, as usual, sitting with my back near a jet, loving the hot massage it provided. I would rest that way for a few minutes, then do my stretching with my sore legs under the hot, pulsing water. The air was moist, laden with chlorinated steam. I loved that smell, the smell of relief.

Pendergast appeared suddenly, slick wet after rinsing off the sweat. He wore a pair of black boxers that looked tailored to his sleek, muscular frame, and the white tee shirt, both garments already wet from the shower. I noted that his legs were as muscular as his arms. I could just make out the faint pink of his nipples through the thin wet fabric, and had to say it. “I didn’t know we were having a wet tee shirt contest.”

He stepped down into the tub, lips scrunching a little. “Very funny.”

“You can take it off, you know. Nobody here but us chickens.”

“Speak for yourself, Chickie—I mean Kitty.”

I laughed. He could be as funny or as dour as he wanted to be. I much preferred the funny Pendergast, but couldn’t fault him for dourness when hanging with crybaby ole me. I resolved to try to suck it up and shut up and save the complaining for group therapy, where I went once a week to commiserate with a bunch of other folks whose lives had gone ridiculously awry. I was really feeling the mild euphoria from the Darvocet now. That should help.

He settled on the concrete bench across from me and laid something on the floor beside the tub—the pistol. I wasn’t very familiar with guns, but thought this one looked particularly lethal and nasty. So had the red dot on Proctor’s forehead.

Apparently he felt safe enough to get into the tub but was taking no chances on being surprised and helpless. He moved far enough to my right to stretch his legs across and rest his feet on the bench beside me. I did the same, my toes just reaching the opposite bench enough to grasp the edge. With the change of position, he was still visible from the nipples up. The water was now up to my neck.

We glanced at one another, then away, like two embarrassed teenagers who’d been caught necking by their parents. I hated this feeling, hated not being able to be open with someone, to be myself. It was just too much work. The sooner the air was cleared, the better. “So, Pendergast,” I said, without really thinking about it. “You’re a really good kisser.”

He looked almost comically surprised for a split second, then the cool exterior returned and he arched a brow. “I take it you have suitable basis for comparison?”

“Not that much. But, in that regard, I’m like people who don’t know art but know what they like.”

“Au contraire, Kitty.” Scrunching like crazy. “I believe you know quite a bit about...art.”

I grinned. “Maybe, but I don’t like many paintings.”

“You must remember that, when you judge a painting, the painting is also judging you.”

“Well, most paintings can take a flying leap.”

“A most delightful mixed metaphor.”

“Including the watercolor across the tub.”

He grinned. “So...you haven’t bought any paintings lately?”

I sensed a seriousness underlying the silly question. “Not in a couple of years.”

“Not even from Jason’s gallery?”

So that was it. He wanted to know just how it was with me and Jason. Well, that made two of us. But I was pretty sure of one thing. “Jason’s gallery went out of business about two years ago.”

He digested that. “But it looks as though it’s still open on special occasions.”

“I guess it’s open, but I’m not going in.” I was smiling at the silly way we were expressing ourselves, but underneath, I was as serious as Pendergast. “I’ll always love the gallery, though.”

“I see.” He was obviously wondering what had happened.

“It’s hard to explain,” I said, abandoning the metaphoric chatter. “We drove a truck together for eight months. We also drove each other crazy, living in a six-foot sleeper all that time. We were under a lot of stress. We came home and didn’t feel close. Everything had changed. We couldn’t seem to make it better, and I didn’t feel like he was trying. I couldn’t take living together and not really being together, so I asked him to leave. He left, and he’s been hanging around ever since.”

“He still cares for you.”

“I still care for him, too, but I don’t trust him.”

“With your feelings.”

“Right. With my feelings.”

He studied me for a moment. “So you won’t be buying any more paintings from his gallery.”

I rolled my eyes. “Back to paintings, are we?”

“You brought up art.”

It was my turn to study him. “What about your gallery, Agent Pendergast? Is it open?”

He looked faintly pleased. “Only for special clientele.”

“Really? Why is that?”

He pondered a moment. “Because, as Anais Nin observed, only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.”

Wow. He had just summed up something I had always believed but couldn’t quite express. And he had demonstrated something else I’d always believed and had no problem expressing: Intelligence and integrity are, for me, the greatest aphrodisiacs.

“So,” I nearly whispered. “Are there any special clients at the moment?”

“No.” His own voice was low, too, just a murmur. “Not for a long time.”

So we had more in common than post-traumatic stress and a love of rhythm.

“I bet you get a lot of applications.”

“Not that many. Sometimes.”

I grinned. “Do any of the applicants stand out? Any good possibilities?”

He flashed his own grin, suddenly bursting into quiet but melodic song. “’He’s got eyes of the silver skies...’”

Delighted, I pretended pique. “Oh, you think I was singing about you?”

Scrunching madly, he finally laughed out loud. “Yes.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, too. “Okay, you got me. Your eyes are...hard to ignore.”

He looked at me intently. “You... are hard to ignore.”

There was something going on below his calm, playful, sexy surface that I couldn’t read. I realized again that I didn’t know him, despite my body’s insistence that maybe it did, or had, or would. There was a physical attraction between us that I had experienced only rarely, and never this strongly. I wondered if he was as puzzled by it as I was.

I stood up in water that came to my hips. He eyed me from under white bangs and lashes, and I wondered what he thought I was going to do. I moved to the steps beside him and put my right leg up, resting my foot on the top step, leaning toward it. “I stretch in the tub,” I said. “It’s easier for me, takes away the stiffness.”

“Excellent idea.”

I bent over my right thigh until my nose touched my knee, holding the stretch for as long as I comfortably could, then switched legs and started over. I couldn’t bend that far over my left leg. It didn’t get thrown into the elevated cab of my four-wheel drive Tacoma like the right leg, but pulled in. I decided to start getting into the passenger side at least once a day, to try for the same flexibility as the right leg.

Pendergast watched for a moment, then said, “May I suggest regularly entering the passenger side of your vehicle, at least on a daily basis. In that way—”

I laughed and he paused, brows raised. I said, “I was just thinking that I’d start doing that. Get the kinks out of my left leg.”

He watched me stretch for a few minutes in silence, then said, “I can show you a few things that might help.”

“A few things? I hope you’re not referring to the way you were throwing yourself around like popcorn popping while ago.”

He spoke through a chuckle. “No. I’m referring to the very best type of stretching and breathing. Yoga.”

“I can use all the help I can get. Feel free.”

He got up and laid gentle fingers on my arm.

Chapter 7    table of contents  

“Okay,” he said. “Show me everything you do.”

I went through my routine, somewhat embarrassed at performing before a live audience. I lay on the hot tub steps on my belly, pushing up with my arms and bending backward, holding the stretch and breathing as best I could. I’d found this helped with the cleated centipedes. At first, doing it had caused an electric-shocky feeling in my back that was somehow wonderful and excruciating at the same time. As I’d worked out the kinks, it just felt good. I thought I must’ve been releasing something that needed releasing, to have caused it to feel so weird at first. I came out of the stretch, stood up, and reversed it, bending forward as low as I could without inhaling water, my hands flat on the middle step. Ahhhh.

“Downward Facing Dog,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Go on.”

I sank to my knees, now holding onto the side of the tub in front of the steps where there was no bench seat. I put a knee up, keeping the other flat on the bottom. Held the position, then did the other leg.

“Wait a minute, I can’t see what you’re doing. Too many suds,” he said. The hot tub was very sudsy. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who went in wearing lotion and without showering first. That made it pretty frothy. There was no seeing what was under all that froth and roiling water.

Pendergast knelt too, put his hands on my waist, and ran them quickly down my hips and legs to see what position I was in under the water. “Okay, go ahead.”

Wow. I blew out a breath and stuck a leg out as far as I could behind me, mindful that he was back there somewhere, bending the other knee as much as I could. Held it. Again he ran quick hands over me to see what I was doing. “Good. Okay, go on.”

He sounded as clinical as any doctor. I, on the other hand, could still feel his hands on my legs and wanted to feel them in a lot of other places. I did the other leg, then stood and leaned toward the edge. He moved to the side as though knowing what was coming. I walked my feet all the way back to the bench behind me, stretching all the way across the tub, keeping my feet flat. I really felt it in the hamstrings. He stepped close and ran his hands down my body again. “Very well. What else do you do?”

Keep feeling me up and I’m gonna show you, I thought, then started to step around him and my foot hit that thingie on the bottom of the tub. I didn’t know what that thingie was—maybe a lid for a drain or something—but it had been a major stumbling block since I’d started stretching in the tub. This was not the first time I’d stumbled on it, but this was the first time there was anything there to grab except the concrete seats or the metal handrail, and I grabbed Pendergast around the waist, bumping into him to boot. He grabbed back, catching me around the shoulders, and we caught our collective balance and relaxed. My hand was noticing something through his tee shirt; a hard place woven into the smooth skin of his back, thin and ridged. I spread my fingers and felt another, and another. Caught my breath suddenly.

Scars. The scars from the whip. Proctor’s story appeared whole in my mind’s eye. Imagining it while holding the evidence in my hands was too much. I closed my eyes, willing it away, knowing suddenly that the scars were the reason he’d kept the tee shirt on.

“What is it?” he asked softly.

I didn’t want to let him know that Proctor had told the story, knowing instinctively that he wouldn’t like it. “Just a little pain. I’m okay.”

I tried to let go of him and couldn’t. My hands refused the command. I gave it again, mentally adding, “That’s an order!” Nothing. My hands had mutinied. The rest of my body was about to follow, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I had never been so mesmerized by a man. Not even in my Early Jason Period.

With a superhuman effort, I let go of him, moved to a corner, and sat in it, putting a leg out on each side of the bench, bending forward as far as I could without putting my nose into the water. Pendergast drew near, put his hands on my waist, and skimmed each leg, realizing along the way that my legs were spread wide under the water and he was standing between them. He watched me watching his reaction. We regarded one another warily. He took a deep breath. “Surely, Ms. Barrett, we can both exert a little restraint, even in such tempting circumstances.”

I grinned, delighted that he was talking about our attraction so openly, admitting it, and also taking his share of responsibility for our mysteriously compelling lip locks. Maybe he didn’t think me such a ho after all. Maybe he actually believed that I didn’t profess undying lust for every guy who came my way. But I wasn’t sure he knew just how bad it was, how attracted to him I was. I took a deep breath, willing myself not to reach out and pull him closer. “If you want restraint, Agent Pendergast, I suggest you step to the other side of the tub.”

He kept standing there, apparently as unable to move as I’d been a moment ago, until I began to get tickled. I couldn’t help it. Weird, potentially embarrassing things like this always got me tickled. I snorted daintily, got up, and heard an answering snicker. I started laughing hard and leaned against him, unable to stop. He was laughing, too, in a way that made me suspect he hadn’t done a lot of it lately. It was almost silent laughter. If his body hadn’t been shaking, I might not have known it was happening. I looked up at perfect white teeth and absolutely gorgeous sparkling, silver-blue eyes, thought, oh, the things I’m going to do to you, and almost collapsed with laughter. Now I was hanging onto him for a good reason: to avoid drowning.

I was thankful for my laughter, thankful that I had never stopped, even on the most painful days. I had to laugh, had to, and when a day went by without a laugh, I went into laugh withdrawal. I could laugh at my darkest suicidal thoughts, at my most self-pitying soliloquies. It was like part of me did the brooding and the ranting and another part became a stand-up comic, determined to milk the situation for all it was worth So it was a defense mechanism! It beat the crying I’d been doing lately all to hell. I willed myself to shut up and get on with business.

“Here’s the last thing I do.” I twisted around as far as I could, stretching my spine, holding onto the edge of the tub to maintain the position so I could hold it for a few moments, then did the other side, relaxed, and looked up at him. “That’s it. What do you think?”

He was still smiling “I think you have some good ideas. The positions you use are reminiscent of several very effective yoga poses, and about as close as you can get in the confines of this tub of water. Perhaps our lesson would be more useful after you get out of the tub.”

I’d spent about as much time in the tub as I could anyway, about ten minutes. After that, it started getting to me, especially if I was mostly submerged the whole time. I had been known to almost pass out if I stayed in too long. If I’d actually jumped his bones in the hot tub it probably would’ve killed me, but I would’ve died a happy woman. Oh, well.

I preceded him up the steps, grabbed my towel, and dried off a little, handed it to him. He put it around his neck, picked up the pistol, opened the door to the carpeted women’s dressing area, and tracked wet footprints onto the dark gray carpet. “The owner’s not gonna like that,” I told him, following behind. “He has a fit if we track up his carpet.”

I noticed the music again, now that we were away from the rumble of the hot tub. Another anonymous instrumental dance mix. Good! The last thing I needed was another sexy song.

He turned. “Oh, I don’t think the owner will mind.”

“You must’ve put a spell on him,” I asserted. “He’s a real ass—er, asinine guy.”

“He is?” Faint scrunching.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Oh, I think I would.”

“He’s not gonna like that broken mirror or that sign you kicked to hell and back, either.”

“Indeed.” Scrunch, scrunch.

Something was up. He had something up his wet tee shirt sleeve. I had no idea what it was and knew better, even on such short acquaintance, than to ask. He talked when he wanted to, but was so adroit at giving non-answers that it was a waste of breath to ask. I decided not to give him the satisfaction of knowing I was curious. “Okay, what were you going to show me?”

“How the poses you are doing can be converted to be more beneficial. But we have to make sure you can do them without causing yourself more pain.” He laid the gun on a counter, stepped into the center of the room and beckoned. “Come here.”

Yes, Master, I thought, and scampered right over there. The word scamper had always tickled me and I almost started laughing again, but managed to put a lid on it. He looked serious.

“First,” he said, “we will address what you do when lying on the hot tub steps and stretching backward. It is very similar to the yoga asanas called the Sphinx and the Cobra.” He handed me back the towel, lay down on his belly, and rested his elbows on the floor, palms down, tensing his muscles, raising his head up high. “This is the Sphinx.”

The Sphinx had never looked like that. I wished again that he would take off the tee shirt. He put his hands flat on the floor under his shoulders and pushed his upper body off the floor, his arms extending fully, tensing everything even more, looking almost straight up. “This is the Cobra. Notice how it opens up the chest. It’s particularly good for strengthening the back muscles and abdominals.”

I know something else that’s good for that, I thought, then yelled at my treacherous one-track mind to shut up, dammit!

He rose gracefully. “You are instinctively doing those poses.”

The room was very cool, and seemed cooler after getting wet. I shivered a little and put the towel around my shoulders. “Wow, I had no idea I was doing yoga.”

“I do not believe you will have trouble doing either of those,” he continued. “But Downward Facing Dog is a little more difficult.”

“That’s what I thought you said! When I bent forward in the tub.”

“Yes. Here it is.” He fell to his knees, then rose, poised on his tiptoes and hands, knees bent. “This is the beginner’s asana. This...” Keeping his hands flat, he flattened his feet onto the floor as well, letting his head lower until it was aligned with his arms. His body described an almost-perfect inverted V. “...is what you’re shooting for.”

He came out of the pose somehow without falling and breaking his neck, gracefully, even, and stood straight. “Downward Facing Dog is very good for creating traction in the spine. But you must be very careful, if you have back pain. I’ll help you, if you want to try it.”

“I need to try something,” I admitted. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Our eyes met, silently acknowledging the double entendre, smiling slightly. He motioned me toward the nearest blank wall. “The best way to begin is like this.” He leaned toward the wall and put his hands out to touch it, keeping his back flat. “Work your way down gradually.”

Oh, I plan to, I thought, and almost laughed again. This was going to be hard enough without Shecky Barrett putting in her two cents’ worth every five seconds, but I couldn’t shut her up. I leaned toward the wall and he straightened and came close, spotting me. But I managed to put my hands out and flatten my back without needing help.

Damn.

Oh, shut up, Shecky.

“Good!” He sounded proud, like he’d just trained the puppy to piddle on the paper. “Now let’s try the real thing. Get on your knees.”

I looked at him, about to grin. He raised his eyes ceilingward, taking a deep breath. “I mean, assume the position.”

I laughed out loud, tried my best to stop. “I’m sorry! I’m trying to stop but it’s so hard!”

Sudden mad scrunching and eye sparkling.

“See?” I pointed at him. “You’re as bad as I am!”

He took a deep breath, managed to stop scrunching. “Do you want to try this or not?”

“Sure.” I got on my knees, hands flat on the floor. “Like this?”

“Correct.” He stepped closer. “Now see if you can rise onto your tiptoes, keeping your hands flat on the floor. Be very careful not to let your back come inward.”

I rose onto my toes, aware of him nearby, ready to catch me. I was soooooo tempted to fall, but I didn’t.

“Good!” The puppy had piddled again. “Now see if you can put your heels down, keeping your hands flat on the floor. I’m going to help you achieve the perfect position. Stop me if it hurts.”

That’ll be the day.

He stepped behind me and grasped my hips. I almost choked, but all he did was maneuver me a little bit as I flattened my feet, so that my tailbone felt pointed at the ceiling.

“Good, now allow your head to relax in-between your arms. Relax your face and neck.”

I tried and was punished for doing well by his letting go of my hips. “Am I doing it?”

“Splendidly. Are you uncomfortable?”

“No, it’s okay now, but not for long.”

“Very well, now come out of it the same way you went in.” He put a hand under me, grazing my tummy lightly, ready to catch me. “Bend your knees slightly, a little at a time. Good. Raise your head. Okay, now go to your knees. Good.”

I balanced on my knees, triumphant. I had done it! I beamed up at him and saw that he was pleased, too. He held out his hands and stepped to me and I found my face level with the black boxers. Wondered if he’d noticed. Looked up and saw by his expression that he had. He paused for only a second, though, before reaching down for my hands and helping me up.

“There are other positions that I believe will be beneficial to you, but you should start slow. Let’s do just one more, one that should help your back, if you can do it without becoming uncomfortable,” he said, still holding my hands, apparently without being aware of it. “It’s called the Seated Twist.”

“Sounds kinky.”

He thinned his lips at me. “Kitty...”

“Okay, okay. Show it to me.” I looked away, scrunching madly myself, and managed not to crack up. When I looked back, he was looking at the floor, shaking with silent laughter, but quickly got himself under control again.

He sat down on the carpet, legs extended. “First, bring your right foot in as close as possible.” He bent his knee and brought his foot almost all the way to his bottom. The man was nothing if not flexible. “Then place your right hand behind you for balance.” He did it. “And bring your left elbow over your right knee.” His bent left arm ended up pulling his bent right knee farther inward. “When you become adept at this much, you can do this.” With the left elbow, he pulled his right knee inward even farther and grasped his left shin with his left hand, twisting to look over his right shoulder. Seated Twist, indeed.

He untwisted himself and stood up and I was struck again by his graceful, lithe movements, was reminded once again of the panther. I realized that, though his manners were more courtly and proper than those of anyone I’d ever met, including several old-maid schoolteachers, I was constantly comparing him to some deadly animal. The panther seemed the most appropriate. Watching him slick his hair back, I would not have been surprised to see him lick his hand first, like a cat licking its paw for face-washing. I smiled.

“What evil thought lurks in your mind now, Ms. Barrett?” he drawled.

“Not evil.” He was giving me that intense silver-blue stare again, and I fidgeted. “Hey, I want to try that seated thing.”

“Very well. But it can be dangerous. I will be assisting you throughout.” He folded the towel into a square and placed it on the carpet. “Here, sit on this.”

My shoulders shook with silent laughter, but all I said was, “Okay.”

I sat down. He sat down behind me, so close I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. This was going to be interesting.

I extended my legs, then brought my right foot as close to my body as I could get it, which turned out to be maybe six inches farther out than his had been when he’d done it.

“That’s a good start,” he said. “I can tell you’ve been stretching.”

Nice of him to try to make me feel good. I put my right hand behind me and it ended up on his thigh.

Damn, just missed it, Shecky observed, as he moved slightly to give my hand a place to rest on the carpet.

I felt his hand on the small of my back, pressing lightly, as though trying to make sure that no vertebrae popped out and flew across the room. It was a distinct possibility. I took a deep breath and started to bring my left arm across my body.

“Wait.” I felt him move even closer behind me, saw his long legs extend to either side of me. Now it was me between his legs. My right hand had to be near the juncture. As I had that thought, it began to slide.

“Oh!” I yelped, jerking it back around myself.

I heard a polite snort behind me, then felt him reach around and take hold of my right ankle, drawing my foot a little closer in. He held onto it to help it stay there. “Now put your hand behind you. Don’t worry about where it goes, you have plenty of room.”

“Maybe you should be the one doing the worrying,” I remarked, as I put my hand, thankfully, on carpet, leaning my weight on it. “You could get hurt, you know.”

“Believe me, Ms. Barrett, I am quite accustomed to guarding my assets,” he drawled, causing me to start laughing again, the vibrations of which caused my right hand to slip again. I yanked it up again, lost my precarious balance, and fell back against him, still guffawing.

“I’m afraid this is not going to work,” he said, affecting grand hauteur. “You are simply too silly for yoga.”

“Oh, look who’s talking!” I kept laughing, still leaning against him, and his hand left my ankle and stole around my waist. It was joined by his other hand. Now I sat in sort of a Pendergastrian dream catcher. I became aware of a familiar guitar riff suddenly, very familiar. I recognized it and caught my breath. It was a song that had always made me remember passions past and yearn for more, a song that made my skin remember the touch of strong male fingers. It reminded me breathlessly of last evening’s very warm massage and what had followed. It was Pendergast’s theme song.

We sat quietly for a moment. My hands, of their own accord, moved to cover his, where they clasped on my stomach. I leaned against him, into his muscled warmth, his aura, and felt his own need pulling me closer, drawing me like sunlight impels a flower to turn toward it. He spoke softly into my ear, his breath tickling it. “Why is it that I have laughed more since meeting you than I probably have in the past ten years?”

“That’s another effect I have on people,” I breathed, a little shakily. “I’m ninety percent funny bone. It’s contagious.” Then I really thought about what he’d said. “But it’s so sad that you haven’t laughed...”

“I never realized just how sad until now.”

Though the situation had me as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, being in his arms was like coming home at last. To a home I had waited a lifetime for. I wondered if he was feeling anything like that, but didn’t know how to ask. I turned toward him, doing my own version of the Seated Twist, leaning to the side to better see him. He gathered me closer and I closed my eyes, parting my lips...felt his lips, warm and open, meet them.

So gentle was his kiss. So very gentle. How could a man so strong, so violent when need be, be so gentle? But he was. He reached under my legs, turning me so I sat across his thigh, and the kiss remained gentle but grew deeper, until I was not just embraced but possessed by his strength, his will. I licked his lips and he moaned softly, sending shivers through me that peaked my nipples and made me aware of every single touch receptor in my skin, each one screaming for attention.

“Kitty...what are you doing to me?” He kissed my earlobe, my neck, softly, softly.

I slid one arm around his waist, smoothed his hair with my other hand, caressed his neck. “Loving you...just loving you...I love you...”

He raised his head, his very soul’s intensity naked in his eyes, and smiled the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen, will ever see. Our lips met again, and he held me, and it was all the dreams I’d ever dreamed, and I knew that what I’d said was true.

Desperate for his touch, I took his hand from my face and placed it on my breast. Heard the same swiftly indrawn breath I’d heard twice before. He broke the kiss and looked down at his hand on me, looked back into my eyes. Began to caress me, gently, through the bathing suit. It was not enough. Would never be enough. Not with him.

I pushed the strap off my shoulder and shrugged it down, pulled my arm out. Then the other one. The bathing suit fell away from my breasts.

Again he looked down at my body, then back into my eyes, searching. He seemed to find what he was looking for. He laid me back gently, moving to lay beside me, and kissed me again, one arm behind my head, his other hand returning to my breast, fondling it gently, then caressing down my side, over my hip, down my thigh, returning to my breast. His palm skimmed the nipple and I gasped, then murmured, “Please, hurry...please...”

But he refused to hurry. He kissed my mouth again, then my forehead, cheeks, chin, finally moving down to my neck again, softly, so softly. Kissed my collarbone, just soft touches of his lips to my hungry, pleading skin. Everywhere he kissed felt like the desert after a long-awaited downpour. Everywhere else, each pore seemed to open and beg. Finally he reached my breast, and I looked down and watched him kiss the nipple, then settle his lips upon it. I had thought his smile beautiful, but this was exquisite...his closed eyes, long lashes casting shadows underneath, the faint blush of passion in his marble cheeks, the new, almost rosy cast of his lips, parting now to allow his tongue access to me...watching him, seeing his eyes flutter open and find mine, his pupils huge and ringed by silver slate...I felt truly alive for the first time in my life. Truly alive and aware. I hadn’t known the difference, until now.

I wanted to feel him against me, to feel his weight, needed it. Needed to feel the full length of him against me. I turned toward him, pulling him over me, and he settled onto me, knowing what I craved, sliding his arms beneath me to hold me fast, crushing me closer to him, lips once more on my neck. I slid my hands up under the tee shirt, feeling the myriad of thin whip-scars that marred him, and my eyes filled with tears of reverence for his valor, and tears of pain for his sacrifice. I knew I’d been in love with him since Proctor’s story, and nothing would ever be the same.

I felt him huge against my thigh through the thin boxers, moved my legs automatically to grant him better placement. Throbbed all the harder, maddened, to feel him there. He felt it, too, and whispered, “Sweet, so sweet...Kitty...” His lips moved down my neck to my breasts, then lower, and I raised my hips to let him skin the bathing suit down.

Suddenly, the music stopped. The lights went out.

Chapter 8    table of contents  

I heard a hiss, almost like the ones he made when working out, then he was gone in the darkness. A quick scraping sound that I knew was the pistol being raked across the countertop as he picked it up. He spoke into the darkness, his voice low, calm, and cold. “There is a bathroom six feet to your right. Go in. Lock the door.”

There were no windows in the dressing room, and it was pitch black. I felt my way into the bathroom but couldn’t bear to close the door and separate us. A moment went by, then he spoke from directly in front of me. “The alarm is off. Lock the door, Kitty.” His voice was still calm and cold, so cold. He closed the door and I pushed the button that locked it.

Silence. I didn’t know what was happening. I expected any moment to hear a shot, expected it so strongly that I was already cringing. But I heard nothing. I remembered my nakedness and pulled my straps into place.

The minutes dragged by. I strained to hear. Then came a soft knock on the door. “Kitty, it’s all right. You can come out.”

It was him. I opened the door to see him standing with Proctor, who held a powerful flashlight pointed at the mirror, where it reflected back into the room, giving it a shadowy glow. I wanted to throw myself into his arms but something held me back...the simple knowledge that he wouldn’t want me to, not in front of Proctor. I settled for touching his arm. “What happened?”

Proctor spoke up. “I heard a shot. I believe someone fired into the transformer on the pole outside.”

“Was it him?”

Pendergast spoke up. “Probably. Just having fun.”

Fun. Suddenly I hated this man who had stolen his brother’s laughter. Hated him, and was grateful to him, for bringing his brother here. A strange combination that left a bad feeling in my mind, like the aftertaste of honey laced with quinine.

Pendergast took the flashlight and saw Proctor back outside, then returned to me. This time I did throw my arms around him. He held me for a moment, then stepped back. “I have been lax in my protective duties. That must stop now. Come, we must get dressed and leave this place.”

“You haven’t been lax! Everything’s okay.”

“By random chance. Certainly not because of my performance.” Some of the coldness had crept back into his voice.

“But—”

“I have let my emotions have free rein. That cannot continue, or we will both regret it.”

I stood there for a moment, so near to him, yet feeling so far away. I knew what he said was probably true, but I wanted so much to touch him. The part of me that hated God and everything else because of nearly a lifetime of chronic pain was not the least bit surprised. It mentioned that everything good turned to shit for me. It reminded me that there was nothing new about that. It ventured the opinion that it would never change, and that I was a fool for trying to believe that it could. Sighing, I started for the changing area and he followed, playing the light out ahead of us.

We dressed silently and exited the building swiftly and uneventfully. Back in the Rolls, Proctor pulled out of the parking lot and headed in the opposite direction from my house. I asked where we were going.

“To see a mutual friend in the hospital,” Pendergast said. “The ogre has regained consciousness.”

***


Randolph Memorial was a busy place. With all three of us in jeans, we attracted no attention whatsoever. Proctor led the way to the elevator, punched four. We exited in front of a nurses’ station where a kind of orderly confusion seemed evident. Two individuals I thought to be doctors sat behind the desk, probably writing orders for their patients. A ward clerk answered the phone, mumbled something, answered it again. Nurses and assistants scurried hither and yon. I had worked here straight out of school, but it had been a long time ago, and I didn’t see anyone I knew.

Again, Proctor led the way down the hall and we stopped outside room 451. He opened the door, peered in, then nodded to Pendergast, who escorted me through the door and closed it behind us. Proctor waited outside, presumably standing guard.

The room was private, as were most rooms at Memorial. The bed was on the other side of the room near the window. The puke green privacy curtain was pulled halfway. I wondered if the ogre knew that someone had come in. That question was answered in short order when a whiny, hectoring voice spoke from the other side of the curtain. “I hope that’s my lunch. I’m starving and nobody in this place gives a damn.”

Pendergast pushed back the curtain. “I’m sorry, Mr. Goins, but I do not have your lunch.”

The ogre looked like a mummy on shock treatments. He was swathed pretty much head-to-toe in bandages. His muddy eyes peered forth from a blackened, swollen face. He looked at Pendergast and his eyes popped wide; he was making his cartoon face again. I remembered Pendergast cleaving the sign in two, then proclaiming how he hated cartoons, and wanted to shake my head at the ogre and hiss, “Don’t do that!”

“You!” the ogre gulped. Despite his many bandages and a couple of casts, he appeared to be trying to climb out the other side of the bed. Then he thought better of it and grabbed for his call light. Quick as a cat, Pendergast snatched it from the side of the bed and laid it out of the ogre’s reach on the bedside table.

The ogre capitulated, whining. “You shouldn’t be here! The big guy said if I kept quiet about what happened, you wouldn’t arrest me.”

“I’m not here to arrest you.” Pendergast gave him Smile Number Eighty-eight: Wintry, No Eyebrow. “I’m here to question you.”

The ogre blanched.

Pendergast leaned over the bed like a cat looming over a mouse. “Tell me, Mr. Goins, did someone suggest that you come after me last night?”

“Mister, I can’t...I mean, no.”

“Hmmm. So he not only suggested it, he swore you to secrecy.” Pendergast reached out suddenly and the ogre gasped and tried to move away, but Pendergast only straightened his sheet a little. “What did he look like?”

“There’s no he! Nobody put me up to it.”

“I don’t believe you, Mr. Goins.”

“It’s the truth.”

Pendergast looked out the window, perhaps admiring the clear, chilly autumn day. He let the ogre stew for a few minutes. Then he turned his intense, silver gaze upon him suddenly. The ogre jumped as though he’d been struck. I knew how he felt; those eyes could do that to you. Pendergast moved fluidly to the head of the bed. “Mr. Goins, I am going to put a question to you. I have no time for games, and I hate hospitals, so I suggest that you answer with some alacrity. The question is this: Whom should you fear most—a man who has vanished and will most likely never return, or a man who stands by your bedside, ready to use his thumb...” He held up the long white digit. “...to pop out your right eye?”

The ogre and I gasped in unison. He looked pleadingly at me. I looked away. I didn’t believe Pendergast would really do what he’d said, but I willed the ogre to answer. He fell all over himself to do so. “Mister, I don’t know anything about him! He pulled up beside me outside the bar and said he had your address.”

“Describe him, please.”

“I only saw him in the van, but he looked tall. Reddish hair. Eyes looked funny, but I couldn’t tell what color they were.”

“Describe the van.”

“It was white, with no windows in the back. Like a utility van.”

“I don’t suppose you remember any distinguishing factor about the van, or that you remember any part of the license number.”

“No, it was—”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He just gave me your address, and said I’d better take a piece if I had one cause you’re one crazy motherfucker. Er...sorry, but that’s what he said.”

“Sticks and stones, Mr. Goins. And I presume you had a “piece” to take with you?”

“Yeah, I had a—”

“Which way did the van go when he drove off?”

“East, on Evergreen. Then I think he made a right on Bellamy.”

Proctor came in, mumbling, “We have company,” just as the door opened again and one of the individuals from the nurses’ station hurried in. It was a short, bespectacled man in a white lab jacket. He had a stethoscope around his neck and carried a chart. The ogre’s doctor.

“How are you today, Mr. Goins? Oh! I didn’t realize you had company.” He looked around at our little group. “I’m Dr. Williford. I don’t believe I’ve met anyone here except for you.” He put out a hand and shook with Proctor.

Proctor nodded. “Yes, I’m Timmy’s uncle. I brought him in.”

“Of course. I’m glad you were able to get him here quickly. You surely saved his life.”

We all stepped back and allowed the ogre’s doctor access. The ogre, looking quite distressed, opened his mouth. Pendergast scratched the corner of his eye with his thumbnail. The ogre closed his mouth, then opened it again just long enough to mutter, “I’m okay.”

“Well, you’re certainly a lucky man. Not many people survive being hit with a truck and thrown fifty feet into a concrete wall.”

I glanced at Proctor. He gave the tiniest shrug. I turned to look out the window, managing to turn a snort into a cough.

The doctor went on. “Let’s see...you came in with a compound fracture of the right clavicle, bilateral bruised kidneys, a fracture of the left lower tibia, and three broken ribs on the right side. Assorted contusions and abrasions. Yes, I’d say you’re a lucky man. Glad to hear you’re feeling better.”

The ogre frowned. “Well, I do have this headache, doc, and it hasn’t gone away like you said it would.”

“I’m sure that’s just stress, Mr. Goins. Nothing showed on the x-ray. I’ll have the nurses bring you some acetaminophen.”

“Excuse me,” Pendergast spoke up. “I believe Mr. Goins may have sustained a closed head injury in the left parietal area. I would suggest that a CT scan may be in order.”

The doctor looked at Pendergast. “And you are...?”

Pendergast put out his hand. “Forgive me. I am Dr. Pendergast.”

The doctor shook the long white appendage, eyeing Pendergast suspiciously. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of a Dr. Pendergast on staff here.”

“Oh, no, I’m not on staff here. I’m merely a friend of the family, here to visit Mr. Goins. Naturally, when he complained of headache, I examined him. I suggest you do the same. I believe you will find evidence of a countercoup effect in the left parietal area, resulting from a blow to the right side of the head.”

The doctor looked interested. “And what symptoms led you to this conclusion, Dr. Pendergast?”

“Anterograde and retrograde amnesia.” I listened in awe. Pendergast was laying the groundwork that would make it very hard for the ogre to speak convincingly about how his accident had really been an attack.

The doctor frowned, unconvinced. “But there’s been no vomiting, no confusion.”

“Oh, but he is confused. Then there’s the headache. And he’s also undergone a very obvious personality change. Obvious, of course, only to those of us who know him well.” He glanced at me and Proctor and we nodded enthusiastically. Pendergast went on. “I also suspect epidural hematoma secondary to laceration of the middle meningeal artery. As I’m sure you’re aware, doctor, this condition often presents in patients with a history of head trauma with loss of consciousness, then a lucid period, followed by loss of consciousness again. Onset can occur over minutes to hours. I believe a lenticular extracerebral hemorrhage will be noted on CT of the head. I am basing my diagnosis, of course, on my long association with Mr. Goins, and the changes I see in him.”

Now the ogre looked absolutely terrified. “What’s he saying, doc? What’s he saying?”

The doctor was already hurrying for the door. “He’s saying we need to do a CT scan, Mr. Goins. STAT!”

The doctor exited and the ogre looked askance at Pendergast. So did I. Where had he come up with all that rap? Did the man know everything?

“How do you know all that, mister?” The ogre looked frightened but determined. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” replied Pendergast, already on his way out. “But I know where I hit you.”

***


We rode to my house in silence. Pendergast gazed out his window, I gazed out mine. I supposed he was looking for a white van with a redheaded man driving, as I was. I saw two vans but they were full of painters or construction workers, none of them redheads.

We reached the house and Proctor pulled up close to the door. Pendergast got out and entered the house, checking it out. I wanted to talk to Proctor, but couldn’t think of a single thing to say that I should say to him, so I kept quiet. Pendergast came out and beckoned me and I just said, “See you later,” and exited the Rolls.

Pendergast herded me into the house and closed the door. We looked at each other. His eyes were unreadable, no expression on his face. I couldn’t bear looking at him. I went to the answering machine and saw a 3 flashing, hit the LISTEN button. Three hang-ups. The phone rang as I was turning away from it.

“Hello.” My own voice was as expresionless as Pendergast’s face.

“Greetings and salutations!” A very enthusiastic male voice chirrupped. “My name is Steve, and I’m calling on behalf of Cruorem and Ile. I wonder if you’d be so kind as to answer a few questions for our survey? If you do, we will send you coupons worth over a hundred dollars in merchandise from all your favorite merchants.”

I opened my mouth to say no, thanks, saw Pendergast across the room, giving me Intense Stare Number Four: Totally Expressionless, No Blinking, and decided to prolong whatever he had to say for as long as possible. “Sure, why not.”

“Excellent!” The man appeared to be nearing orgasm. His enthusiasm was giving me a headache to rival the ogre’s. “First question: Do you use any of the following products: dishwashing detergent, soap, bleach, furniture polish, toilet bowl cleaner, glass cleaner, shampoo, hair spray, spot remover, plant food, or toothpaste?”

“Of course.”

“And which products, may I ask, do you use?”

“Dishwashing detergent, soap, bleach, furniture polish, toilet bowl cleaner, glass cleaner, shampoo, spot remover, plant food, and toothpaste.”

“No hair spray?”

“I hate hair spray.”

“Okay, okay, that’s fine. In fact, that’s...excellent! Now for question number two. Do you have a pet, and if so, what type, and what is his or her name?”

“I have a dog named Maddie.”

“Good, good! Question number three. Do you now or have you ever used any of the following: Marijuana, alcohol, speed, downers, ‘ludes, heroin, methamphetamine, cocaine, crack, Xtasy, or Spanish Fly?”

“Oh, like I’m going to tell you.” Nothing seemed to have the power to shock me again today.

“Okay, okay, I don’t write these questions, I merely get paid a lowly wage to read them.” He sounded hurt.

“All right, I’m sorry. What’s your next question?”

“Do you now or have you ever purchased a pornographic magazine, pornographic film, sexually explicit reading material, a vibrator, a dildo, an anal probe, or nipple clamps?”

Apparently I had been wrong about being shocked. Being shocked made me mad. “Get bent, buddy. And don’t call here again. I am on the Do-Not-Call list, after all, and I should’ve hung up on you to begin with.”

Pendergast was crossing the room, concern now replacing Intense Stare Number Four, and he distracted me. I had to ask the man to repeat his next words. He did. They were: “And are you also on the Do-Not-Kill list?”

A rocket of adrenaline shot up through my chest and I dropped the phone. Pendergast took a giant step and caught it neatly in the air, put it to his ear. Listened. I heard the very faint crackle of a voice as the man spoke again and Pendergast’s face changed from concern to...I wasn’t sure what. He seemed to be feeling a mixture of anger, hatred, and something else I couldn’t identify. Shame? Sorrow? I don’t know what it was, but it was terrible to behold. He spoke into the phone and his voice was so low and full of emotion that, if I hadn’t known it was him, I wouldn’t have recognized it. “Come here, Diogenes. Come here and let’s get this over with. It’s me you want, not the woman.”

Diogenes! And he was inviting him to my house for a showdown. Guess who’s coming to dinner.

The voice crackled again. Pendergast replied, “You know that is not true. I explained what happened, and I know you believed me. You are just making an excuse for—”

The voice cut him off, louder now. Tinny laughter vibrated from the receiver. “When will this end?” Pendergast looked tired suddenly, so tired. Tired of living. I knew that look; I saw it often enough in the mirror. “What must I do? What will satisfy you?”

He listened, two bright spots of color blooming high on his cheekbones. They seemed to come from the blood that was draining from his lips as he compressed them. His free hand fisted. His posture changed from pseudo-relaxed to tensed, ready to spring. It seemed that his very hair was on edge, bristling from his head like the ruff on an angry dog’s back. I wanted to go to him, to try to calm him, but knew better.

The voice continued and, though I couldn’t make out the words, I could hear the mocking tone. Pendergast kept listening, his face growing paler and paler but for the bright blood-rose blooming on each cheekbone. His eyes glittered with rage.

Tinny laughter from the phone. Pendergast simply lost it suddenly, totally and completely. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” He was screaming into the phone. He seemed to have regressed and become an enraged ten-year-old, unable to articulate anything except this one primal command. I shrank back as he ripped the phone cord from the wall, grasped the phone itself, and threw it against the wall so hard the plastic shattered into pieces and all the phone’s bells and whistles spewed out onto the floor. The wall cracked, too, drywall dust puffing out like smoke.

His entire body was vibrating and straining with the need to destroy something else. He seemed to grow, expanding with uncontainable rage, and I realized that he really was growing, his muscles tensed so tightly that he was literally pumping up before my eyes. His own glittering, desperate eyes found mine and I knew what he needed. I looked around, pointed at a battered old bench against the wall. “Get that! I never liked it anyway.”

He flew at the bench, hurled it into the air, and put the side of his right hand through it. This time there was no hiss. A short, growling cry tore from his throat. Two halves of the bench hit the floor. He cleeved each into halves with his right foot, and each time it hit, the cry grew longer and louder. He looked down at it, turned back to me. His fury had not lessened. I pointed at an armoir in a corner. “I don’t like that either.”

He went at it like a buzzsaw, and for a few minutes the air was filled with fury—the repeated growling, savage cry, the continuous crack of splitting wood. The armoir was good for at least twenty good kicks and punches. When he finally slowed down it had become a pile of unrecognizable rubble. He stood over it, breathing hard, a sheen of sweat shining on his face. The rouge spots had faded to faint blushes on his cheekbones. His hair, usually so severely combed back, had fallen over his forehead, enough this time to almost obscure his eyes. He didn’t bother slicking it back. He just stood there, chest heaving, like a horse that had been run too hard for too long and couldn’t get its wind back.

After a moment, he turned to look at me, and I had never seen so much agony in one pair of eyes. So much pain. I couldn’t bear it. I walked toward him, watching him watch my approach, his eyes like twin silver-blue lasers cutting through the tangle of blond-white bangs. I knew it was dangerous but I had to touch him. Had to try to comfort him. I drew near and reached out to lay trembling fingers on his arm. His muscles corded. I closed my eyes, waiting for him to hold me or hurt me.

Chapter 9    table of contents  

For a long moment we just stood there, my hand on his arm, the muscles there twitching and trembling with unexpressed emotion. I saw the bench, saw his hand flashing through it, saw it falling to the floor in two pieces. If he couldn’t control himself, at least it would be over quickly.

I felt his hand close over mine, and opened my eyes to meet his. His grip tightened until it was painful, kept tightening until I made an involuntary sound of pain. He let go immediately and again just stood there, head down. I started to smooth his hair back, stopped. Whispered, “Aloysius...?”

When he spoke, his voice was so low I had to lean toward him to hear it. “Everyone I love...everyone...I hurt everyone I care about.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

His eyes flashed. “It is true!” He collected himself, spoke again. “I hurt them just by being who I am...by being what I am...” He moved then, so fast that he had his hands around my upper arms before I could blink. His grip was still hard, but not painful. Still, I had no doubt there would be bruises there in a few hours. “I want you to go away. Anywhere you want to go. Just let me send you away from here.”

Then he let me go and turned away. “But I can’t even do that. It doesn’t work...didn’t work...”

“What do you mean, it didn’t work?”

“He’ll find you...like he found them...” A low moan. “My fault. All of it, my fault.”

I wanted to know what he meant but didn’t want to torture him further with questions. I could only assume that Diogenes had hurt someone close to Aloysius and had been taunting him about it on the phone when he went ballistic. I was beginning to see why Aloysius had so much in common with someone who’d been chronically ill for twenty years. He’d had a brother for much longer than that. I wanted so much to help him, to make him feel better, but had no real idea how to go about it. I could only try the golden rule and do for him what I’d want someone to do for me.

I stepped closer to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Through the blue chambray shirt, I could feel him still trembling. Stepped closer still, and slid my arms around his waist, just holding him. Laid my cheek against his back. Murmured, “You’re fine. Just fine.”

He turned around, but kept his eyes on the floor. “You don’t know me.”

“You’re right, I don’t know you. I just love you.” I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “All the wonderful things I do know about you.”

His eyes met mine, then, the pain in them still evident. I reached up and smoothed his hair back. One stubborn lock formed a curl in the center of his forehead, giving him a boyish cast that clashed with his somehow ancient eyes. Something about the tone of the lighting, or the direction of it, made visible the beginnings of dark shadows beneath his eyes. I asked, “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“I was quite comfortable.”

“Okay, I think I’m learning to speak your language. That means no, I didn’t sleep at all last night.” He met my gaze without blinking, looking, actually a little too innocent. “Please do me a favor, okay? Go lie down and sleep a few hours. I’ll be up, and I’ll be listening. Proctor is watching, right? It’ll be okay.”

He considered a moment, then said, “Proctor is watching, yes. He got some sleep last night after the ogre made his appearance and he took him to the hospital. But I don’t think I could sleep if I tried.”

“Then rest. Just lie down and rest. If you want, I’ll stay right there in the room with you the whole time. Like you stayed with me yesterday.” He seemed to be wavering. I grinned at him. “Teamwork, right?”

“Very well. But you must stay in the room, and you must stay awake. And promise to awaken me if I go to sleep and you hear or sense anything unusual. And awaken me if I sleep for more than an hour. Or if—”

“Why don’t you give me the rest of the list on the way to the bedroom? Before you chicken out on going to sleep at all.”

I nudged him and he started for the bedroom. He sat on the bed and removed his shoes, removed the belt holster, lay back with a tired sigh. Then sat up again. “I do not think Diogenes will make a move today. He’s already had his fun via phone. But my prediction is by no means certain.”

“Nothing is certain except that you will be a better bodyguard with a little sleep than without any.”

“True.” He lay back again and folded his hands over his chest. Closed his eyes.

I watched him, standing at the foot of the bed. He opened one eye. “I do not know how you expect me to sleep, or even rest, if you’re going to stand over me like that.”

I went to sit in the wing chair near the window. He sat up again. “Please close those curtains and pull the chair away from the window. No, allow me.” He started to get up.

“Stop!” I pointed a finger at him. “I can move a chair. Lie back down. Please.”

He did, watching me slide the chair closer to the bed, away from the window. I sat down in the chair. He closed his eyes. In a moment, I did the same. I started slowing my breathing, then concentrated on my feet, relaxing them, moved to my ankles, relaxed them, moved on to—

“We cannot both go to sleep at the same time.”

My eyes flew open and there he was, standing in front of me. I hadn’t heard him move.

“I’m not going to sleep. I’m relaxing.”

“Relaxing usually leads to going to sleep.”

“Unless it leads to meditation.” I caught a faint look of surprise. “It’s good for me. It’s one way I deal with...everything.”

“And you are sure you can do it without falling asleep?”

“Of course! I do it nearly every day, and I never fall asleep unless I try to do it lying down. As you can see, I’m not lying down.”

“You must remain aware—”

“I will. I don’t have to go all that deep.”

“Very well.” He lay back down but kept his eyes open, watching me.

“I do not know how you expect me to meditate if you’re going to watch me like that.”

Faint smile. He closed his eyes.

***


I decided to just sit by my pond for a while. It was a place I went in my head, a peaceful place. Just a pond in the middle of a meadow. I could go there without going so deep that I wouldn’t be alert to any sounds in the house. I relaxed my body until it seemed to go away, then pictured the pond in my mind’s eye. I viewed it as I usually did, as though I sat in the grass a few yards away. Here I had enjoyed visits with my dog Bonzai, my father, my spirit guides, and others who no longer shared this dimension. I wondered if anyone would show up today. I was not really sure if the visits were real or my imagination, but they made me feel better.

I heard Pendergast’s breathing take on the slow, heavy rhythm of sleep. Good. The house was quiet as a tomb. Outside, a bird whistled a sudden aria, then stopped just as suddenly. I let thoughts of the house fade into the background and returned to my pond, where more birds were singing.

Sitting there, I became aware of the sheen of afternoon light on the tea-colored water, of the sway of tree branches in a light, fragrant breeze, of the coolness of the grass underneath me. So beautiful. Someday I would come here and stay here. I closed my eyes, basking in peace.

Sometime later I became aware of someone standing behind me. I turned and was not too surprised to see Pendergast. He inclined his head. “May I?”

“Please.”

He sat beside me, taking in the meadow, the pond, the trees. “It is very beautiful here.”

“Yes, and very peaceful. But how did you come to be here?”

“I have been practicing lucid dreaming. I gave myself the suggestion to find you before dropping off.”

I smiled at him. “You continue to surprise me, Aloysius.”

“And you, me, Katherine.”

I usually hated it when someone called me by my real name. But it seemed natural when he said it. I studied him. “You look different here. Peaceful. Happy.”

“As do you.”

We sat in comfortable silence for a while. Then he turned to me. “It is almost time to awaken me.”

“Yes.”

“I came to tell you things I cannot tell you awake.”

I felt a stab of unease that threatened to eject me from our shared mental construction. “Don’t...”

“I must. Don’t be afraid.”

I looked into his eyes and some of his own calm strength flowed into me. “All right.”

“Diogenes will make his move tonight. I do not know how or exactly when because he hasn’t decided yet.”

“But how can you know this?”

“Diogenes and I are connected, subconsciously, as all are connected with those they are related to or close to. I do not realize this when awake. When awake, I know the spiritual theory that I have studied, but I do not experience it while awake. Only during sleep, or in a meditative state, do I really experience it. The same is true for most, except for the Masters. They are always aware of their true nature, and the true nature of reality.”

“But you are a Master, Aloysius.”

“In some areas, yes, but I am still more aware of the sensations of the body than of the levels of mind.”

“But how did you suggest to yourself to come here and tell me these things, if you didn’t know them?”

“I knew there were things I didn’t see while awake that I would know during sleep. I want you, when you awaken me, to tell me what I told you here.”

“Okay, I will. What else?”

“I know that you will make a great sacrifice. I beg you, when the times comes, not to do it.”

I felt so strange suddenly. Somehow I knew that what he said was true. It was like having a feeling of de'ja` vu for something that hasn’t even happened the first time, yet. I tried to come up with words to ask what I wanted to know. “So...your seeing this...does that mean that we are connected somehow? Because you can see what I will do?”

His eyes seemed to glow with a kind of quiet peace, or joy, and I wished that he could look that way, be that way, all the time, in every place, on every level of being. “We have always been connected, Kitty. If you think about it, you will see.”

I turned to look at the pond again, finding it impossible to think of anything except his eyes when I looked at him. I knew that I had always felt there was someone, somewhere or somewhen, whose life somehow paralleled my own; someone who walked the earth alone, as I had always felt alone. Someone whose life would intersect mine someday, somewhere. I groped for the knowledge I knew I possessed, in some heretofore unknown, unused part of my mind. “We...came here together this time. For a reason...a purpose...” I couldn’t quite grasp it all, or even articulate what I felt.

“Yes.”

“Then this sacrifice...it’s part of it. It must happen that way.”

“No, it need not happen. The gesture will be enough. The sacrifice is not necessary. You had...other reasons for planning it that way. But I have learned much, and I know now that you need not do what you planned. I am here to beg you to reconsider.”

“Reconsider what? I don’t understand. I don’t know what I planned.”

“You will know when the time comes. You will feel impelled to do something. Something dangerous. Please, don’t do it. Just don’t do it.”

“Okay...” My voice trailed off, unsure.

“Listen to me.” He took my hands. “There is one more thing I cannot say to you. Not anywhere but here.”

He hesitated, and I asked, “What?”

“I need you, Kitty. Don’t let me go.”

Chapter 10    table of contents  

Author’s note:
I have taken liberties with the facts about lucid dreaming. If you are interested in how it really works, there’s a lot of information about it online.



I opened my eyes. Aloysius lay sleeping as before, his chest rising and falling gently, his face composed and nearly as white as the pillowcase on which he rested. I felt surreal and hazy, as though only a ghost of the real me had returned. I wondered if what I’d seen and heard had been real.

I should know when he awakened. He may not remember what was said, but he should remember giving himself the suggestion to attempt a lucid dream. I thought about what he’d said; that Diogenes would come after me tonight, that I would make some great sacrifice that Aloysius did not want me to make. And the last thing he’d said: “I need you, Kitty. Don’t let me go.” I watched him sleep and knew that I loved him, and said a silent prayer that I could grant his request.

He’d been sleeping for only an hour, not long enough to really do him any good. It was still light outside and Proctor was still on guard. All was quiet. I decided to let him sleep a while longer. He would surely fuss at me but he would be refreshed while he fussed. He already looked so pale, so tired, that I was afraid he was jeopardizing his health.

He frowned in his sleep and mumbled, then his hands came up suddenly and batted at the air before settling back down at his sides. He rolled onto his side toward me, one hand extending over the side of the bed. I rose and quietly moved my chair to the bedside, sat back down, and took his hand gently in both of mine, hoping I could reassure him somehow, give him more restful slumber. As I watched, his face relaxed and he sighed softly. I leaned forward and kissed the back of his hand, hardly letting my lips touch it for fear of waking him, just wanting to make contact, to give him something like a talisman.

“No!” His hands suddenly clenched into fists and he moaned in his sleep, then cried out softly. “Kitty! No, Kitty...”

I sat transfixed, skin puckered in gooseflesh. He sounded as though he watched me being tortured. His arms drew in and he hugged himself, drawing into a fetal position in the center of the bed.

I couldn’t bear to see him that way. I slipped onto the bed, close to him, wanting to comfort him somehow without waking him up. Softly, I smoothed his hair back, whispering, “Aloysius, I’m okay. I’m here, and I’m okay.”

His eyes opened and I thought I had awakened him, but then I saw how blank they were and knew he was, at best, half awake. Still, he appeared to be seeing me. I wondered if my image was superimposed somehow on the one in his dream. He smiled the sweet, sleepy smile of a child, and straightened, reaching out to pull me close, his eyes fluttering closed again. I lay beside him quietly, wanting him to get more rest, willing him back into deep sleep. He moved, inching closer to me until I put an arm around him, ending with his face hidden in my neck. I couldn’t help thinking of a small boy snuggling into the comfort of his mother’s arms. Again, his breathing slowed and deepened.

He spoke again, this time his sleeping voice a low, almost pleading, murmur. “Don’t...leave me...please don’t leave me...”

I was shocked and moved and wondered who he spoke to in whatever dream he was now weaving. Tried again to comfort him. Whispered, “I won’t leave you.”

A trembling sigh. He drew closer still, and his cheek slipped from my neck to my breast. He slept.

***


Diogenes drove through the streets of the small city at fifteen over the limit, looking for police officers on patrol. He was beginning to wonder if the burg had any. But he knew now that they did, after hacking into the local law enforcement human resource files with the laptop on the seat beside him. He’d even targeted one particular cop...a nineteen-year-old rookie who’d been on the force almost a year and had just gotten his own cruiser due to an older cop’s retirement. He’d pulled up the young cop’s photo and marveled at his resemblance to Opie Taylor. And, according to the stats, the cop was a redhead! A good omen, there. Opie was supposed to be working the four-to-midnight shift, supposed to be patrolling the southeastern city limits area, but Diogenes had yet to meet a cruiser or attract any attention at all. If this kept up he would have to resort to more desperate measures to obtain what he’d just decided he needed...a police officer complete with his own cruiser. The better to sneak up on frater. He had been mentally juggling ways of doing this all day, and had finally made up his mind only moments ago after finding the perfect partner in the database.

Ah, a school zone! Perhaps this was where his quarry lurked. Suddenly he saw Officer Tommy Wright, aka Opie, sitting in his cruiser and babysitting an elderly Aunt Bee type, who was directing traffic at a crosswalk while assorted dimpled lunatics ran hither and yon around her. A school zone was just perfect for what he had in mind.

Diogenes saw Aunt Bee waving her STOP sign and sped up, the van now rolling toward the crosswalk at just over 40 miles per hour in the 25 zone. Diogenes made it a point to weave just a little bit. Just another good ole boy who’d started the evening’s relaxation a bit too early. A danger to life, health, the American flag, and mom’s apple pie. Must be stopped immediately! He pressed a little harder on the gas, aiming the van about a foot to Aunt Bee’s left, and blew through the crosswalk fast enough to whip her apparently homemade, full-skirted frock up around her shoulders. He missed a couple of the scampering lunatics by inches on the other side.

Opie witnessed this atrocity and, as predicted, gave pursuit immediately, tires squalling indignantly as he peeled out, his right front bumper nearly taking out Aunt Bee, who was wrestling with the hem of her skirt, which was still well above the Mason-Dixon line. The bubble light on top of his cruiser began flashing a beautiful blue that Diogenes could not see. To him, the colors of the entire scene, of every scene, ranged from darkest to lightest grays, with occasional highlights of blacks and whites. Aloysius, with his very light hair, silver eyes, white, white skin, and black suits, was one of the few animals, vegetables, or minerals that Diogenes ever saw as it really was. He would be seeing him tonight.

He felt the same mixture of hatred and longing that he always felt when he thought of his brother; hatred for what Aloysius had done, and longing for another, imaginary universe, where it had never happened, where he was whole, and Aloysius was just an ordinary, often irritating, sometimes infuriating, older brother, instead of a sworn enemy who loathed him and on whom revenge must be exacted. Diogenes liked himself as he was, but he was also aware that, had he never become that way, had he never crossed that line and had remained as frustrated and bourgeois as most, he wouldn’t have known what he was missing. He would’ve been bored, but sure that he was living life well enough, like people who believed whatever religious doctrine they were brought up with and never investigated other ways to think. He would never have been so driven by rage and hatred that, at times, he actually ached with it. He would never have been possessed.

He could not turn back time, or slip into some parallel, more benevolent universe. But he could rid himself of the flesh-and-blood reason for his inability to ever achieve a moment’s peace or relaxation or satisfaction. He could do that. And he would do that. Tonight.

Chapter 11    table of contents  

For a while, Diogenes enjoyed leading the young cop on a rather sedate chase, by Pendergast standards. He heard Opie on the police scanner, voice high and cracking with excitement, telling all and sundry that he was in the pursuit of his young life and could use some help. When the scanner advised that the town’s other two units were on the way to intercept, Diogenes pulled over.

Opie was taking no chances. He opened his door, put a leg out, and hesitated. Stepped out and hid behind the door for a moment, as though almost wishing the desperado in the van would pull off and spare him the terror of the arrest. When the van remained still, Opie screamed, “Step out of the vehicle! Put your hands on your head!”

Beat.

“I mean, put your hands on your head and step out of the vehicle!”

Diogenes waited long enough to get the young cop as keyed up as possible, then abided by the instructions. He stepped out of the vehicle and watched Opie’s mouth fall open.

“Oh! Sorry, sir! I mean, I didn’t know...er...who are you, anyway?”

Diogenes, tall and impressive in his tailored black police uniform, answered smartly, as befitted a Captain of whatever fictitious police force he would be assumed to be part of. “Bob White, rook. I was answering a 10-13 when you gave pursuit and blew my cover.” Diogenes knew that his answer didn’t really make sense, but didn’t think it would matter.

It didn’t. The young cop’s eyes grew wide as he contemplated the possible consequences of blowing a Captain’s cover, especially a Captain who was on his way to assist another police officer. He figured the cop was County—the uniform looked County, anyway—and he didn’t know all those guys over in Winston. Oh, his Uncle Harry was going to be so pissed! His third month on the job, no arrests to speak of, and now this.

“I’m sorry, sir! I thought—”

“We will address the matter of what you thought later, rook. For now, you can best assist me—and your situation—by getting me down the road as fast as possible. We might still have a chance to catch the perpetrator.”

“Yes, sir!” Opie did everything but salute. Diogenes walked briskly to the passenger side of Opie’s car and got in. Opie got behind the wheel, glanced nervously at the dark Terminator sunglasses on the serious, scary, senior officer beside him, threw the car into gear, and peeled out, heading directly away from his fellow officers, who would soon be putting out a 10-13 on him.

***


I lay still, unable to move without awakening Aloysius. I wanted him to get more rest. By raising my head just a little, I could see the back of his head. He still slept with his cheek pressed to my breast, one hand on my belly. I wasn’t sleepy, but wished he would move enough for me to move. I was no longer accustomed to sleeping with someone, and, though it was wonderful to see him resting, and wonderful to be close to him, I felt a little trapped.

As though reading my mind in his sleep, he made a soft, sleepy sound and rolled away from me slightly, moving his head back to the pillow. I could see his chest now, and made out the thin silhouette of the cell phone through the fabric of the chambray shirt. I reached over and delicately plucked it out, not wanting Proctor to check in and awaken him. I slipped out from under his hand and put the phone into my own pocket, then just sat and watched him sleep, thinking about what he’d said. Glanced at the clock. It was just 4:40. Even if Diogenes did show up tonight, it would be a while. I had plenty of time to wake up Aloysius and tell him what he’d told me. Meanwhile, maybe I could do something useful in anticipation of a visit from Diogenes.

I went around the house collecting bottles, cans, pretty much anything that would sit on a windowsill and make a noise if disturbed, and lined every window in the house with them, using some of Jason’s fishing line to make a circle around each one and connect it to the next one, hooking each window’s grouping together. The line was nearly invisible and, even if Diogenes saw the bottles and decided to move them, the first one he picked up would topple the others, making a din that we should hear anywhere in the house. I lined the floor in front of the back door the same way. Now there was only one point of entry that he could use—the front door—and we would be watching that. Proud of myself for my efforts, I looked at the kitchen clock and was surprised to see that it was almost six. Did that qualify as night? Perhaps so, or near enough to get ready. I headed for the bedroom to wake Aloysius.

***


Proctor saw the police car when it rounded the curve on the road above the woman’s house, and was surprised when it turned into her drive. He used the binoculars and could make out two cops in the car, but couldn’t see their faces very well, even after switching to night vision. He didn’t really know what Diogenes looked like anyway. Aloysius had shown him the few photos he had of his brother as a young man, but he had none of him as an adult. He had done a very good job of describing Diogenes, had even drawn a portrait of his brother that was so realistic that Proctor was positive it was equal to a photograph in likeness, but the drawing, like the photographs, was of a Diogenes who lived years ago. Aloysius had not seen his brother well enough in years to note any but the most drastic changes. Thanks to D’Agosta’s sighting in Italy, they knew that his eyes, at least at that time, had still been the same as Aloysius remembered...one brilliant hazel green, the other a hazy blue. His eyes would be the best way to identify him, if one were close enough, but with Pendergast money, anything could be altered through surgery or prosthetics, and there was no way to know if he still looked anything like they expected him to. Uneasy, Proctor picked up his cell phone.

***


I was almost to the bedroom doorway when the cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I hit the button and heard Proctor say, “You’ve got company. A police car.”

“Aloysius is asleep,” I told him. “I know most of the cops.”

“You should wake him up anyway.”

I was already on my way to the front door. It was getting dark, but I peeped out and saw the cruiser already parked in the yard and Tommy Wright getting out. “It’s okay, Proctor. I know this guy. He’s probably looking for Jason. They’re on the same baseball team.”

“There’s another one with him.”

I saw the other officer getting out of the passenger side. I didn’t think I knew him, but if I’d only seen him around a few times, it would be hard to tell in the growing darkness. I watched Tommy wait for him and say something to him, then saw the taller cop clap him on the shoulder as though sharing a joke. I relaxed.

“It’s okay, Proctor.”

“All right.”

“Thanks.” I wanted to tell him about the information I’d received during meditation, but didn’t know how. I decided to leave it to Aloysius, when he awoke.

I hung up and heard Maddie, whom I’d forgotten to let out of her lot, raising hell in the back yard. She always barked when a car came in, but never made this kind of ruckus. I guessed that all the excitement and unusual events had scraped her nerves raw, too.

I opened the front door, not turning on any lights, mindful of the care Aloysius had taken not to make a lighted target of us inside or outside. The cops stepped onto the porch and I said, “Hey, Tommy. What’s going on?”

“Hi, Kitty.” His voice sounded a little strained, like he was stressed out about something. “Everything okay out here?”

“Sure, why? Come on in.” I led them into the dim living room, picked up my lighter, and lit the two big candles closest to the door.

“Officer White, here, has reason to believe that a dangerous felon might be in the area.”

“Near here?” I peered through the gloom at Officer White, who was just stepping through the door, closing it behind him. He was tall, a little taller than Aloysius, and something about the way he moved reminded me of him. A certain graceful, purposeful exactness.

He took off his sunglasses. His eyes looked different somehow, but it was hard to tell quite how in the dim room. I wondered if he’d injured one, then remembered a man I’d known as a child who’d had eyes of two different colors, one blue, one brown. Perhaps Office White shared that rare genetic anomaly. “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so. We have information that you might be the target of a brilliant, sadistic serial killer, and that there is an FBI agent working on the case without jurisdictional approval.”

I didn’t know what to say. It sounded like Aloysius might be in trouble. I hesitated, then, saying nothing at all, turned toward the bedroom to awaken Aloysius. I heard a strange, thumping sound behind me, then the sound of a body falling. When I whirled, I saw Tommy Wright on the floor. Officer White stepped quickly over him and took me in his arms.

Terror blossomed through me in a paralyzing sunburst that froze me in my tracks. The tall man (Diogenes, my mind whispered. You know who he is.) laughed softly into my ear. “Where is my dear brother? It’s time for a family reunion, Kitty. And you’re the guest of honor.”

“Please,” I managed to whisper. “Why are you doing this? I’ve not hurt you. Aloysius hasn’t—”

“Oh, so it’s Aloysius already! You must be very special, if he told you his first name.”

Something warned me not to let this man know that I had been intimate with his brother, that I cared deeply for him and believed he cared for me. “D’Agosta told me his name.”

“Ah, well. Not surprising. I’m afraid my poor brother is a bit standoffish. I, on the other hand...” He let his hands drift down over my hips and pulled me roughly against him. The controlled power of his movements again reminded me of Aloysius. “I am very easy to get to know.”

I reflexively brought up my arms to push him away, and he easily wrestled my hands behind me and held them both fast in one of his. His other hand caught my face and held me until his eyes captured mine. “Would you be more inclined to be nice to me if I told you that...oh, that I would spare the life of the man asleep on your bed?”

“How did you know—”

“Oh, come now. We both know that, were he awake, he would be out here defending the lovely damsel in distress. He’s the last of the white knights, after all.” The hand holding my face drifted downward, settling like a spider on my breast. “And I...I am the last thing either of you will ever see in this world.”

He bent his head and pressed his lips to my neck. Such a sense of the man overwhelmed me suddenly that my knees buckled and he had to clasp me tight against him to hold me up. I felt his hatred, his lust for vengeance, his capacity to inflict pain, and something else that would haunt me long afterward, making me flush with shame. An intensely virile force that was also reminiscent of his brother...powerful, animal, and undeniable. I felt it as a lioness must feel it for the dominant male, a raw hunger devoid of emotion but rife with evolutionary carnality. Recognizing its presence did not imbue me with the feelings of love and admiration that I had for his brother, but only reminded me that, underneath it all, I was trapped in an animal body and reacted, like any animal, to the pull of instinct. Perhaps he would do the same.

I pushed my body against his, moaning softly, letting my breaths grow shorter and deeper. He laughed softly again. “Don’t overdo it, Kitten. Don’t overdo, or I might not believe how irresistible you find me.”

Dammit! But I kept trying, moving against him, reaching up to kiss his neck, trying my best to distract him from Aloysius, helpless in the bedroom. I sensed a change in his own breathing, in his demeanor. “You almost convince me that you’ve given in to, shall we say, the call of the wild. Don’t worry, Kitten. We will have our chance. But first, let’s invite my dear frater to the party. Wouldn’t want him to feel left out, would we?”

He pushed me farther into the house, noticing the bedroom door, the room beyond, with its closed curtains, in near-darkness. But the frame of the bed, the outline of a body, was visible. Entering, he put his mouth to my ear and whispered, “Turn on the light.”

I reached for the wall switch beside the door, nudging it on as we moved into the room. Aloysius still slept on his side in the center of the bed. When the light came on, he turned, stretching, onto his back. His eyes blinked open, flicking around the room. Settled on his brother. His muscles bunched and he came off the bed in one fluid, catlike spring, landing on his feet facing us. He looked at me, saw that I was unharmed. His eyes turned to Diogenes and remained fixed on him though his head lowered like that of a growling dog. When he spoke, his voice was almost a growl. “Let her go.”

“Ave, frater. So good to see you again. You’re looking well.” Diogenes kept his eyes on his brother but spoke to me now. “See how he is? We haven’t seen one another for years, and he has not one welcoming syllable for me. For one so well-bred, his rudeness is, well, shocking.”

Aloysius took a breath. His head came up. When he spoke, his voice had changed to a very matter-of-fact, pleasant tone. He could’ve been commenting that it looked like rain. But what he said was: “Diogenes, you have been an abomination from birth. You blame me for it all, and I am to blame for...for potentiating what you already were. You hated me for what happened, but you forget that you hated me, and everyone else, long before it happened.”

His eyes were changing, pupils expanding like those of a cat about to pounce. The high spots of color bloomed once more in his cheeks. Yet he continued, his voice as well-modulated as that of a teacher lecturing a class. “I have explained to you why I didn’t try to speak with you about it sooner, why I didn’t understand what you were feeling. I have explained, and I know you believed me. Yet you continue your monstrosities without restraint. You continue to use me as your excuse for being what you are, for the horrible crimes you commit. And I am partially responsible, especially for the atrocities you’ve perpetrated since I had the chance to kill you and could not do it.”

A change was taking place in his countenance. Those eyes that could gleam with mirth, could glitter with such vivid intensity that they were felt upon the skin like a touch, could convey deep warmth and compassion or fierce desire, were now growing cold, so cold. His posture was undergoing a subtle change as well, from merely wary to predatory. He was beginning to strain forward like an attack dog at the end of its leash. “This will be allowed to continue no longer. This time, I am going to kill you.”

Chapter 12    table of contents  

I felt the man holding me tense, his own body gearing up for combat. He swept me around to his other side and put a hand on the handle of the gun protruding from a belt holster on his left hip. “This is not just part of a disguise, brother.”

Aloysius glanced at the holster, noting the safety strap still in place, and smiled like a pit viper. “You’ll never get it out.”

They both moved in concert, then, Diogenes’ hand a blur as he went for the gun, Aloysius a blur as he went for his brother. Diogenes must’ve managed to loosen the safety strap before his brother’s flying foot connected with the holster, spinning the gun up into the air. Diogenes, quick as a cat, made a grab for it, and Aloysius, having never touched the ground, kicked it again. It hit the ceiling, rebounded, and fell heavily somewhere behind the bed. Aloysius landed lightly, pit viper smile still in place, and beckoned his brother with a long white hand.

“Ah, no, frater,” Diogenes hissed. “You’ll not reel me in that easily. You come to me.”

“As you wish,” Aloysius retorted, and flew at his brother. I heard the short, growling cry I remembered, saw a foot fly toward Diogenes’ leg, while his hands were only a blur of chopping, punching motion.

Diogenes, unlike the ogre, was obviously no martial arts slouch himself. He managed to dodge most of the blows, dancing backward, then saw a microsecond of free space and retaliated, his own war cry echoing as he caught Aloysius with a backhanded move that left a red imprint on his ivory cheek. They separated, each now disheveled, brushing wild hair from blazing eyes. Had I not known they were brothers, I could’ve guessed it from the similarity of the determined expressions on their elegant features and their lean, hungry, leonine stances.

Diogenes grinned and it was like watching Dr. Jeckyll turn into Mr. Hyde. His handsome, regal features contorted into a cruel parody of good will. “You’ve wanted to kill me for so long, haven’t you, brother? Perhaps beginning with Incitatus. Oh, you should’ve heard him squeal!” Now Diogenes’ face bore an expression of obscenely exaggerated grief. “I wonder, when the spikes are hammered in, if the Kitty will squeal like the mouse? I especially wonder...” Here his demeanor changed slightly, an air of lewd intent creeping over his features. “...how she will squeal when hammered by my personal spike.”

I had not the faintest idea who Incitatus was, but knew exactly what Diogenes meant by his final phrase, and the effect on Aloysius was galvanic. He charged Diogenes, as close to out-of-control as I’d ever seen him, and it paid off as his brother had expected. Though Diogenes took two blisteringly fast blows to the face and shoulder that would’ve felled a lesser opponent, he was able to dodge and deflect and retaliate with a brutal assault of his own, his hands moving so fast that they blurred, and I could not see, but only hear, the damage they were doing. I moaned as something crunched and I heard Aloysius gasp in pain. He leapt out of range and stood panting, his right arm, the one on which I remembered seeing a horrendous scar near the elbow, hanging uselessly by his side. I realized that Diogenes’ greater height gave him a longer reach of both arm and leg.

Diogenes laughed the cruel laugh of an empathy-free child pulling the wings off a fly. He moved carefully toward Aloysius, obviously itching to finish him off but too respectful of his brother’s abilities to go rushing in. Aloysius watched him come, his face an unreadable mask, his left arm raised, ready to attack or defend as circumstances required. I could hardly bear watching his right arm dangle that way, knowing the motion was doing more damage, and had to be excruciating.

Diogenes was almost within kicking or punching range when Aloysius said, so softly I could barely hear him, “Still crying over Lucifer’s Heart, frater?”

This time it was Diogenes who ran headlong at Aloysius, his building scream suddenly cut off by the side of his brother’s hand as it flashed into his throat. I saw that blow, and saw a foot lash out, heard a snap, saw Diogenes grab for his knee on his way to the floor. As he hit it, his other leg swept around and knocked his brother’s feet from under him. Falling, Aloysius threw himself onto Diogenes and they rolled, locked together like two cats in mortal combat. I saw Diogenes’ teeth open a furrow in the side of his brother’s neck, saw Aloysius claw for his brother’s eyes and leave his own furrows in the flesh a millimeter below.

The roll ended with Diogenes on top. He drew back a hand, fingers curled tight against the palm, and smashed it down at his brother’s face. Aloysius jerked his head to the left and bucked, his body, as muscular and sinewy as a snake’s, leaving the floor, throwing Diogenes off. Both brothers leapt to their feet at the same instant and went for one another again, Aloysius’s right arm still dangling uselessly, Diogenes now favoring his left leg. Their hands flashed in a blur of motion I could not begin to follow, but I could hear some of the chops and punches landing and the grunts and gasps of pain that followed.

Diogenes managed to throw Aloysius backward, then his fist shot out and connected with his brother’s chest. Aloysius doubled over, the blow seeming to do much more damage than other, harder ones, had, and I wondered if there were scars there, also, from some past injury. Diogenes punched again, this time landing a terrible blow to his brother’s left side that sent him reeling toward the wall. He smacked the wall with his injured right arm, the impact tearing a short, jagged cry from his lips, which were now nearly bone-white. His face had gone from white to a shiny, almost translucent light gray. His eyes rolled up until only the bottoms of the silver irises were visible and he started to topple forward, then caught himself, turning to scrabble at the wall with his good hand. For a moment he just leaned there, his left index finger drawing some invisible symbol on his chest, and I heard him murmuring something that sounded like cho-ku-ray. Diogenes moved, going for him while his back was turned, and I leaped at him, praying that I could slow him down long enough for Aloysius to recover. I shoved Diogenes as hard as I could in the small of the back, toward his bad leg, and he stumbled, cursing, caught himself, and backhanded me hard enough to knock me off my feet. I landed on my side, so intent on Aloysius that I hardly felt it.

Aloysius whirled, saw his brother closing in on him and me on the floor, and came off the wall toward Diogenes, his good left arm throwing a punch that caught his brother’s eye and drew it away from his right foot, which shot out as though propelled by his hoarse, powerful cry. There was another crunch and Diogenes screamed in pain and anger. He fell and rolled, holding his right arm with his left hand, and Aloysius went after him, growling now like a rabid wolf, his feet lashing out at his brother’s torso, his arms, his legs. Each kick landed with a sickening fleshy thud and each thud tore another scream from Diogenes’ straining throat. He rolled toward where I lay near the bed, made a grab for me, and took a kick in the face from his brother that snapped his head around so hard I was sure his neck would crack, but again he proved tougher than rawhide and continued rolling toward the dark space under the bed. Aloysius, his eyes like silver-blue icicles, grabbed for him with his good hand, and Diogenes screamed a scream of purest rage and came off the floor like a rocket, knocking Aloysius backward. I saw Diogenes’ eyes rolling wildly, skimming over me, then landing on something near his left hand. I followed his gaze to his brother’s gun, snug in its belt holster where he’d laid it before finally going to sleep.

Everything seemed to slow down. Aloysius saw his brother reaching for the gun and hurled himself toward him, screaming at me to get down, Kitty. Diogenes began to grin, his hand already on the gun, pulling it from its holster, which had no bothersome safety catch. I saw all this as clearly as if I’d had all day to memorize the scene. I saw that Aloysius would not reach his brother in time, saw that Diogenes was going to have just enough time to swing the gun around and hit his brother dead center, remembered Aloysius rushing the ogre and knew he would not stop. Saw that he was about to die, and saw that I could prevent it. Saw Diogenes raising the gun, saw the skin of his index finger whitening as he pulled the trigger. Saw Aloysius’s face change from cold determination to horror as I threw myself between them. Saw how my pretty-much-wasted life would finally be put to good use.

I felt a blow that spun me around and threw me backward into Aloysius. Felt him catch me as the noise of the shot finally registered. Heard his voice, as I’d heard it when he lay sleeping. “Kitty! No, Kitty...”

Then I seemed to fall into a great rushing void, where there was only cold numbness, and even Aloysius’s voice, even the touch of his hands, faded away. I heard thunder and felt warm rain on my face. Then nothing.

Chapter 13    table of contents  

I came to a few seconds later. I knew it was only a few seconds because I was still vertical and Aloysius was still holding me up. Diogenes was still aiming the pistol at both of us, apparently having fired once since shooting me. I saw a denim-clad leg flash by me. A foot clad in a black sock hit the gun in Diogenes’ hand. Again, it spun toward the ceiling. Again, he made a cat-like grab for it. Again, Aloysius kicked twice without hitting the floor, but this time the second kick took Diogenes out. He sprawled on his back on the floor.

Aloysius lowered me one-handed to the floor and fell on Diogenes. I landed on the floor nearby, watching him straddle Diogenes, lay hold of his neck with his good left hand, and start choking. He didn’t look like the same man...he wasn’t the same man who’d laughed helplessly at our silly innuendo at the gym, who’d danced with me and kissed me so sweetly, who’d engaged in ridiculous ritual one-upmanship with Jason. That man had been human, though he’d tried at times to hide or even ignore the fact. The face I saw studying Diogenes so coolly above his throttling hand was not human, not in any feeling sense of the word. It was the face of the cat deciding just where to deliver the killing bite; the face of the spider crawling slowly toward its struggling dinner. The face of an animal, or a robot, just doing what it was made to do. There was no more human emotion or empathy or compassion, or even hatred or scorn, in that face, than one might find in the eye sockets of a skull.

Diogenes grasped his brother’s hand and I saw the muscles and tendons in his own hands and forearms pop with effort as he tried to loosen its killing grip. He struck again and again, using his hands in ways that I knew were intended to affect Aloysius’s grip as Aloysius himself had affected the ogre’s grip on the beer bottle. But it didn’t work on Aloysius. He was braced, leaning forward, adding his weight to all the muscular, sinewy strength that was concentrated in the death grip on his brother’s neck. Diogenes then tried using his longer reach to go for his brother’s eyes, his nose, his throat, but Aloysius dodged each thrust with the speed of a mongoose dodging a striking rattler and kept on choking. Diogenes went for the punches to his brother’s chest and side that had nearly incapacitated Aloysius only moments before, striking the areas again and again, but now they were ineffectual as well, and I remembered Aloysius making the strange sign on his chest and murmuring foreign, unknown words. Diogenes’ eyes rolled toward me and I saw the terror in them. He knew. He already knew he was dead.

I knew there were quicker ways to kill, once an opponent was so overpowered; knew that Aloysius could’ve simply crushed his brother’s trachea with one killing blow. Knew that he was doing it this way for the simple pleasure of it. That knowledge, and the look on his face, affected me more than Diogenes’ bullet. I retched, then cried out with the pain of it.

Diogenes’ efforts began to flag. I saw the pit viper smile appear on Aloysius’s lips, saw his cold, cold eyes warm a little with joy as his flesh and blood turned blue and stopped struggling. I didn’t know if the Aloysius I thought I knew was still even inside the murderous machine I was watching, but I thought, if he were, he might vanish forever after this. Vanish forever, fleeing the memory of killing his brother. I cried, “Aloysius, no! He’s done! Stop! Please, stop!”

His head turned toward me slowly, no recognition in his silver eyes. The smile on his lips chilled my blood.

Suddenly Proctor appeared, drawn by the gunfire, standing over the brothers, his eyes finding mine for a moment before he knelt next to them. “Aloysius.” He spoke calmly, like a father might speak to a distraught child. “Aloysius, he’s done for. He’s out of it. Stop now.”

Aloysius turned his vacant eyes and glacial smile toward Proctor’s voice. His hand kept its grip on his brother’s throat. Proctor spoke again. “Aloysius, you don’t have to do this. You don’t want to do this. If you decide that you do, there’ll be plenty of time later. But give yourself time to decide.

Aloysius surprised me then by speaking, but his voice was such a low growl that I could barely hear it. “I have had time to decide. Years. Years. Years. Years. Years. Years...”

I saw the horror of that repetitive, robotic, metronome of a voice hit Proctor at the same time it hit me. He recoiled as though he’d seen a statue blink, or a corpse laugh. We both felt it at the same time: the phenomenal intelligence and the iron will that made up Aloysius’s mind was slipping like a faulty transmission, and the horror of that tragedy could not be endured. Our eyes met again. “Stop him, Proctor,” I begged, trying to rise and somehow do it myself. “It’s driving him crazy. Stop him.”

Proctor took hold of Aloysius’s hand and tried to pry it from his brother’s throat, shouting in his face. He might as well have been in the next room. But Aloysius’s expression had changed slightly. He was still overcome with bloodlust and joy at the feel of his brother’s life ebbing away, but now he also looked slightly frightened, and I thought that some part of him knew what the act, no matter how deserved, no matter how pleasurable, was doing to him.

Diogenes was now totally cyanotic, his eyes closed, his lips parted, his body limp. Was it already too late? I screamed at Aloysius and, as he turned his head slightly in my direction, Proctor grabbed him. Aloysius reacted cat-quick, but even he could not break the carotid pressure quickly enough to stay conscious. He slumped and Proctor released his hold and dragged him off Diogenes, obviously wanting to get him moved and released before he revived. He dragged him the short distance to the bed and lifted him, laying him upon it. We both watched him.

Chapter 14    table of contents  

A few moments later his eyes opened, blinking blankly up at the ceiling. Then, apparently remembering something, he jerked upright. His head turned, he saw me on the floor and Proctor hovering near the bed. Then his eyes locked like twin lasers on the body of his brother, and his face became a study in conflict. Relief, exultation, sorrow, joy, grief, shame. For a few more unguarded seconds, horror...the ultimate horror at what he had done. Then a mask dropped over his face and, expressionless, he rose and came to me, checking my injury, ignoring his dead brother. He made as if to lift me, seemed to remember his bad arm, then looked at Proctor, who picked me up and put me on the bed.

As he lifted me I grew woozy, like someone with motion sickness on a high-speed elevator. As my body touched the bed, I grayed out again, hearing one of them speaking, but unable to make out the words.

The first thing I was conscious of next time was the last thing that had faded out...sound. I heard male voices and it took a minute for me to place them as Proctor and Aloysius. Both calm, but Aloysius’s voice had an edge that I’d never heard it in his voice before.

I opened my eyes and found myself on the bed. Turned my head and saw Proctor bending over Diogenes, who lay sprawled beside the bed on his back, eyes closed, arms flung out to the sides as though asking what all the fuss was about. Proctor reached down and pressed two fingers to Diogenes’ neck, looked up in my direction, and shook his head. I turned my head and saw Aloysius beside me, naked to the waist, holding pressure on the blue chambray shirt that was wrapped around my upper arm. His body was as astounding as everything else about him—formidably muscled, and seamed with horrible, twisted scars. I saw evidence of especially cruel injuries to his chest and left side, and wondered if they came from the same or different accidents or altercations. That one person could have occasion to suffer such atrocities time and time again seemed next to impossible.

He looked down at his brother for a moment, lips scrunching at the corners now to hide something other than mirth. Then he glanced at me, saw my eyes open, tried to smile, failed miserably. “Kitty, you’re going to be all right.” He used his propped-up, barely working right hand to brush the hair back from my forehead and I felt the cool dampness there, dampness that probably signaled impending shock. He felt it too, and gave Proctor instructions to cover me quickly, elevating my legs on a couple of pillows. Checked his watch, muttering, “Where is that ambulance?”

“Where am I...shot?” I asked, thinking that it wasn’t every day one got to ask that question. I didn’t find it odd that I couldn’t tell, though—my whole body felt pretty much numb, and I was glad of that.

“You were hit in the left arm. A bad graze of the triceps and biceps that deflected the bullet away from us both.” His voice was still more deadpan than animated. “I believe the bullet missed the brachial artery, though there is a lot of bleeding. Please remain calm and still. An ambulance is on the way.”

“What happened? Is Diogenes...”

“Yes.” He blinked rapidly and it had the effect of sort of a mini-seizure, as though the rest of him were under such tight control that only his eyelids could vent any of what he was feeling, and then only for a moment. Again he smoothed my hair back and I knew he was feeling surreptitiously for more cold sweat, for signs that I was bleeding out.

I tried to look him over and could only see the bad arm and the lasting effects of older injuries. “How about you? How’s your arm? Your chest?”

He looked down at his bare torso as though just remembering he had his own problems to attend to. “I’m all right. Don’t worry about me.”

“Don’t ask the impossible.”

Our eyes met and I was shocked to see a cool, impersonal film drop over his. I heard a faint siren, growing louder. In the back yard, Maddie began to howl. “Maddie must be going crazy! I need to...” I started to get up and was surprised by the dizziness and nausea that hit me.

“Proctor will attend to Maddie. You are going to the hospital.”

“Well, I hope you’re going with me! You looked like death eating a honeybun about five minutes ago.”

“Death eating a...” His voice trailed off and I waited for his lips to scrunch in the old familiar way. Nothing. “Yes, I will be going. I do not fancy losing any more function in my right arm than I have already lost.”

I looked at his chest, almost sickened by the terrible, twisted scars that marked almost every part of it, and thought that the whip scars on his back must look fine as frog hair in comparison. “Aloysius, did anyone ever tell you that you should be more careful? You look like a damn roadmap.” I was trying to get a reaction out of him, any sort of reaction, other than the robotic computer-like voice.

“You remind me of my friend, Vincent.” His voice was slightly more normal, but his face was not animated. No trace of the caring, compassionate Aloysius seemed to remain. He had withdrawn into himself and I supposed it was normal for some people to do that when in pain. For some reason, I was just so afraid he wouldn’t come back.

Pain was starting to set its barbed little hooks into me, too, and my arm felt like it was skewered and being turned slowly on a spit over a hearty fire. I felt more sweat pop out on my face and said just anything to distract myself. “Vincent? Yeah, we’re twins, only he’s five minutes older.”

“I meant,” he said, seeming to miss the lame joke entirely, “that you both have very colorful ways of expressing yourselves.”

The siren was much closer now. In a moment the ambulance would be turning into my drive. There was more I needed to tell him, something that needed saying, but I felt so hazy and tired...my eyes slipped closed and he immediately touched my face. “Kitty! Don’t go to sleep. Don’t...don’t slip away.” A glimpse of something underneath the mask, quickly buried again.

I was reminded, then, of my meditation; his dream. What he had told me. What I should’ve told him, before any of this happened. It might have changed everything. His brother might be alive, able to receive treatment somewhere. Aloysius’s poor arm might still be working. He might not be...it was my fault. Every bit of it. I looked up at him, felt hot, shameful tears starting. “I’m so sorry, Aloysius. This is all my fault.”

He looked at me blankly.

“Do you remember suggesting to yourself that you find me in my meditation? Do you remember planning a lucid dream?”

Sudden recognition in his eyes. “Yes, I remember.” I could see that, already, he was beginning to understand why I cried. He didn’t remember what we’d said in our shared experience but he already knew that his plan had worked until, somehow, I had screwed up mightily. I was glad he understood what had happened. Maybe I wouldn’t have to tell him myself.

I had to tell him one thing, though. “I didn’t mean to...I’m so sorry. I only wanted to let you rest a while longer...” I sobbed and almost passed out from the pain in my arm and shoulder.

“Shhh, don’t worry about it now. Don’t think about it now. There will be plenty of time to sort everything out later.” He was saying the right words, but still didn’t sound right, like a bad actor who’d memorized his lines but just couldn’t sound convincing.

Paramedics hurried into the room, led by Proctor. As they converged upon me, Aloysius moved back to give them room. I raised my head, trying to keep him in sight. He looked down at Diogenes and for just a second I saw the pit viper smile underlining eyes that were still too shocked and raw for any expression at all. I felt a needle slide into an arm vein, then mild burning as medication was administered. Things grew hazier. I tried to keep my eyes open, to find Aloysius again, but he seemed to have vanished.

***


The next time I saw Aloysius, I was lying in a hospital bed and Jason was sitting beside me. It was the next day. I’d already been to surgery and my arm was nicely wrapped in a bulky bandage. I still had an IV and was enjoying the hell out of every drop of Demerol I could wring from it, and relaxed and sleepy from the Phenergan. I thought how wonderful it would be to have a little narcotic pump implanted somewhere in my body, like the insulin pumps some diabetics used, that would just slip me a maintenance dose every little bit to keep this wonderful pain-free buzz going. Life would be so much better. So much easier. I wouldn’t even mind working at the nursing home. Might go back to school for my RN, finally. I could work out with weights like I used to...a soft tapping at the door, and Aloysius came in.

My eyes flew completely open for the first time since my arrival at the hospital, drinking him in. He looked as he had the first time I’d seen him—black suit, white-blond hair combed straight back and not one hair out of place, rigid posture—with the addition of a white sling on his right arm and dark Men-in-Black shades that he was apparently planning to keep on. I wanted to see his eyes so badly, but could make out none of their silver depths behind those black lenses. Jason, who’d been sitting silently, absorbed in Rin and Stimpy, took my hand and held it, looking at Aloysius like something he’d just wiped off the sole of his shoe. I squeezed his hand, signaling that he should keep his mouth shut, then released it.

Aloysius spoke and I was relieved to hear inflection in his voice. “I am glad to see you looking well, Kitty.”

“Thanks. Glad to see you...too.” With his pallor even more accentuated than usual, I couldn’t really say he looked well. But I could honestly say I was glad to see him. Had been dying to see him. I wondered fleetingly just how lousy I must look, then thought that it didn’t matter, since there was nothing I could do about it now.

“I wanted to let you know that the case is closed. The sheriff told me to thank you again for your statement. He is satisfied that what happened was self-defense.” I wondered what Aloysius’s eyes were saying behind those shades, wondered if he was satisfied that it was self-defense, and how he was dealing with it. Didn’t dare ask any questions in front of Jason, who had already voiced his opinion of the whole situation to the doctors, the sheriff, and anyone else who would listen. I prayed he wouldn’t do it again.

As though hearing my prayer and intent on disappointing me, he spoke up. “So, Pendergast. Were you sick the day the Academy did the chapter on not letting your crazy brother shoot the citizen you’re protecting?”

I didn’t have time to be mortified. Pendergast crossed the space between them in three long steps and had Jason by the shirtfront before I could feel anything. This time when he spoke, the only inflection in his voice was a snarl. “I have no patience for your mouth today. Close it.”

Jason’s slate-blue eyes met Pendergast’s icy silver-blue gaze. “Go ahead, G-man. Make my portfolio. Lay a hand on me and I’m gonna be so rich I’ll hire you as my butler.”

For a moment, nobody moved. I saw that neither of them had the good grace, or the good sense, to back down this time, so I did the only thing I could think of to do. I swooned, with a very convincing, ladylike moan, trying to look as pale, helpless, and near death as I possibly could, wondering if even that would get their attention.

It did. Aloysius released Jason, who hit the call bell and yelled, “NURSE!” for good measure. I felt Aloysius’s cool fingers on my neck, checking my pulse. Then Betty, the RN on duty, bustled in and started to shoo them both out. Afraid for them to hit the hallway together, I pretended to revive a bit.

“You all right, honey?” Betty asked. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’d love a Dr. Pepper,” I murmured faintly, knowing the hospital didn’t supply them.

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey, the hospital doesn’t have those, but they have them in the snack bar. Maybe your husband here could run down and get you one.” She looked expectantly at Pendergast.

“Yes, would you do that, Jason?” I spoke up quickly. “I’m really feeling nauseated and you know how something carbonated helps me with that.”

“Sure, I know what you need.” Jason looked askance at Pendergast, then allowed Betty, looking confusedly from one of them to the other, to propel him from the room as she hurried to her next patient.

Alone at last.

Chapter 15    table of contents  

Alone at last, and I didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, Pendergast did.

“I was planning to come and see you when you returned home, but since we have this opportunity, I will divulge the information I have now.” I was reminded of when he’d said similar words at the beginning of our ordeal, when he’d told me that the man I had to fear was his brother. His manner now was maybe even more impersonal and businesslike than it had been then, and for a moment I wondered if I had hallucinated the personal moments we had shared. Maybe a few Darvocet too many...

He drew a straight chair closer to the bedside, sat down, and crossed his legs with fastidious precision, taking an envelope from inside his suit jacket. “I made an interesting discovery while hacking information about you prior to coming here. It seems you are related to my attorney, whose name is...Joan Barrett.”

Surprise coursed through me, leaving that adrenaline-burst spasm in my chest that can either feel so good or so bad. I wasn’t sure yet which one this was. Joan Barrett had been the name of my sister. The sister I hadn’t seen in years. The sister I had believed dead ever since a while after we’d been taken from the children’s home by two different families.

We’d gone to live in the home, along with our brother Danny, when our parents had split up. Both were heroin addicts who had trouble making ends meet, what with drug prices increasing every day. They had fought over who would have to take us, to the point that the County had stepped in and made the decision for them. We’d lived at the home for two years before we were both adopted, leaving Danny there. I was five, just old enough to keep asking bothersome questions, and about a year after the adoption, I was told that my sister and brother had been killed in separate accidents, along with the families who had adopted them. A little too coincidental, maybe, but the story worked fine for a six-year-old and, having grown up with it in my head, I’d never really questioned it since.

Now Pendergast was telling me that my sister was his attorney? Talk about coincidence!

“It is no coincidence,” he said suddenly, surprising me again. “Diogenes obviously researched my attorney, probably intending to make her his intended victim, and found out about you. For some reason, targeting you amused him more. I decided not to tell you about your sister until your ordeal was over. You had quite enough on your mind, just knowing you had become a target.”

“My sister’s not dead,” I said, trying the words out to see how they felt. “I have a sister.”

“You have a brother, too.” He waited a moment to give me time to absorb it. “When I told Joan about you and she realized who you were, she hired someone to check all this out. He found your brother, Daniel, living in Austin, Texas. He owns a landscaping business there.”

A vague image of a tow-headed toddler holding a toy shovel coalesced in my memory. Digging in the sandbox, pulling up weeds and planting them in his “garden.” I laughed. “I’m not surprised by that, at least!”

“Joan also believed that her siblings were deceased. She has had a little more time to assimilate all this, so she asked me to give you her number and tell you to call her when you are ready. And now, I should proceed to the second matter I need to discuss with you.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a plane to catch this afternoon.”

My elation dimmed. He was leaving. Today. And he was still speaking to me almost like we’d never met before. Apparently I’d been right to be afraid.

He handed me the papers then and I blinked at the one on top, which seemed to be some sort of legal document. The situation and the Demerol made it rather difficult to take in. He saw that I was having trouble. “That is a deed to Bundy’s Gym, which now belongs to you. Mr. Bundy was most cooperative when we spoke on the phone yesterday. I called my attorney after our conversation, and she was able to get the paperwork expedited. You need no longer worry about whether the hot tub will be available.”

I knew I was giving him Vincent’s UFO look but couldn’t shut my mouth. On top of finding out I had a brother and sister, it was just too much. He waited a beat, saw that I had nothing to say, and continued. “I have hired a contractor to replace the things I broke, should you wish. You seemed quite worried about them.”

“I...I...” It was all I could manage.

“Let me ease your mind, Kitty. I came into some money recently; a great deal of money. It was an inheritance. For reasons I’d rather not go into now, it is important to me to use these funds for good causes. You are one such cause. You need a place to exercise, and a hot tub, and you need a new way to produce income. The gym should afford you all three. I understand it is a very lucrative enterprise.”

“I...I...” I wasn’t doing any better.

He stood up, replacing the chair in the corner. “I wish to thank you for your hospitality and to apologize for your injury. Thank you for nearly sacrificing yourself to Diogenes’ bullet. You are a very brave woman, and I am glad it did not turn out worse for you.” He spoke as though the little speech were rehearsed. “I am very sorry I was not able to do a better job of protecting you. I’m afraid I let my emotions cloud my judgment. It has happened before. A bad habit, but one I find very hard to...” I reached for his hand, clasped it in both of mine. “...to break.” His voice softened minutely.

“Aloysius...” I had recovered the power of speech but still didn’t know what to say. Unfortunately, he did.

“Kitty, I know we have shared some...rather special moments. They were special to me, at least. But I am not able to...to continue. Please forgive me. It is nothing you have done; it is my own...lack. My own...disability.” He seemed to want to add more, then gave up and asked, “Do you understand at all?”

“Yes, I understand. You’re giving me the old it’s-not-you-it’s-me routine.” Everything seemed to be pouring out of me...joy, laughter, strength, hope. Everything just poured out, leaving me sitting there as empty as a cow skull in the desert. The elation I’d felt after hearing about my brother and sister was gone. The wonder of owning my own business, of perhaps not having to endure almost unbearable pain on the concrete nursing home floors anymore, was gone. Everything was gone. I released his hand and sank onto the pillows, limp. “You don’t even care enough to make it original.”

“Kitty...I am so very sorry...”

“And I am sorry that you must return to New York to bury your brother,” I replied. “I am so sorry for the way things happened. I hope you will be all right. I know you are going through an awful, hurtful experience, and I want to help you through it. I want to...to be with you.” I glanced up at his hidden face. He said nothing, and I died a little more inside. “Logic requires that I at least say what I need to say to you, so I won’t always regret not saying it.” I forced myself to look at the shades again. “I love you. I know you find it hard to believe after such a short time together, and so do I, but I know it’s true. There is some connection between us...”

Suddenly I remembered what he’d told me in my meditation: “We have always been connected, Kitty.” And: “I need you, Kitty. Don’t let me go.” And what I’d told him:

“We...came here together this time. For a reason...a purpose...”

But what was I to do? Beg him? Just telling him about it would feel like begging. He probably wouldn’t even believe me. Still, it didn’t seem right not to tell him.

I sat up and reached for a notepad and pen beside the bed, wrote the words on it, tore it off, folded it, and handed it to him. “This is some information you gave me during your dream. Don’t look at it now. Take it with you.” I lay back and closed my eyes. “Take it with you and get out.”

“Kitty, I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way. This is just the way you want it. But it doesn’t matter. I mean, thanks for saying it. Thanks for everything.” I realized I still held the deed in my cold hands. “You can have this back. Thanks, but I don’t want it.”

“Kitty—”

“Just take it and leave.” I wanted to scream it but barely had the strength to whisper. “Just go.”

Déjà vu hit me. I’d said almost the same words to Jason a couple of years ago. Had it hurt this badly? No, I didn’t think it had, though at the time I thought I was going to die. Had I regretted it after the worst of the pain was over? No.

I kept my eyes closed, not expecting to hear him when he left. I didn’t.

Chapter 16    table of contents  

“What’s this?”

I opened my eyes. Jason stood by the bed, holding a Dr. Pepper and the deed to the gym. I closed my eyes again. He could read.

“Oh, shit fire! He bought you the gym?”

“I don’t want it.”

“Are you crazy? It’s just what you need.”

I opened my eyes and glared.

“I know I gave the guy a hard time, but this is killer. You took a bullet for him; it’s the least he can do. Kit, you are crazy if you don’t take it.”

“Jason, you don’t know...” And how could I tell him?

“Oh, no. Now I see.” He was looking at me closely. “You’re crazy, but it’s about him. Right?”

I took the fifth by not speaking at all.

“Kitty, I can see it in your eyes. I know what I’m looking at. I saw it there for me once, remember?”

“Jason, I’ll always love you.”

“I know that.” He sat on the edge of the bed, held the cold cup out. I sipped. He sipped, offered it to me again. We took turns drinking the soda. It did help, now that I really was nauseated.

“He’s gone, right? That’s why you look so...miserable.”

“Yes.” My voice broke slightly. “He’s gone.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I think he’s one crazy bastard.”

I smiled a little. “Thanks. It does. And he is.”

Jason laughed, as I’d hoped he would. I wondered how true my little joke was, after what had happened. I guessed I’d never know.

***


Jason took me home the next day, home to my little house and my dog and my pain, now that IV Demerol was only a pleasant memory. At least my injury had scored me some Vicodin, with a refill. I popped two of them and crawled into bed.

“You want to go to the hot tub?” He asked. Then, happily, “Your hot tub?”

“Fuck the hot tub,” I muttered. “I never want to see that place again.”

“What went on over there? Kitty, did he—”

“No, dammit! He taught me yoga! And I told you to leave that damn deed at the hospital!”

“Kitty, you’re—”

“Crazy! Yeah, okay, let’s stipulate that, shall we, so you can stop yapping about it.”

“You’re going to that hot tub.”

“I’m going to bed. Now get your ass out of here and let me sleep!”

I felt his eyes boring into the back of my head. “And stop staring at me!”

He hissed, muttered, and left the room. I tried to relax, took a deep breath, and cursed. My bedspread smelled like Aloysius. I turned over, pointing my nose at the ceiling. The whole damn room smelled like Aloysius. Not cologne or after-shave or sweat. Just pheromones. Psychic energy, maybe. Something. Or maybe it was just in my head and I would always think I smelled him in here from now on. I might have to sell the house.

Jason stopped outside the door. “I’m going home for a while. Call me if you need anything, all right?”

I looked at his slim silhouette and it blurred suddenly as tears stung my eyes. “Come here.”

He came, saw my face, and sat on the bed. Offered his arms, and I went into them gratefully. He kissed my hair, murmuring, “What a couple of fuck-ups we are.”

I giggled a little through my tears. “First rate.”

He held me until my nose was full of his scent and energy, and Aloysius had vanished. I pulled away slightly and looked at him. “You’re my best friend, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know that.” He kissed the end of my nose. “Will you be okay?”

I had no idea what I’d be, but I nodded. “Sure.”

“Okay, I’ll see you later this evening. I’ll beat your ass in Huggermugger.”

“You wish.”

“If memory serves me correctly, the current tourney score is three games to two.”

“In my favor.”

“Not for long.”

I smiled. He left.

I was alone in the silent house, which immediately started smelling like Aloysius again. “Maddie!”

She came on the run, standing expectantly by the bed, wagging up at me. Her doggie love shone in her big brown eyes, and I wondered if any other living creature would ever look at me that way. Maddie whined, sensing my thoughts, looking worried.

“Jump up here.”

She looked at me as though to ask, really?

I patted the bed. She jumped. I finally fell asleep with my arm curled around her, her breath warming the skin of my neck.

* * *


I awoke to a scramble and a bark. Maddie had jumped off the bed and was making for the front door. I sat up groggily, looking at the bedside clock. Four-fifteen. Twenty-four hours ago, Aloysius had been asleep on this bed and his brother had been headed our way. I’d been setting up bottles and cans, thinking we’d be ready for him. What a joke. Maddie returned, shame-faced. Apparently a false alarm. I noticed something on the bed, a little foil packet that must’ve fallen out of Jason’s pocket. A condom. He didn’t need them for me.

I fell back and hid my face in the spread, more depressed than I’d ever been in my life. My body ached all over, but that was nothing new. My heart ached, too, and no amount of Vicodin would fix that. My life stretched before me, empty except for pain and work and missing Aloysius Pendergast. Jason and his condom. I wondered who she was and if she knew how much time he spent with his ex-wife. She’d be unhappy when she found out, and that would be the end of my friendship with Jason. Yet I couldn’t be angry with him for needing what I could no longer give.

If I did keep the gym, I’d see Pendergast every time I walked through the door. I’d feel his hands on me every time I looked for relief in the hot tub. If I didn’t keep it, I’d keep beating the halls in the nursing home until I couldn’t take it anymore, which would occur in maybe a year, maybe two. Maybe not that long. Until then I could look forward to spending what part-time money I could earn on doctors to get a little white slip of paper that would get me maybe thirty little white dots of relief, with a couple of refills if I was lucky. Then I’d have to go back and pay through the nose again to get more. And hurt all the time anyway.

After our junkie parents, my new brother and sister would be overjoyed to find that they had one for a sibling. They wouldn’t want to be around me, either. The future loomed large, lonely, and endless. I was pretty healthy except for hurting all the damn time. I would probably live a long, painful life and die in a nursing home somewhere, alone, with no children to raise hell if I wasn’t looked after. I couldn’t see myself meeting anyone else, having another relationship with a man. Not after Aloysius. I couldn’t see myself ever wanting anyone else. He was too unique, too special. Nobody would ever come close.

I realized how dangerous my thought patterns were, and also realized I could do nothing about it. Not this time. I’d been living on the edge too long, on the edge of too much misery and too little hope. I’d been feeling like this too long, only that had been like a low-grade fever. Now I was on fire with anguish. For a long time, I’d felt my own mind slipping like a faulty transmission. For a long time, I’d had frequent spells of hazy, lightheaded confusion, where nothing really seemed real. Spells of feeling myself teetering on the edge of sanity. So far I’d just happened to fall back the way I’d come. I didn’t know how much longer that would last. So far I’d had Jason to bring me back, managing to act pretty much normal when he was around. But he wouldn’t be around for long, and he was my only really close friend. Constant pain was a drag, and people didn’t like being around it. Not being able to be counted on for social needs was another drag. Being down and depressed too often. People eventually drifted away. Maybe Aloysius had had second thoughts about being involved with such a wimp. Maybe there was someone else, and being away from me had reminded him how much better off he was with her. I thought about him holding another woman, kissing her, making love to her, and rolled off the bed. Tying to shake the vision out of my head, I almost keeled over.

My back felt broken, as usual, and I couldn’t stand completely upright. It would work itself out as I gimped my way through the house, as long as I had pain pills. Damn doctors acted like they were dispensing gold nuggets right out of their own stash. I looked around for something to do and saw plenty that needed doing but nothing that I felt like doing. My arm throbbed in time to my heartbeat. Took a bullet for the asshole. You’d think that would’ve earned me a few points. He could take his gym and cram it.

The phone rang and Dan Applewhite said, “Just wondering when you can make it back in. I wasn’t able to get the FMLA due to our policy for part-time workers. Er...I hate to remind you, but you’ve already exceeded our allowable sick days for the quarter, and I’m going to have to write you up.”

I mumbled something about next week and hung up. I was missing work altogether now, and, with a hole in my arm, would have more pain to look forward to when I returned. Now I’d be further behind with the bills and it would be a choice between keeping my truck and having pain medicine. It was usually a choice between something and pain medicine, and pain medicine always won. It had to win, so I could go back and work at all. I saw my life strung out before me as a list of things I had to do, none of them fun, none of them anything to look forward to. Just loneliness, and constant pressure and stress over money, over medicine, over work. My mind did what it usually did when it got on this track...it looked for a way out, and found the same one that always occurred to me. The only one. Suicide.

It had occurred to me for years, ever since illness had pretty much started making my decisions for me. I couldn’t control my life. Death was the only thing I could control, and I thought about suicide like an insurance policy that was always there to be cashed in if things got bad enough. Now I asked myself just how much worse they would have to be. I hadn’t wanted to do it because of my mother, then because of Jason, and even because of my dogs. I only had Jason and one dog left and he could take care of her and had presumably found someone to take care of him, or could find someone. I didn’t feel that I could stand living in such physical and emotional pain another moment without just losing what was left of my mind. Fear overcame me and I imagined what fun it would be, stuck here in the sticks without a vehicle to get to work or the grocery store, winter on the way, kerosene to buy, no Jason around to help out. I sat down at the kitchen table, shaking. I’d been in messes before, pretty much constantly for the last year, but not quite this bad. I’d always managed to find a way out. But now I had nothing the pawn shop would loan any money on, nothing to sell, nothing to cash in. Only a few Vicodin left and then I’d need a refill, which would take most of my cash. My bank balance was already negative again this month due to an unexpected dead battery problem. I thought about the woman in group who’d finally gotten her disability after waiting for years, giving up everything she had, becoming homeless, and finally undergoing several hospitalizations for depression and suicide attempts. “Attempts,” my ass. Too embarrassing, especially for a nurse. There would be no “attempts.”

I picked up the bottle of Vicodin and saw only four lonely pills. But they weren’t the only things Old Mother Hubbard had in her cupboard. I got up and rummaged in the cabinet behind the flour and sugar canisters, coming up with two more bottles, one half-full of Ambien, the other almost full of tramadol. Tramadol didn’t help my pain nearly as much as a narcotic, but I knew from the PDR at work that fourteen was supposed to be enough to kill me. I had more than that, and the Ambien to back it up. I wouldn’t even need the larger, easier to throw-up Vicodin. Not only that, I had a couple of Phenergan in another bottle that I could take about an hour before the other pills, to combat nausea so I could keep them all down. “Attempt,” my ass.

I looked at the clock. Thought about Maddie. Not a good time now. But tonight, after Jason left...that would be a good time.

***


“What’s wrong?” Jason asked, for the fiftieth time.

“Just the usual,” I answered. “I’m tired and hurting. Nothing new.”

He paused in the act of rolling the dice. “Do you want me to go?”

“I really need to crash,” I answered, noting that he looked a little relieved. The new girlfriend was probably waiting somewhere, thinking he was at work or something. “And take Maddie, would you? She might wake me up to go out or something.”

“Sure.” He moved around, collecting his jacket, his leftover pizza. Whistled for Maddie, who came on the run, knowing a ride was in the works.

He came over and kissed the top of my head. “Need help getting to bed?”

“No, I can make it.” I looked up at him, at his slate-blue eyes, his long blond hair, the familiar set of his lips and shoulders. I had loved him from the moment we met. I had known him from the moment we met. I thought of myself telling Aloysius that we’d come here together this time. He wasn’t the only one I’d come here with. I had simply recognized him, as I had Jason.

I pulled Jason down and kissed his mouth. He looked surprised. “What was that for?”

“Just for being you. For helping me out, as usual.” I couldn’t be angry at the man for needing what I would no longer give him. It was a miracle he’d stuck around this long.

He grinned and kissed me again, smacking loudly and foolishly. “I love you, Kit.”

“Love you, too. Good night.”

I made Maddie stand still for a hug and kiss, then they left, the only two creatures on the planet who loved me. I got painfully up from the kitchen table and began laying out my pills.

Chapter 17    table of contents  

I had twenty-three tramadol and ten Ambien. Enough to probably send two people to...wherever. I didn’t believe in what most people around me believed in—had never believed in a burning hell, but tended toward a different interpretation that I’d read about in books like A Course in Miracles, that this life was hell. It had sure seemed that way for the last few years. So I wasn’t worried about going to hell, but about coming back to it. Oh, well, maybe there’d at least be a different set of problems to deal with. I was too sick of the same old ones.

I laid out the two Phenergan last. Last hired, first fired. They’d go down the hatch first. Then, after they made me good and sleepy and I knew they were working, the others. I poured a glass of OJ to take them with, then thought better of it and poured half a glass of Coke. More nausea protection. I’d eaten a slice of pizza maybe an hour ago, so that should help, too. My main fear was throwing up enough of the pills to let the rest leave me alive but put me in worse shape than I was already in. Another good reason not to take Vicodin or Darvocet or anything with acetaminophen. An acetaminophen OD left one with a dead liver and a certain-death sentence that would take the body days to carry out, days of horrible sickness. Enough tramadol and Ambien would just stop respiration and that would be it. Of course, there was the possibility that I would know when I stopped breathing, would end up fighting for air, but it wouldn’t last long. I had taken enough tramadol in the past, when I couldn’t get narcotics, to make me wake up, gasping, when respiration had slowed too much, and that had only been a very few compared to what I was going to swallow now. There should be no problem.

I took the Phenergan and glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty. By nine-thirty I should be ready to take the rest. I glanced around, feeling extremely weird to know that tomorrow at this time I would be gone and my little house would still be here, same as ever. Jason would find me. Oh, no. I hadn’t wanted it that way. I had always planned to write snail mail to those few who might care what had happened...of course if they really cared they should be close enough to me to know what I was going through and should understand what had happened, but I’d always planned to write snail mail anyway, to say goodbye. I’d also planned a snail mail to the cops so they’d come out and find me before anyone else did. But I’d planned to time it when Jason was out of town with the band, too. Now I’d gone and screwed everything up. I could still leave a note for Jason, though. He probably wouldn’t be all that shocked to find me. He knew I’d thought about it for years and he even agreed that I had good reasons. He would believe I was better off. We shared something of a fascination with death and, at one time, had promised to come back, if possible, and let the other one know for sure that we were still around. Maybe I could keep that promise. That would be cool.

I found a pen and paper and sat down to write Jason a note. It was a relief to finally be able to do this without feeling too guilty; a relief to know that he had someone else.

There was really nothing to say that I hadn’t told him when he left. He would know why. I finally gave up and just wrote, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t take it anymore. See you in your dreams. Jason would know that meant I would visit if I could. I put the note in the middle of the kitchen table and set a salt shaker on it. Decided to just chill and meditate until the Phenergan took effect. Prayer might not be a bad idea, though, if God didn’t already understand why I was doing this, there was no reason to try to explain it. I lit the candles in the living room and sat down in the middle of the sofa, letting my body relax. Toes, feet, ankles, calves...a noise outside. A motorcycle? Definitely coming down my driveway.

Dammit.

I rose and peeped out the window, watching the one headlight bump over the rough places in the road. Slash had a cycle but wouldn’t be out here now. If he wanted Jason, he would’ve called him on his cell.

I thought about the ogre. Nah, he’d been scared shitless last time I saw him.

Diogenes?

Where had that come from? Corpses don’t ride motorcycles. I learned that in nursing school.

The cycle stopped in the yard, the headlight flicking off at the same time. The moon was waning, but I could make out a bulky figure removing a white helmet that gleamed softly. The figure was not quite bulky enough to be the ogre. I let the curtain fall back and decided to play possum. Maybe whoever it was would go away. They wouldn’t see the candlelight through the drawn curtains.

Sudden soft knocking on the front door, though I’d heard no footsteps on the porch. I grew still as a mouse, glad Maddie wasn’t there to make a fuss, feeling that breathless rush that comes from knowing someone you’re faking out is standing just a few feet away on the other side of a wall, and wondering why they can’t hear your guilty heart beating. More tapping. A furtive voice. “Kitty, it’s Pendergast.”

I gasped so loudly I was sure he’d heard it. I was right. “Kitty, open the door. It’s important.”

I closed my eyes. What now? He’d forgotten some of his wild boar? Maybe his condom? No, I was sure that hadn’t been there until Jason had joined me on the bed for a while. Only one way to find out what he wanted, but could I really bear to look at him again? In the end, I had to. I didn’t care what he wanted, or how badly it would hurt when he left again. I just had to see him. But I didn’t have to touch him. I went to the door and opened it. He stepped by me and closed it behind him.

I turned and beheld a stranger in a leather jacket, leather pants, and motorcycle boots. His hair was dark and long, past his shoulders, and didn’t look too clean. Neither did his mustache. He wore gloves that hid his long white hands, but must’ve had makeup on his face because it looked darker, almost swarthy. His eyes were the same, though older, somehow. Even more ancient. Still, there was something about him that had been missing at the hospital...an energy, a force, that hadn’t been there. Hadn’t been there, come to think of it, since he’d killed Diogenes. He seemed more full of life, like he had when we first met. Had he recovered from fratricide that quickly?

He began removing the disguise, starting with the wig, using the heel of his hand to brush his white hair back into place. Then the mustache came off. The gloves, the jacket. I saw that it was lined with material to make the wearer look bulkier. He wore a black tee shirt underneath. His sling was gone.

“You should still be wearing that sling,” I pointed out, noticing that he was having a lot of trouble using his right arm, surprised that it worked at all.

“That’s not my biggest problem at the moment,” he said, going to the window and moving the curtain an inch to look out. “Diogenes’ body is missing.”

I’d heard too many crazy things in my life to say, “What?” so I said, “When?”

“As of about two hours ago.”

“You didn’t call me!”

“I called the Sheriff’s Department. They’ve been watching the house until I could get here.”

“You rode here on...that?”

“No, I chartered a helicopter. That was waiting at the drop point, by special arrangement.”

I sat down on the sofa. “So you think he’ll come for me again.”

He turned from the window and looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time since arriving. I must not have looked too well, because suddenly he was kneeling on one knee in front of me, holding my hands. “I don’t know what he’ll do. I don’t even know if he’s alive. Someone else could’ve taken the body. But if he does show up, or is watching, I don’t want him to know I’m—Kitty...”

I met his eyes, the same beautiful silver-blue eyes I’d gazed into so many times, and my own eyes fluttered closed again. The Phenergan was working. I was going to sleep, whether I wanted to or not. You don’t argue with fifty milligrams of Phenergan. I needed to tell him. “I took some Phenergan. It’s knocking me out.” My chin touched my chest and I jerked my head back up woozily. “Good...good to see your eyes.” I felt his arms go around me.

“It’s all right, I’ve got you.” His voice was incredibly soft, incredibly gentle. “Go to sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

I remembered saying the same words, with the same inflection, to my dog, Bonzai, when they gave her the shot. On that happy note, I muttered, “Don’t touch me,” and passed out.

***


I opened my eyes to faint candlelight and thought that I’d fallen asleep before getting a chance to take the pills. Maybe it wasn’t too late. I didn’t have any more Phenergan, but if it hadn’t been more than four hours, it should still work for any nausea. I started to roll out of bed, and froze when I saw the dim figure sitting in the wingback chair. Then it hit me. Aloysius! And, maybe, on his heels, Diogenes. And, worse than that, my kitchen table was full of pills and a suicide note. I rose shakily, hoping he hadn’t been in there.

“How do you feel?” His soft voice melted through the darkness.

“Like I took two Phenergan and passed out. How do you feel?”

“I feel terrible. Kitty, I found the pills.” He looked terrible. One more burden of guilt.

Oh, crap.

“Well, don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t you. You were just the latest in a long line of disappointments.” He didn’t look any better. Good thing making him look better wasn’t my job. “I need something to drink.”

He followed me to the kitchen, and I noticed all the curtains had been drawn and my pills and note were missing from the table. I turned around. “Gimmee.”

“In that drawer.” He gestured to a cabinet.

I checked. It was all there. He hadn’t confiscated anything. I went to the fridge and poured myself a monumental glass of OJ. Phenergan, like most drugs, is very drying. I gestured and he shook his head. I asked, “You going to make some tea?”

“No.”

I was aware of his eyes, but not like I had been before. I knew I was being analyzed and classified, and gave not one teensy little shit. Once someone had hurt me enough, their opinion, like their desires, ceased to matter. I took center stage once more in my life. They were relegated to, if anything, part of the Greek chorus, and that I had never given one teensy little shit about. I stepped past him, heading back to the bedroom. He followed me. I stopped in the bedroom doorway. “Thanks for coming back, Pendergast. I really hope it proves unnecessary.” He opened his mouth, but I kept talking. “I’m going back to bed. Holler if anything happens, okay?” I closed the door in his face.

***


Some time later I awoke with the feel of a body pressed against mine in the dark. A hand hovered over my mouth, ready to press down if I made a sound. “It’s me,” he murmured. “Be quiet. I heard something.”

I was quiet. In the darkness, I could hear him breathing, feel his body heat. The indefinable Aloysius smell I’d worked so hard to rid myself of was once more pleasantly—very pleasantly—ensconced in my nostrils. A throb of desire coursed through me, for a moment obliterating the nervous tension between us, even the fear of whatever he’d heard in the dark. I sighed softly. Now I’d have to deal with wanting two men I wanted and would never have. At least this one wasn’t likely to stick around long. Nor was I, for that matter.

Suddenly I heard something, too. A board creaked overhead. Light footsteps pattered from the eastern wall of the house to the center of the ceiling, then stopped. Something thumped, then began a rhythmic, lighter, thumping noise. I relaxed. “That’s just Jimi Hendrix.”

“Pardon?”

“Jimi Hendrix. That’s what Jason named the possum who lives in the attic in the winter. It must be pretty chilly tonight. Jimi doesn’t usually come inside unless it’s near freezing.”

I felt his body relax, too, heard a light snort. “Why Jimi Hendrix?”

“Jason just likes Jimi Hendrix.”

We lay there listening to Jimi scratch. I heard Pendergast take a deep breath. “Kitty, I don’t blame you for being angry with me.”

“I’m not angry with you. I know you just did what you had to do. It’s okay.”

Surprised silence. Then, “I didn’t want to do it. I just—”

“Look, Pendergast, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. We all have our...eccentricities, or hang-ups, or whatever. We all do. The important thing is not to let someone else’s hang-ups ruin your own life, right? I mean, I have my own stuff to worry about. Like a predilection for suicide. So it’s important I don’t take on anyone else’s stuff, when I can’t even deal with my own yet. Too many people trying that already, usually to avoid dealing their own stuff.”

“You may be right.”

“I am right. You need to spend a couple weeks in group therapy. The first thing you notice is that almost everyone there has someone driving them crazy. They’d probably be better off if they could just dump the assholes who’re making them nuts.”

“I don’t know about that. I certainly dumped mine, or thought I had, and it didn’t seem to help.”

I couldn’t believe he’d come out with that, but it didn’t stop me from disagreeing. “You killed yours! Adding that guilt to whatever else you guys had going on...how could it have helped?”

I felt his hand on my hurt arm, gentle as a baby’s sigh. “You nearly died protecting me. It’s been a long time since I’ve witnessed such bravery.”

“Look in the mirror. You didn’t get all those scars running away from trouble.”

“Kitty...why did you do it?”

“I imagine for the same reason you would’ve done it for me, or anyone else. Because I could. Of course the fact that I love you didn’t hurt the cause.”

A soft sigh, as though of relief. His hand moved up my arm to my shoulder, my face. Turned it toward him. I said, “Don’t.”

His long fingers slid around my neck, lifting it slightly, turning my face up to his. I felt his breath on my lips and said it again. “Don’t.”

“Kitty...”

“I love you, Aloysius. I just don’t trust you.”

A long pause, ending with a deep, somewhat shaky breath. “With your feelings.”

“Right.” I took my own deep, shaky breath. “I’m sorry. You’ll never know how sorry. But I can’t bear any more pain. I just can’t. I’ve learned that it’s easier to be alone than to be with someone who has hurt me, someone I can’t trust not to do it again.”

“Kitty, everyone hurts everyone sometimes. You can’t live in a vacuum, spurning people you care about because they make mistakes.”

“Can’t I? Ask Jason.”

He hesitated, then got up fluidly and left the room without a word. I lay there, safe and secure and miserable. But not as miserable as I’d been when he’d visited me in the hospital, spoken to me like a stranger, and left me. Not that miserable.

Not ever again.

Chapter 18    table of contents  

The next morning I made my ablutions and opened the bedroom door to the sound of two male voices, Pendergast’s and Jason’s. I entered the kitchen to find them sitting and yakking like two buddies over cups of green tea. Sticky and Tricky. On the way to the kitchen, I passed the motorcycle, parked in the center of the living room.

“Good morning, Kitty,” they said, almost in unison, and I had to laugh.

“Good morning, boys,” I said, making for the fridge, and OJ.

Jason got up, came to me, and kissed my hair, gestured at Pendergast. “Imagine my surprise!” He gave it a little Steven Tyler inflection.

“Yeah, dude looks like a biker.” I told him of the disguise he’d missed. Pendergast was now wearing jeans again, which had probably been hiding under the leather pants.

“Sorry I missed it.” Jason sat back down and pulled out a chair for me between them. I shook my head and leaned against the sink.

“Kitty, I have to tell you something you may find upsetting.” This from Pendergast.

“Nooooooo! Upsetting? Not you!”

Jason grinned, then pulled his face back into a serious expression. “Listen to him, Kitty. He’s making sense.”

“What’d he do, offer you the motorcycle to side with him?”

“No, but come to think of it...”

Pendergast didn’t even look at him. “No.”

Jason looked back at me. “Seriously, Kitty. He told me what he found when he came in here last night.”

I glared at Pendergast. “Stoolie.”

He inclined his head. “I’m afraid part of my job is being a “stoolie” when I find someone about to kill themselves. The other part is to see that it doesn’t happen, if I can. Kitty, you’re going to have to go away for a while.”

Away? I knew what that euphemism meant. Away as, to the nuthouse. “Oh, no, you don’t! Just because I pissed you off—”

“I assure you, I am not “pissed off.” You’re a nurse. You’re a danger to yourself. Suicidal ideations. You know what that means. I took the same sort of pledge you took. I can’t just let you do it. What if you found one of your patients in a similar situation?”

The silver-tongued, silver-eyed devil had me there. “What if I told you I’m totally out of the mood now and planning to return to work next week?”

“I’d say that’s further proof that you’re crazy, since that job kills you and you own a gym,” Jason piped up.

I could’ve joyfully strangled him, adding homicidal ideations to my rap sheet. “Aren’t I lucky to have my future being planned for me by Agent Strangelove and the Condom Kid!”

Pendergast scrunched a little and I couldn’t help being glad to see it. He was beginning to look more like his old self. Amazing what finding out that one’s demented, murderous brother may still be alive could do for some people. But I knew that it was relief that he may not have killed Diogenes that really did it, and couldn’t blame him. It was truly amazing, what strange and awful things we weren’t blaming one another for.

Pendergast said, “Fortunately, I know of a wonderful hospital called the Feversham Clinic, in New York. It is not a psych hospital, but a medical facility. You will be safe there. They have some of the best complementary and alternative medical practitioners in the country, and they are well-versed in treating fibromyalgia and chronic pain.” He leaned forward. “I don’t think you’re mentally ill, Kitty. I think you’re worn out. One can only handle so much stress and pain before...one decompensates.”

The way he looked at me made me think he was copping a plea for his own “decompensation” at the hospital. I guessed that he was, and that it was a legit plea. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that I couldn’t trust him not to “decompensate” again. And I couldn’t take it again.

“And I suppose I’m to pay for this wonderful clinic of yours with the medical insurance I don’t have and the money I won’t be making.”

Pendergast shook his head. “You saved my life, Kitty, and added to your own pain and financial problems by doing so. It is my duty to pay for it and, as I told you before, it is not a problem.”

I must not have looked happy about it because he added, “Your alternative is a trip to your local hospital and involuntary committal to a state hospital for the usual thirty-day observation period.”

“You...rat.”

Again, he inclined his head. He was an honest, accountable rat.

“Listen,” I told him. “I have a lot of symptoms, and I know how to treat them. If I’m locked up somewhere with people who don’t, or won’t, I’m going to be even more miserable.” He was listening. “Sometimes I get these shocky, centipedes-in-cleats sensations that are so horrible I can’t lie still, much less sleep. But I do not need a sleeping pill when that happens. I need quinine.” Doctors had prescribed sleeping pills, refusing to understand that I could usually sleep fine when I wasn’t too miserable physically. I had come by my mistrust and dislike of most doctors quite honestly.

“I need a protein shake in the mornings, ideally, two a day, or my blood sugar drops and I really get suicidal,” I continued. “I don’t digest protein well at all. I don’t need some dietician telling me eggs will do.”

He nodded.

“I have to do my stretching every single day, preferably in a hot tub, and I don’t need to be too doped up or busy playing head games to do it.”

He nodded again. “They have wonderful facilities at Feversham, which you will be able to use at your discretion.”

“I need my pain pills. I don’t need some fool who’s never had pain trying to tell me it’s all in my head. Even if it is all in my head, it still hurts and the medicine still works, at least somewhat.”

“You’ll probably have more and better pain medication than you do now.”

I thought about it. I knew there were more symptoms I just couldn’t remember right now, but when they appeared, I would need my remedies for them. Bring trapped in a place where one needed a doctor’s order to get a gas pill was extremely scary for me. One reason I’d gone to nursing school was to learn to treat my plethora of symptoms without having to run to a doctor every five minutes.

Pendergast seemed to read my mind. “I depend on Feversham quite a bit, myself; therefore, I am somewhat instrumental in seeing that it operates in the black each year. You will have a cell phone with you. You may call me at any time, if anything is not to your liking, and I will call the Director.”

Jason shook his head in awe. “You can’t get a better deal than that, Kit.”

I finished my OJ, rinsed my glass, put it in the dish drainer, and turned to leave the room.

“Where are you going?” Again they spoke almost in unison, Tweedledum and Tweedledim.

“To pack. I assume I’m leaving today.”

Chapter 19    table of contents  

I hadn’t been too surprised to see the Brothers Grim sitting together, planning my cheerful reawakening over cups of green tea. Jason had that rosy glow and grin about him that I knew meant he’d been well-laid the night before, condom or no condom. The better to dim any residual jealousy over his ex-wife. He was back to hero-worship mode, ready to do whatever Big Daddy Pendergast suggested to get poor Kitty back on track.

Pendergast had that added pallor that meant he’d been “very comfortable, thank you.” No sleep. I understood where he was coming from. One couldn’t just sit back and watch a citizen, any citizen, bite the big one, whether at the hands of one’s crazy brother or in the throes of her own good sense, as evidenced by wanting to get the hell off this confusing, hurtful planet as soon as possible.

And this Feversham Clinic might not be too bad, if they really had hot tubs and good dope. Worth a shot, anyway, but God help Pendergast if I found out he was full of it. What I would try to do to him would make what he did to Diogenes look like rocking a baby.

I perused my limited wardrobe, wondering what one wore to a head-shrinking. Jason’s voice behind me made me jump. “Since I know I’m not Agent Strangelove, I guess I’m the Condom Kid. You found it, didn’t you.”

I turned to face him. “Yep.”

He looked aggrieved. “Kit, I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about!” I went to him and put my arms around him. He returned the embrace and it was like settling into a comfortable chair that one has owned, and loved, for years. “You need someone to...someone to be with. I just hope we can stay friends.”

“Of course we can.” He hugged me harder, then pulled back a little to look down at me. “Unless Agent Strangelove has a problem with it.”

“Agent Strangelove has nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, come on, Kit. I see how you look at him. And how he looks at you. If ever two people had unfinished business—”

“Except for the business at hand, our business is finished.”

“Kitty, don’t. Don’t do it again. You need someone and I can’t imagine a better someone, if only because he’s obviously loaded and you shouldn’t be working.”

“You know I never base anything on stuff like that.”

“I know, but maybe you should.”

“Anyway, I don’t have to. I already know that I love him.” It felt good to be able to tell Jason without worrying about hurting him. “I’m just...afraid.”

“I know. Shit, I know that better than anybody. But do you want to be alone forever? Anybody could hurt you. I don’t think he did it on purpose, or would do it on purpose. Whatever else he is, he’s sincere as hell.”

“I know. But I almost took a handful of pills last night because of the nudge he gave me. That reaction wasn’t his fault, but I can’t afford to chance another nudge. I know it wasn’t just because of him, and he didn’t mean to do it, or couldn’t help it, but still...” My voice trailed away with nothing solved.

Jason had an odd look on his face. “It’s really strange for us to be talking about seeing other people...being in love with other people, though I wouldn’t go that far myself, not yet anyway...I just never thought...”

“Me neither.” A sudden mind’s-eye vision of him the night we stayed in the mountains, holding out the miniscule diamond, eyes shining, making an obviously rehearsed speech about how he’d thought he’d been in love before but now knew that this was love, the real thing. And it had been. Still was. Just...different.

Jason kissed my forehead. “I gotta go. Listen, I have the number of this clinic and the cell phone you’ll have and I’ll be checking on you. Anything wonky, and I’ll be up there to get you before you can say...whatever.”

“Okay, but that takes too long.” I hugged him for another moment, then let him go.

***


I was dressed and almost packed when Pendergast tapped on the open bedroom door and stepped in. I glanced at him, tall and slim and somehow lethal in the black tee and jeans, and my body responded by breaking into gooseflesh all over. I didn’t know if that was a good sign or not. He stopped by the wingback chair, putting a hand on it like a kid with a security blanket. “Almost ready?”

“Yes. Hey, where is this place, anyway?”

“Upstate New York.”

I grew still, hearing Axl Rose’s voice on Paradise City: “So far away...so far away...” It was far away, and scarier because of it. “How will I get there?”

“By helicopter. It’s on its way.” He paused. “I’m going with you, if that’s all right.”

Not only was it all right, I wanted to throw my arms around him. I settled for a smile. “Sure, the more the merrier. Hey, think we’ll get two-for-one psycho rates?”

He scrunched a little. “I don’t see why not. I’m one of their regular psychos. Anyone I recommend should qualify.”

We eyed one another, our eyes speaking volumes, leaving even more unspoken. He said, “Joan’s office is in New York City. Perhaps she will come up to visit you after a while, should you wish.”

“Maybe later. After I get settled in.” I did a turn, looking around my familiar bedroom, thinking that soon I’d be in a strange place, with strangers who could tell me what to do. The thought was a very unsettling one.

“Kitty.” He stepped close to me and took my hands. “Don’t be frightened. I would never take you anywhere, or do anything...” His voice faded as though he remembered suddenly that he’d already done something. He started over. “I would never intentionally do anything to hurt you.”

“I know, Aloysius.” I wanted to hug him, to feel his strong body and presence as closely as possible. Well, we could be friends. Friends hugged all the time. I took a step and put my arms around him. Slowly, his arms came up and clasped me to him. We stood that way, my head against his chest, feeling his head resting lightly on top of mine. I felt the soft rhythm of his breath, pressed a little harder against him and felt his heartbeat. He was only human. Only a man. Not perfect. It wasn’t fair for me to expect perfect. But I wasn’t perfect, either, and our combined imperfections might mean my life. I knew this, and yet I could not pull away.

One of his hands left my back, hesitated, and came to rest warmly on the back of my head. He stroked me there, from the back of my head, down over the ends of my short hair, onto the hypersensitive skin on the back of my neck. Again. His other hand drew me closer to him.

I remembered the massage, and the gym. His warm hands on my back, his lips on mine. On my breast. His beautiful smile when I’d said I loved him. His disingenuous routine when I’d been talking about the owner of the gym. His rehearsed little presentation when he’d given me the deed. I slid my hands over the thin tee-shirt material and felt the welts branded into his back. I wondered what that Vietnamese baby would say about Pendergast if he or she were here now. What its mother would tell me to do. Not too hard to figure that one out. Emotion made my breath hard to draw, brought tears to my eyes. As much as I had loved Jason, still loved him, I had never felt this way. Never even knew it was possible. But the very strength of my love was what made it so dangerous. This close to him, I felt I couldn’t live without him, and that might end up being all too true.

I stepped away from him and picked up my small suitcase. “Let’s go.”

***


“Why did you do it?” From her place on the sofa in my luxurious suite, my sister Joan had just asked the million-dollar question. I had known she would ever since agreeing to a visit during my second week at the clinic, but had yet to come up with a satisfactory explanation. Satisfactory to me, anyway. I settled for, “A lot of reasons. Mostly just because I’m tired of being sick and in pain. It seemed like everything good turned to crap. Meeting Aloysius certainly did. Even finding out about you and Danny...I didn’t think you would want a junkie for a sister.”

“How could you think that? You—you don’t know me.” Joan bit her lip as tears filled her eyes. “Kitty, I understand more than you might think.” She sighed. “I suffer from clinical depression. I’ve been on antidepressants since I was sixteen. Thanks to them, and therapy, I’ve done well enough—but sometimes I’ll just be in that dark place for a few hours. I know that I’ll get out of it, but if I didn’t.... I’m as dependent on my drugs as you are on yours.”

I looked into her eyes, so like my own. “I’m sorry, Joan. I’m so sorry for selling you short that way.”

She wiped her eyes and suddenly turned all business. “Tell me about this Pendergast thing. What happened?”

The other million-dollar question. I did my best to relate the strangeness of our immediate attraction and his quick fade after thinking he’d killed his brother. I didn’t mention his attempt later at...what? Reconciliation or just sex? I didn’t mention it because I didn’t know which it had been.

Joan frowned. “Kitty,” she said, slowly, “I’m going to have to excuse myself for a minute.”

“You’re going to call Pendergast, aren’t you.”

“I am.”

“Joan, you don’t have to—”

“Kitty, you’re my sister and he’s my client. I do.” Joan stood up, then sat back down. “I suppose I might as well let you listen in.” She pulled a phone out of her jacket, pressed a few buttons. “Pendergast?” She paused. “Yes, there is—with you. I just heard from Kitty that you abandoned her. Are you out of your mind?”

“Don’t give me that half-insane crap, Pendergast. I’ve known you for twenty-odd years and you’re not a danger to yourself or others. With the exception of serial killers and other criminals against humanity.”

“Jesus Christ, Pendergast, you’re human. We’re all liable to snap.”

“Well, you were wrong.”

“Yes?”

“She doesn’t know I’m calling you. I’m in the bathroom.” Her voice grew softer. “She’s doing well, considering.”

“I haven’t asked, but she doesn’t look as though she’s in pain, although she could be really good at disguising it.”

“I will.” A long pause. “I don’t know if she will or not. I’d suggest being completely honest when you apologize, though.”

Another long pause. “Yeah. Uh, it’s been a few minutes, I need to go.”

“Take care—and Pendergast? Maybe you should have someone else deliver the killing blow next time.”

“Bye.” She closed her phone and exhaled.

“Well?”

“He’s deeply sorry and ashamed for falling apart when you needed him. As well he should be. And—he’s worried about you. He was worried about you when he left—he told me that’s why he left. I’ve known Pendergast for twenty years, and—I guess I can share this with you—ten years ago, his wife died under rather mysterious circumstances. Since then, he’s suffered from a major-league guilt complex and a near-inability to share his emotions with others. So after he thought he killed Diogenes, he realized that he’d snapped, and he thought you’d be better without him. I don’t think he was capable of thinking clearly at the time.” Joan sighed. “There are very few things that Agent Pendergast can’t do well. One of those is apologizing.”

”He did apologize right before he left me in the hospital. He said it wasn’t anything I had done, that it was his own disability. I had a feeling he was feeling so guilty about killing his brother that he just couldn’t deal.”

Joan nodded. “Guilt’s probably why he ditched you in the first place—guilt and fear. For the past year or so, Diogenes has been killing, or trying to kill, Pendergast’s friends and associates—or, in your case, his attorney’s sister. So Pendergast probably feels that he’s partially responsible for Diogenes coming after you. And considering just what he did to Diogenes—I think he fears what he became in that moment, and he’s worried about what he could become.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t trust him?”

“No. But I’m not telling you to trust him, either. In fact, I don’t think that you can trust anyone not to hurt you. I think the only thing you can do is trust that they’ll try not to hurt you, and to apologize if they do. And I don’t think you’re in a place right now where you’re capable of that.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “What, you’re also a psychologist?”

“No, but I’ve spent a good portion of my life in their offices.” She looked at her hands, then burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“It’s just so goddamn absurd, so—” and she started crying. She grabbed my hand. “Kitty, I thought I’d never see you again, and now...” For a moment I thought she was going hysterical. I thought about calling the nurse, but then Joan looked up. “I’ll be okay, Kitty. It’s just—it’s just a lot to process, you know?” She rummaged through her purse, came up with a tissue, blew her nose. Loudly. “This is... God, I can only imagine what you must be going through. I have the urge to make a joke, or something, but I don’t know how you’d feel about...”

“It’s the only way I’ve kept from killing myself. Shecky Barrett.” I admitted. “Seeing life as a massive cosmic joke.”

“Wait a minute. You’re called Shecky too?”

“It’s what I call the crazy part of me that insists on becoming a stand-up comic when things get weird.”

“I was named that by the senior partner at my law firm when I was first starting out. I had a bad habit of writing sarcastic comments about opposing counsel when taking notes during trials, and one day Bernstein caught me writing down uncomplimentary notes about the assistant DA, or rather, his hairpiece. It stuck.”

“What was so bad about the hairpiece?”

Joan giggled. “It always looked as though it were about to take flight. I think I once won a case against him just because the jury was too distracted by his toupee to listen to his closing arguments.”

“I think I once had a boss with the same hairpiece. You think he bought his ’piece in my neck of the woods?”

“I think this guy was from Jersey. Maybe there’s a chain of really, really bad toupee stores.”

I pictured a country full of small shops, each wearing its own little dog-turd brown, shingle toupee, and had the best laugh I’d had since checking into the funny farm. Joan started snorting, too, and we laughed together. When she got up to leave, I asked her one final question:

“Joan, do you trust him?”

She paused. “I don’t think he’ll abandon you again. But the way that he snapped when Diogenes shot you... Although, you know, I don’t think he’d react that way if Diogenes had shot me, or if anyone else had shot you, for that matter. For what that’s worth.”

“So you’re saying that once Diogenes is dead...”

“He’ll probably be the most normal he’s been in a decade. Not that I’ve ever known him to be what most people would consider normal.”

That I could certainly agree with.

***


The Feversham Clinic was all Pendergast had said and more. I felt better than I had in years, but didn’t know how much of it could be attributed to just not pounding concrete floors and bending over a patient every five minutes. I had enjoyed good meals, good meds, the best in exercise equipment, and hot tubs and massages galore, and was not in any pain when I went for my walk, the daily walk I took around the grounds with the extra security Pendergast insisted on providing. Diogenes still hadn’t turned up, alive or dead.

I nodded to security, a tall, bearded guy that I hadn’t seen before, and started down the path to the woodsy area near the edge of the grounds. I loved the woods; the musty smell of old leaves, the wet, earthy undertone, the green of the moss. I would’ve preferred to walk here alone with my thoughts but couldn’t help appreciating having security when I entered the shadows under the huge old trees. I thought about Diogenes, about the wild intelligence in his eyes, the sensual sneer on his lips. How different from his brother’s coolness, and caring. I pulled out the cell phone and hit the memory key that rang Pendergast’s.

“Yes.”

“Hey. I just wanted to thank you for the millionth time for all this splendor.” I really just wanted to hear his voice. Since my talk with Joan, and her talk with him, I was feeling better about the whole deal. Anything or nothing could still happen. I found myself rooting for anything. I was finding that not being in pain all the time did wonders for one’s courage. I might actually have a little courage again...maybe even enough to try to handle loving Aloysius, which I would be doing anyway, because I couldn’t help it.

“Kitty.” I loved the way he said my name, like he’d been waiting for my call all day. I hoped he had. “How are you?”

“I’m great! It’s amazing what a little luxury can do.” I noticed that the security guard was closer than he had been, and turned away for a little privacy. “Aloysius...I’m looking forward to your visit.” He was coming to visit me for the first time at the end of the week.

“So am I. Three more days.” A pause. “How was your visit with Joan?” There was an undercurrent to the question and I figured he was wondering what she’d said about him.

“Great! She said she’d known you for a long time, and that I shouldn’t mind that nose-picking habit too much. Nor the foot sniffing. Said you only do it when you’re nervous.”

“Indeed.” I could hear the scrunching.

“Indeed. Oh, she also mentioned that little women’s underwear thing, but I actually like that. Gives me all kinds of ideas for Christmas and birthdays.”

A strong arm snaked around my waist and suddenly I was locked in a vise grip. A hand stroked the back of my neck. “Shhhh. Be very quiet, and I won’t break it.”

I knew that voice.

Diogenes plucked the cell phone from my limp fingers. “Ave, frater. I thought I’d check up on our Kitty, see that she’s being treated well. She does look marvelously rejuvenated.”

I imagined how Aloysius felt upon hearing that voice, and my eyes welled with tears of pain for him. Whatever Diogenes did to me, knowing that it would destroy his brother would hurt me much more.

“Now, there’s no need for that kind of dramatizing. I assure you, she will be in good hands. All night tonight. And then...who knows? Perhaps she is the one I’ve been searching for all these years. I’m sure you understand that sentiment.” He stroked my neck and I shuddered. “You know how I admire your taste in women.”

He listened, then laughed. “You have no idea how much it pleases me to hear you beg, but I must sign off now. Places to go, kitties to do. Au revoir.”

He threw the phone into the bushes and pushed me toward the fence at the edge of the property. “Let’s go, my sweet. This beard is beginning to itch, and the contacts and appliances are most uncomfortable. I do hope you will be worth all this discomfort.” He licked my cheek, kissed my eye.

I wished for death then like never before, but my heart, encased now in a block of ice, continued to beat.

***


Credit for writing most of the scene with Kitty and Joan goes to Ceruleanshipper, who alerted me as to why Diogenes might’ve targeted Kitty in the first place, since Kitty had the same last name as her character in “The Advocate’s Tale”.

Chapter 20    table of contents  

Beautiful silvery eyes watched me as I enjoyed my first helicopter ride, even if it was to the nuthouse. I’d thought I might be scared, but I was just exhilarated. Found myself wishing the ride wouldn’t end, that I could just go on soaring and swooping and have this feeling of freedom forever.

But it had ended, and the eyes had darkened with pain, then left me alone with strangers. Nice strangers, though. They seemed to fear, or perhaps revere, the mind behind those eyes. In my comfortable, foreign bed that first night, how I had longed for him.

Days of talking, talking, talking, and exercising, relaxing, and more talking. Talking with doctors, with shrinks, with a group of other people similar to those I’d left back home, with their own seemingly unsolvable problems. Nobody had much to say to me about solving mine; mine were not caused by a power-tripping husband or a love-withholding mother. Mine were physical, and nobody seemed to have the audacity, or the expertise, to try to tell me much about how to handle the pain. But the doctors were helping with it. I liked the Feversham Clinic. Like the helicopter ride, I found myself wishing it would not end. Not if it meant just returning to my previous drab, painful existence.

But it had ended, hadn’t it? It had already ended, and I had not returned to my previous existence, but to...to...my eyes flew open and I was aware that I had graduated to something far worse. Handcuffed to something from trussed on the floor of the van, dry-mouthed from whatever drug he’d injected me with, I could crane my neck and just make out the back of Diogenes’ ginger head as he sat in the driver’s seat. The van rocked slightly, the vibration of wheels on pavement like the low hum of a swarm of bees. I was being taken to a place where I’d be taken. Against my will, and probably in the most degrading, painful ways imaginable. I would probably not survive it. I hoped I wouldn’t survive the first five minutes. Oh, why hadn’t I made love with Aloysius when I had the chance? Now instead of his gentle touch, I would know only the cruel hands and demeaning demands of a monster. Nausea threatened, and I fought it, knowing I’d be in big trouble if I threw up while gagged.

The van stopped and Diogenes got out, opening the side door a moment later. When he lifted me, I was again reminded of Aloysius—the startling strength, the almost violent, controlled movements. He carried me over his shoulder, right hand on the back of my thigh so he could carry a valise in his left hand. I remembered that Aloysius had damaged his brother’s right arm, and noticed he was limping on his left leg. I thought to attack him somehow, to try to use his injuries to my advantage, but my limbs were numb from the drug. I hoped my entire body was numb and that my brain would soon follow.

I tried to look around and get some sense of where we were, where we were going. I could get a glimpse of dirty brick walls, piles of debris, and one doorway that looked like it might have been bombed, complete with yellow stay-away tape. We had apparently relocated to a very different part of the city, or to a different city altogether. I had no idea how long I’d been out.

He leaned over and I felt myself falling, clutched reflexively at his shoulders, to no avail, and ended up flumping down onto something soft that smelled of age and dust. Now I could look around. I was on a mattress on the floor of a small, dim room. One dirty window on the opposite wall let in an anemic, jaundiced beam of light that suggested late afternoon in hell. For all I knew, that’s where we were. The company was certainly apt.

“Sorry to bring an elegant lady to such horrid quarters,” Diogenes smirked, setting down his valise and removing my gag. “I was pressed for time.”

“I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but lady has rarely been one of them.” I tried to stare him down and those brilliant, cold, mismatched eyes gave me a headache. “Save the snappy repartee, okay?”

“Now, Kitty.” He stepped over to the mattress, forcing me to look almost straight up. He looked a hundred feet tall. “There’s no need to be testy. We will be together for some time, and there’s no reason it cannot be pleasant.”

“I can think of several reasons.”

He squatted suddenly, hand going to my throat, pressing just enough to suggest the damage he could do. Up this close, looking into his eyes was like staring into blue and green blast furnaces. They were beautiful in their fury. “Did you enjoy watching my brother kill me?”

“No, actually, I didn’t.”

He studied me, and the feeling of being analyzed and cataloged was the same as when his brother did it. I wondered if either of them knew how very alike they were.

“You didn’t enjoy it? Why not?”

“I was afraid of what killing you would do to Aloysius.”

“Ah, yes, he does have that vulnerable, guilt-ridden persona going for him, doesn’t he? Women find that irresistible. They want to fix him. To mend him, like an old sock. Is that what you want, sweet Kitty?”

I sighed. I really was too tired for conversation, too disgusted and angry for caution. “No, I just want to fuck him.”

I had the satisfaction of seeing Diogenes Pendergast momentarily flabbergasted, a sight I was sure few had ever been privy to. He laughed, a genuine, infectious, from-the-gut laugh, and, hearing it, one could almost imagine him as he might’ve been had his brain chemicals brewed differently. I wondered what the man might’ve been capable of, what heights he might have attained in his chosen field, had he not been insane.

“I wonder if my dear, pious brother has ever heard you say that word.” Diogenes knelt before me on the mattress. “I do not believe he would appreciate it. Not like I do.”

He touched me again, this time gently, on the bandage on my arm. “I did not mean for this to happen, Kitty. I do not like to...waste women.”

Somehow I knew he wasn’t using the word waste as slang for “kill.” The way he was using it was worse. I kept quiet.

“But back to the subject of my brother. I do not believe that you want just to fuck him. No. I believe you fancy yourself in love with him.”

I snapped. “So what? What if I do? What difference does it make? It’s just another one of God’s big cosmic jokes! Let the stupid little pseudo-invalid think something good has happened, then yank it away! So much better than just letting her maintain her miserable status quo, let’s kick it up a notch! No, two notches, bring on the crazy brother! I’m sure you understand such torture!”

He seemed a little taken aback. “No, actually I don’t. I have never understood God’s cosmic jokes, of which I am one.”

I must have looked surprised. He continued. “Surely you don’t think I have lived all these years without realizing that I am somewhat...different.”

“That would surprise me, given your intelligence.”

He inclined his head slightly and again I was struck by his likeness to Aloysius. “Thank you.” What a mother these guys must’ve had. Even the murderous, crazy bother was unfailingly polite. When performing dissections on live victims, he probably laid out his cutlery in just the right pattern. Emily Post would be proud. I almost snorted but managed to keep it to myself.

“Would it surprise you to learn that your beloved Aloysius is directly responsible for my, shall we say, uncommon tastes?”

“Yes it would, since I don’t believe one person could possibly influence another in that direction. Not to the point of action, anyway.”

“Well, dear Kitty, you may be right about that. But Aloysius did not influence me himself. He forced me into a situation that...I cannot begin to explain it. An insanity machine invented by a relative...a cruel child forcing his little brother into its maw...I don’t know that you can even believe such apparent science fiction, or why I’m bothering to tell you, for that matter.”

“I believe you. I don’t understand what you’re talking about, but I believe that something happened.”

He looked mildly surprised. “And why, pray tell, is that?”

“Because of your brother’s reaction to your...death. Did you know that thinking he’d killed you nearly drove him over the edge? That finding out you may not be dead seemed to rejuvenate him somehow?”

“Ah! And I supposed you are attributing those reactions to brotherly love. Let me assure you, nothing could be further from the truth. If he reacted at all, it was simply due to guilt. The guilt that comes from knowing he made me what I am.”

I looked up at him. “Are you trying to tell me that you have no choice?”

He leaned toward me. “I am telling you what caused me to be this way. I am not saying I don’t enjoy it.”

I shrugged. “At least you’re honest.”

He remained silent, causing me to wonder what was going on behind those eyes. Wondering made me very nervous. I didn’t have to wonder long.

He reached out and touched my face, stroking my cheek gently. I tensed, expecting a slap or pinch to follow. It didn’t. I forced myself to look into his eyes. “Kitty...I wonder how your ordeal has changed you. I wonder how you will be different.”

A sense of unreality made me light-headed. I was getting used to that feeling. “Different from the other women you’ve raped and murdered?”

“Yes.”

That honesty thing sucked. The least I could do was reciprocate. “I’ll probably be different because I really don’t give a damn. I was beginning to hope for...for something good. Now hope is gone again, so I really don’t care what happens. Your killing me will just save me the trouble, and whatever spiritual ramifications there may be for suicide. I just hope...and I realize that telling you this might be a colossal mistake...I just hope there won’t be a lot of pain. I’ve had enough pain.”

His head was cocked a little to one side, like a dog hearing a strange noise. When he spoke, his voice had morphed from a strong, confident timbre to a murmur. “I will do my best to...restrain myself.”

I nodded, thinking that nobody in the history of the world could ever have had such a strange conversation. I wondered if he saw us as simpatico. Fine with me. He could think what he wanted, if it translated into less pain, less time spent dying. I was ready to go, and was actually somewhat relieved to have this way out, to not have to do it myself, but I still dreaded the pain.

He rose slightly and took off his jacket. “And now, I’m afraid, it is time.”

My blouse and long skirt suddenly seemed even more flimsy than they were. I knew what he meant, but I tried to stall. “Time for what?”

His eyes regained some of their mocking intensity. “You know what, precious.”

I was terrified, suddenly and completely. Of his strength and his obvious virility, but most of all, of the cold, analytic curiosity I’d seen in his eyes earlier. He had the eyes of a vivisectionist. If I could only warm those eyes again, just a little...get him to see me as a person, as I believed he had for a moment...if only I knew what it was about myself that made total strangers tell me their life stories and confide things they didn’t tell their closest friends. What the hell was it? And how could I use it now? I had no idea.

Someone had once ventured the opinion that it was simply because I was stupid enough to stand still and listen, and I thought maybe that was true. Desperately, I said the first thing that came to mind. “Growing up with a name like Diogenes...it must’ve been hard.”

His hand, which had been on its way back to my cheek, stopped. He withdrew it. “It was, for a time. Fortunately, after I had my...reawakening...it became a name that struck terror into the hearts of my fellow students. The fact that it was unusual seemed to terrify them all the more.” He smiled.

“Why are you smiling?”

“I’m remembering how it felt to realize that I did not have to be the strongest, nor the fastest, nor the largest; nor even the most intelligent, though I always was...only the meanest. The most cruel. How often I have seen that over the years...that the most powerful one in any given situation is often simply the cruelest.”

“What you are saying is that whatever Aloysius did, he did you a favor.”

His eyes brightened a bit. “Perhaps he did. But that does not mitigate my hatred of him.”

“He does not hate you.”

“You are wrong about that, sweet Kitty. Just as you are wrong in thinking you can appeal to my need for attention and listen your way out of what is to come.”

Dammit. So I couldn’t avoid it. But maybe I could speed it up, make him so angry he’d kill me outright. I took a deep breath, reminded myself how sweet and peaceful death would finally be. “Well, let’s get it on then.” I swung at his face suddenly and connected solidly with his jaw, surprised when the blow rocked him backward, even more surprised at my glee when I saw it. “Whoo hooo, that must’ve hurt like a pure bitch!”

His eyes flashed and I saw his hand begin a lightning-fast retaliation that might’ve killed me. He caught himself in time, though. Caught himself and smiled at me, my red handprint still darkening his cheek. “A very good try, my love. But—” He threw himself at me and suddenly I was pinned beneath him, pinned so hard and fast that I could barely even shake my head. “—unsuccessful.”

He used his weight and his good left hand to incapacitate me so well that his right hand could remain free, and he used it to stroke my face, my throat. I managed to move my head enough to snap at it like a rabid poodle. He yanked his hand away and I struck like a snake, sinking my teeth into his jaw. He cursed. I held on, feeling blood pouring into my mouth and down my chin. It tasted like I had a mouthful of warm pennies. What would the nursing board say about this? No bloodborne pathogen precautions here!

He hit me then, just a light punch to the stomach, but it was enough to make me let go and double over, gagging. He moved away slightly, waiting for me to come up, and when I did, I came up laughing. “That’s all you got? I have ninety-year-old patients that hit harder than you do!” I saw my teethmarks in his jaw and laughed harder. “And you bleed like a mad bastard! I guess that’s appropriate though, right? You are a mad bastard!”

His face was darkening like the sky just before a summer storm. Lightning flashed in his eyes. “You would do well to curtail the noise, my dear, lest I gag you with your own scalp.”

“Oh, you’re so funny! Such evil words spoken in such a poetic way. Satan meets Shakespeare!” Inspiration struck. “What Aloysius said about you was certainly right on the money!”

About to strike me again, he tensed. “What did he say?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know!” I couldn’t believe myself, sitting here playing third-grade brat games with a maniac.

“Yes. I would.” He grabbed me by the throat, again forcing me down, using his body to pin me. “And you’re going to tell me.”

“Nope.” Could I really be enjoying this? Giving yourself up for dead was so freeing!

“Yes, you will.”

“Nope, not gonna.”

“Tell me, or I’ll—”

“Kill me? Go for it, Gomer. Did you miss the part about how I don’t give a shit?”

“You will before it’s over. You will beg for death.”

“I’m begging now. Will you please stop boring me to tears and just kill me already?”

“You will suffer greater agony than—”

“Than what? Dragging my ass to work on a more or less regular basis with over thirty patients to care for, most of whom feel better than I do, making two- and three-hour med passes, running my ass off, hurting til I lock myself in the bathroom and cry, and knowing all I have to look forward to is years of the same damn torture? Can you beat that? Whatever you do to me, it’ll have to end sooner, so the answer is a resounding NO.”

“Very well.” He held me down with one hand, grappling at his belt with the other. “Since I cannot threaten you, I might as well show you.”

“Show me what? I’m a nurse, buddy. I’ve seen more penises than you’ll ever have.”

“Not the organ, Kitty. Not even the pain the organ, used for that purpose, can inflict. I’m talking about—” He finally wrenched his belt loose, opened his pants. “—what I become.” He threw me onto my back, raked a hand up my thigh to tear at my panties. “I told you I would try to restrain myself. Don’t you want to know what I meant?”

“I just assumed you were a premature ejaculator.”

He laughed. “Oh, no, my dear. I am more of a vampire. You see...” He had succeeded in tearing my panties from me and was in the process of removing the rest of my clothes. “I have something of a love affair with blood. It’s so precious and...and so very red...”

“Oh, Diogenes. Do you think I care what happens to this body now? It’s as good as dead. I’ll be leaving it soon. It’ll be just so much meat lying on a gurney somewhere. I don’t even feel invaded, or used, or any of those adjectives that are supposed to make me beg and plead and grovel. I’m already gone, Diogenes. In my head, I’m already gone.” I went limp and lay back, looking up at him with total disinterest. “Go ahead. Knock yourself out.”

He kissed my throat, then bit down. I inhaled sharply at the pain but did not flinch away. He nuzzled my breasts and I watched, as deadpan as if he were changing a tire. He took a nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, but I felt no bolt of pain or pleasure. I was now, as Pink Floyd so eloquently put it, comfortably numb. I supposed it was either mind over matter or residual effects from the drug. Whatever it was, I was supremely thankful for it. I eyeballed him with all the animation of a snake watching a canary hop just a little closer. He slid a long finger into me, watching my reaction. I yawned.

“You’re very good,” he whispered. “Very good. I applaud you. But I do not give up as easily as that.”

I saw the blade appear in his hand a moment before it sank into me.

Chapter 21    table of contents  

I saw the blade appear in his hand a moment before it sank into me. This I did feel, but not the way I should have. A sharp pain, then just a minor ache. There was no accompanying burst of fear, and I realized that fear hurt more than damage. Fear did more damage than damage. If I could control my fear, I could tolerate whatever he threw at me. And it seemed that, in my lust for death, I had become quite fearless.

I looked down at my stomach, where he’d stuck me, noting the thin trickle of blood, the length, width and apparent depth of the wound. Looked for the knife and saw it still in his hand, the blade perhaps three inches long and half an inch wide—a pocketknife like the one my father had carried. I realized that he had put the blade into me at an angle, as when giving a sub-cu injection to a skinny patient, angling the needle to be sure it stayed in the subcutaneous fat and didn’t go in too deep. He wasn’t really trying to hurt me badly, just scare me. I wondered exactly what was happening in my mind to cause me to experience such a minute reaction to being stabbed. Well, I was with a bona fide genius. Might as well ask him.

“Diogenes,” I began, as though I were standing on a terrace at a cocktail party instead of sitting naked in some abandoned tenement with a lunatic. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I’m not afraid anymore. I don’t feel anything. I mean, I felt the knife go in, but...I’m just not scared. And it seems that my not being scared will make a big difference in what you will have to do to really hurt me. What do you think is causing my weird reaction?”

He smiled ironically, obviously aware of the very strange nature of our conversation and circumstances, of this entire episode. “It’s really quite obvious, Kitty. You’ve given up.”

I thought about it. “You mean this is similar to suicidal people suddenly feeling so much better when they’ve decided for sure to do it.”

“Yes, though your situation is different—you have me to do it for you.”

“That still doesn’t explain the lack of fear.” I picked up my blouse from where he’d dropped it on the floor nearby and used it to catch the blood, not to try to staunch the flow, but because it tickled.

“You see death as your friend. Why would you fear a friend?”

“I should fear the pain. I’m a real baby about pain these days.”

“But pain is the harbinger of your friend’s arrival. It’s a good thing now, so the mind accepts it as such.”

I looked at him almost fondly. “I’ve just realized something else, too.”

“Yes?”

“You are my friend. Perhaps the best friend I’ve ever had.”

He did not look surprised, only vaguely disappointed. “I see your point.”

“Of course! You are going to give me a gift I have craved for years. You are going to release me from the bondage of pain. You are my savior.” I laughed. “I feel almost...fond of you.”

“I think we can attribute that, like your lack of pain, to endorphins, both from the drug and the idea of finally getting your fondest wish. Little brain-squirts of joy.”

“Endorphins are released at death! This is going to be great!”

A pause while he looked at me like he couldn’t believe he’d met someone stranger than himself. “This is really quite incredible,” he said finally. “Over the years you have forced yourself to do so much, and manipulated yourself into optimism so often, that you are as happily excited by the thought of dying a violent, bloody death as a child would be by a trip to Disneyworld.”

“I’m just trying to look on the bright side, since there seems to be no other option. I am aware that you could go out of your way to make it messy and lengthy and painful, but I’m trying not to consider that possibility.”

For a moment, he seemed to be considering exactly that. Then, “Let us return to the matter at hand. You were about to tell me what my brother said about me.”

“No I wasn’t.”

His eyes flashed. “You say you are almost fond of me because I am going to grant your deepest desire. Yet you either cannot or will not grant any of mine, from answering a simple question to allowing the reaction and attitude I crave. I think it is time to end this game.”

He grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head forward. I felt the knife enter my throat and zing a necklace around it from ear to ear. Everything stopped as I waited, expecting to feel oceans of blood pouring out of me. Instead, I felt only another tickling trickle. He had such control of the blade that, even moving that quickly, he’d let it enter only a fraction of my flesh. Our eyes met—his questioning, mine, I’m sure, disappointed.

He sighed. “Very well, I’m convinced. Somehow it removes all the fun to have permission. Put on your clothes.”

I sat there dumbfounded. “You mean you’re not going to kill me?”

“Of course not. Not now. We will save that performance for Aloysius.”

I had no trouble meeting his eyes now. “You son of a bitch.”

He shook his head. “Fascinating. Now, put on your clothes. We have a journey.” He began gathering my things together.

“Diogenes?” I waited for him to look at me. “I’ll do whatever I have to do to give you the reaction you crave. We can wait for the endorphins to wear off, or you can give me another drug...whatever it takes. I’m sure that enough torture would do it.”

His eyes narrowed. “And what is your price for this entertainment?”

“Leave your brother out of it.”

He studied me for so long that I had to fight the urge to squirm. At last he said, “I do not believe I have ever witnessed such altruism, except from Aloysius. Not for me, you understand. Never for me. But I have seen him display it for strangers time and again. I understand it is an affliction, probably based on self-esteem issues, which some simply cannot control. But you, actually asking me for pain to avoid his...” Again, he reached out and touched my cheek. “You almost make me believe in love.”

“You—you don’t believe in love?” I wondered how he could go on living. I didn’t want to, and my world was absolutely rose-colored compared to his.

“Why should I? I’ve never felt it, and have certainly seen no evidence that anyone felt it for me.”

Despite the circumstances, a piece of my heart went out to him. “But surely as a child...your mother...”

This sparked something in his eyes. “Yes, my mother...I believe there may have been...something...” His eyes changed again, now giving the impression of guilt. “But I do not wish to contemplate that. Do not mention her again.”

Silence.

I finally broke it. “So what do you say, Diogenes? I’ll come out to play. We can have our party right here. Right now.”

I rose to my knees and leaned into him, wondering if all serial killers smelled this good. And how did one seduce a sadist? Not by giving in. That, as he’d just observed, took all the fun out of it. I couldn’t convincingly resist him after making such an offer. I shrank down until I was kneeling before him, my forehead pressed to the mattress, trying to appear a ball of naked, cowering flesh.

I felt his eyes on me, then his hands on my back. Warm and strong, they stroked me from hips to shoulders. Then they moved around me, lifting gently, just enough to slide underneath me, where they cupped my breasts. Here we go. I closed my eyes.

“You...” he breathed it into my ear, and I realized he was kneeling just in front of me. “You can ignore anything I do to you. Maybe you should touch me. Somehow I think that may be harder to ignore.”

I raised my head, looking into his eyes. It was getting easier...a little. I wondered if I could trust him, then thought how ridiculous the very idea was. I’d just have to hope for the best. When I spoke, my voice was low, resigned. “What do you want?”

“What I said.” He rose to his knees, bringing me up with him. “Touch me.”

He took my hand and slipped it into his pants. I felt his hard belly. The back of my hand brushed the little trail of hair that began just below his navel and continued downward to spirals of thicker, coarser hair. Diogenes’ fur, I thought. He’s a furry beast. I wondered just how close I really was to some sort of breakdown.

He guided my hand downward and I felt him, thick and hard and ready. I closed my hand over him, heard him grunt softly. He put a fingertip under my chin and forced me to look up at him, searching my eyes for whatever it was he needed. He left my hand where it was and put both his hands to my face, cradling my cheeks as his lips came down on mine.

His kiss was almost normal at first, soft and gentle and exploring, but it quickly became something more, something almost ferocious in its intensity and need. He held my head, because if he hadn’t, the pressure of his lips on mine would’ve pushed me over backward. He was bruising my lips with his own, obviously enjoying the pain we shared. He stopped suddenly and caught and held me again with those eyes, like a snake hypnotizing its prey. “I realize that you may change your mind about our bargain. Just let me warn you—do not try to incapacitate me, or—I will not kill you.” His eyes gleamed with mirth.

I did not bother answering, but just squeezed down on him, and was rewarded with a sharply drawn breath and a slight narrowing of his eyes. His lips parted in a smile that seemed more of a wolf-like snarl. “Again.”

I complied, watching his eyes. Fiery. Torrid. I had to look away as he growled, “Continue.”

Three more good squeezes, and he gasped and grabbed my hand. “Stop.”

We remained frozen in tableau for a few long moments, face to face, on our knees, his hand on mine. He finally moved, raising his free hand slowly to his chest, opening his shirt. He placed my hand on his breast, fingers on the stiff nipple. “Pinch.”

I told myself it was just like doing a nursing procedure—say, removing a fecal impaction. Not something you would choose to do but, when necessary, one could coerce oneself into doing almost anything. I pinched. Maybe harder than I had to.

This time I was rewarded with a low moan. I glanced fleetingly at his eyes and found them closed. He hissed in a breath. “Again.”

I pinched, taking advantage of his closed eyes to study him, for a change. Blood from my bite had dried on his cheek. I could still see the small teethmarks, and felt a moment’s amazement that I had actually done that. Then I wondered what else I might do before all this was over. Better to be the biter than the bitee, after all. At some point, I was bound to start feeling what he did to me. I thought that, if he stabbed me again, my reaction might be very different next time. Though I had not changed my mind about death being infinitely preferable to what passed for my life, there was no guarantee that he’d been right in his analysis of my seemingly numb state. There was no guarantee that it would last. Touching him seemed to be waking me up. Or perhaps his plan to murder me in front of Aloysius had just dried up my endorphins. Perhaps he’d planned it that way.

His eyes flew open, and the effect was almost like a slap. I averted my own eyes quickly, but he grabbed my chin and forced me to look at him. “I like the way you touched me. Do it again.”

I hesitated, and he took my free hand and guided it into his open trousers and between his legs. My other hand remained on his breast. He had been right. Forcing me to touch him was making me more uncomfortable than his touching me. Suddenly angry at becoming a sex toy, I squeezed and pinched simultaneously, both harder than I had to.

His eyes simply blazed, and his hands flew out and grasped my shoulders hard enough to hurt. “Stop.”

I squeezed and pinched again, thinking to force the end now. But he didn’t climax. His hands moved to the back of my neck and he pulled me violently against him. “I know what you want.” His voice was strained, breathless. “But you do not understand. I need blood to come. I need...”

Suddenly I realized exactly what he’d meant when he’d talked about trying to restrain himself. I tried to rise and he wrapped a steel-cable arm around my waist, his other hand remaining on my neck, holding me fast against him. I started to struggle mindlessly and he shook me so hard my teeth rattled. “Stop! Or I’m going to tear you apart...just be still...be still...”

I felt his heartbeat, thundering. Felt his chest heaving. Felt his lust, his insanity, his need, rampaging through him. There could be only one reason for his effort to rein it in. He was still saving me for the performance. For Aloysius.

Once again I took a deep breath and reminded myself of the peace of death. Then I took him in hand, squeezing and stroking, at the same time wrapping my other arm around his neck and pressing my lips to his gasping mouth. For a moment he froze; then made a sound halfway between a sob and a growl and wrenched me backward by the hair. I fell onto my back and he rode me down, his hands on my shoulders, slipping down onto my breasts, kneading and pinching, a knee between my thighs, parting them roughly, painfully.

Now I could feel everything, and I cried out at the sheer force of him. He hesitated and I could feel him still fighting the murderous impulse. He pulled back, spearing me with glittering, mad eyes, and I reached up and felt the cut he’d put around my neck, the shallow cut that had stopped bleeding and dried, and used my fingernail to drag it open and deepen it. Blood now flowed down my neck and over my shoulder in earnest, and I saw his eyes lock onto it a second before he buried his face in my throat and I felt his tongue working at the gash, heard his helpless groan and felt his body buck in orgasm. His hands tightened on me, nails digging in, and I thought he would break my shoulders.

Then it was over. Gradually, he relaxed. When he could speak, he turned his face to mine. “Cooperation—surprisingly—is quite exciting. It was enough.” He pushed himself off me. “Congratulations. You have managed to save your demise for my brother’s edification.”

Chapter 22    table of contents  

I awoke to the sound of lapping water and the chill of autumn night. A vague, fishy scent. I opened my eyes groggily and gasped at the sight of a billion cold, bright stars. I was lying on my back, outside somewhere.

Movement. The light, unstable feeling of being in a small boat. I heard the quiet splash of oars, turned my head slightly, and saw Diogenes rowing. He noticed my open eyes and said, “Welcome back. I’m really getting quite good at approximating dosages based on required time of unconsciousness, don’t you think?”

My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth. I managed to unstick it. “Congratulations. Where are we going?”

“You shall see.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Ah. We have arrived.”

I tried to sit up and found I was trussed and attached to the boat somehow. How delightful if we capsized. Then again, it might really be delightful compared to what he had in mind. I thought about trying to flip the boat, but he was maneuvering it between boulders, then through thick weeds, barely visible in the moonlight, and into a watery tunnel. He reached back and flicked on a powerful light behind him. A moment later, it illuminated a stone wharf, and he docked the boat. We were in a small, cave-like chamber, the air heavy with humidity and the smell of mold.

He untied my feet, freed me from the boat, and helped me onto the wharf. A new metal door, incongruous in the ancient stone into which it was set, reflected the light. Diogenes did not seem surprised to see it there. He clicked open his valise and removed something that he applied somehow to the door’s lock, and we stood back, to one side. A match flared and a moment later there came a whuff! and a fleeting cloud of white smoke. The door swung open, its knob and lock mangled. We ascended a crude stone staircase that led to another stone chamber. He flashed the powerful light around the walls and it reflected off hundreds of shiny metal surfaces. It was a room of weapons, from swords and daggers and all shapes and sizes of knives to helmets and suits of armor. The light flashed onto the floor and I saw a large brownish stain, like old blood that wouldn’t quite come out of the stone floor. Diogenes paused. “My favorite room. I’m glad to see it unchanged.” I thought it wouldn’t be surprising if he took a weapon or two, but he didn’t touch them.

We continued on, through a low, arched doorway, into another chamber, this one some sort of laboratory, with tubes and coils and long tables, but the equipment was filthy and long unused. The next room held a collection of clothing and accessories, all of it dated, some truly ancient. Dressmakers’ dummies stood like silent sentinels in the darkness. We did not pause in this room but continued on to the next, and the next, a series of small, stone vaults, each one housing some sort of vast and fantastic collection. I wondered if we were trespassing in the basement of some wonderful museum.

We finally came to a winding stone staircase and started up, going around and around, and I wondered just how far we’d been beneath the surface. And where we would come out. I asked, to no avail. Another thing the Pendergast boys had in common—they were very good at not answering questions. When we finally reached the top of the stairs, we came out in some sort of medical suite, perhaps an operating room. A long metal table, medical supplies, and the faint, old smell of smoke and burning flesh that I remembered from a nursing-school rotation in the O.R. What sort of place could this be? A hospital? Then why all the collections?

We exited that room and made our way through other rooms, these large and well appointed with tapestries and antiques. Diogenes moved quickly, without hesitation. He obviously knew the premises well. Finally, we entered a great, blue-domed hall containing case after case of more fabulous collections—everything from gems to insects—and, from there, moved through a set of double doors into a vast, two-story library, the walls lined with leather-bound volumes that gave the room a pleasant, if aged, scent. I was escorted to a wing chair and told to sit. Diogenes himself went to lean against the mantle, and I wondered if his Lord-of-the-manor pose was deliberate. Not speaking, we waited together for...something. Diogenes glanced at his watch.

A few minutes later I heard a door open quietly, then snick closed. Diogenes tensed and removed a large handgun from inside his jacket. He held it by his side, unobtrusive but ready for immediate use. I heard no footsteps, but suddenly a shadow appeared on one of the library doors. A tall, thin shadow that darkened and grew as whoever cast it moved closer. I blinked, and during that micromoment, Aloysius appeared in the doorway.

He looked so very weary and disheveled. His black suit had lost its crispness, and I could see the blue-tinted shadows beneath his eyes from across the room. He turned his head and a lock of hair fell into his eyes. He brushed it back distractedly.

I must’ve made a sound because his eyes snapped to me. He allowed himself only a fleeting examination before turning to his brother. “I am here, alone and unarmed, as you requested. Now let her go.”

Diogenes laughed. “Surely you didn’t believe I’d actually keep my end of the bargain.”

“Of course not. But I had no choice but to comply.”

Diogenes studied him. “Don’t you want to know how it is that I am alive?”

Aloysius shook his head. “I assume another one of your potions.”

Diogenes inclined his head. “You assume correctly. I do believe I would have made a fine chemist, had my interests and pursuits not been more...exotic. Don’t you at least want to know how I got onto the grounds of your wonderful clinic?”

“All right, Diogenes.” Aloysius spoke with the air of one indulging a four year old. “Tell us how you gained ingress to Feversham.”

Diogenes clicked open his valise and brought out a small jar. I couldn’t quite make out what floated in the bottom. Looked closer and wished I hadn’t. A perfect eyeball with a dark-brown iris peered myopically back at me. Diogenes noted my reaction with pleasure. “They have a very nice retina scanner. Great idea. Works very well. I’d like to thank Hank from Admiral Security Specialists for his assistance.”

Diogenes was becoming almost manic. He beckoned to Aloysius. “Come in, have a seat. Make yourself at home.” Winked at me. “It’s only fitting, really, since this is his home. Appropriate, is it not? It is as old-fashioned and boring and proper as he is.”

Aloysius entered the room, walking toward me. Diogenes straightened. “Stop right there.”

Aloysius ignored him. Diogenes brought the pistol to bear. “Stop.”

Aloysius reached me and took my hand. I saw his eyes darken, then narrow, as he looked at my cut throat and bruises. “Are you all right?”

I glanced at Diogenes. He looked very displeased, but lowered the gun. “Yes, I’m okay. Aloysius, I—”

Diogenes’ voice grew strident. “Oh, spare me the wonders of love.” He pointed the pistol again, this time at me. “Get away from her, brother, or you can curse yourself for another wound that should rightfully belong to you.”

Aloysius stepped back and I shook my head. “Don’t let him do that. Don’t let him use me against you.”

Diogenes laughed again. “Smart woman. But she doesn’t know you like I do, does she? She does not know the magnitude, nor the futility, of her request.” He turned to me. “My dear, his burden of guilt is already so overwhelming that one more shred would be the proverbial straw. And he knows it.”

I ignored him. “Aloysius, he has only as much power as we give him. Only as much as our fear gives him. I learned that today.”

Aloysius nodded slowly. “What you say is true. But when it comes to seeing you hurt, my fear is very great.”

“As is mine for you. But if we let him use us against each other, we have no chance.”

Diogenes didn’t like the way the conversation was going. “Enough, both of you. Dear brother, would you please have a seat. I will not ask again.” He gestured at the other wing chair, across a small table and area rug from the one I occupied.

Aloysius hesitated, then sat down.

Diogenes now held court, his confident voice carrying throughout the large, book-lined space. “You have no idea, frater, how long I have waited for you to really care about someone. While it is true that I have made sport of your associates for some time now, your reaction was not as...intense as I had hoped.”

“On the contrary, Diogenes.” Aloysius’s voice was low, pained. “You have succeeded very well in your quest to hurt me.”

“But still you work, and enjoy your few refined and arcane pleasures. Still, you have not been destroyed.”

Aloysius remained silent.

“I set out to target Joan, of course. Someone you trust and, to a certain extent, depend on. But in my research I learned of her past, and that led me to one Katherine Barrett—a lonely, chronically ill divorcee, gamely doing her best in a difficult, “caring” profession. Some of the same personality traits as our dear Helen, who complemented you so well...easygoing where you are decorous, extroverted where you are socially isolated, humorous where you are morose. The phrase “opposites attract” came to mind. And then there is the appeal of the needy, always a certainty with you. I decided to play Cupid, and what do you know. It worked.”

“What makes you so sure?” Aloysius asked. “I assure you, I have done nothing for Ms. Barrett I wouldn’t have done for anyone in the same situation. I left for New York immediately after our altercation, and I only returned when I suspected that she was in danger again. I am here tonight because you threatened her life if I did not come. You have no evidence that my interest in her is anything but professional.”

“Au contraire, brother. I know you. I know the faint flush in your alabaster cheeks when you look at her. The glitter in your eye. Even the way you carry yourself in her presence, though that posture is somewhat diminished today, what with all the frantic running around and desperate searching you’ve done these past few hours.” He smirked. “And, the lady admitted that you care for one another.”

“I admitted that I love him,” I said quickly. “I did not, and could not, admit anything about his feelings.”

Aloysius spoke up. “It doesn’t matter anyway, Diogenes. Whether I love her or not does not matter. She has rejected me.”

“Rejected you?” Diogenes laughed delightedly, then calmed to a quiet joy. “Ah, but being rejected does not mean that seeing her die would not hurt you. For some it would make a difference, perhaps, but not for you.”

I’d had just about enough. This whole thing was unbelievable. “Diogenes...how can you seriously threaten to kill someone who wouldn’t be here right now if your brother hadn’t shown up when he did that last time? I’d already taken my prep and was about an hour away from taking every other pill in the house, and he knows it. How can you seriously expect to get results by threatening to murder someone who’s going to murder herself? I mean, why should Aloysius care if you kill me, when he knows it’s only a matter of time until I do it, anyway?”

Diogenes looked at Aloysius. “But he does care. It is his nature to care. To prevent death. He despises the thought of death.”

“Is that true, Aloysius?” I could tell nothing from his calm face, and hoped I was guessing correctly. “How do you feel about, say, your own death?”

“My death will be inconsequential,” he said without pausing. It was clear he meant it.

“And why is that?”

“Because there is no death. I believe we go on. I do not claim to know where, or how, but faith is not a result of knowledge.”

I smiled. “I believe that, too. That we go on. So if I don’t like it on this rock, why not leave?”

Diogenes cut in, looking at his brother. “If you don’t believe in death, why do you break your neck to save everyone you can? Why do you mourn those who have already gone?”

“Because it is not your place to choose for them.” Aloysius leaned forward. “And because I do believe in pain, and I know how much you enjoy inflicting it.”

“So you are saying, “Diogenes began, scathingly, “that if I were to shoot and kill this woman right now, you would not care about her death—only about whether or not it was a clean shot and she died without pain?”

“I would care, Diogenes, because you were right. I do care about her, and I would lose any chance of being with her.” Aloysius looked at me. “But I believe I could fix that.”

I smiled again. “What we said in the dream.”

He smiled back. “Yes.”

Diogenes was becoming angry. “What dream? And what is all this smiling?”

“Your brother is saying that things have changed quite a bit since your last encounter with him,” I said. “He learned something that changed everything.”

“And what, pray tell, was that?”

Aloysius answered. “That she and I have always been connected. That we came here together this time for a purpose.”

“Always? As in, some pre-life life? Some Other Side workshop? What poppycock is this? Aly, you were not brought up to believe in such drivel.”

“And you were not brought up to believe in torture and murder. Apparently we’ve both broadened our horizons.” He looked at his brother. “Perhaps that purpose has something to do with you, Diogenes.”

“Perhaps it does,” I agreed. “Diogenes, what would it take to make you believe in love? Would you believe in it if you killed your brother and I killed myself to follow him?”

“No. Because you already want to die. You said it yourself.”

Aloysius said, “What about the other way around? If you killed Kitty, and I killed myself to follow her?”

Diogenes looked at his brother with something close to terror in his brilliant, mad eyes. “You wouldn’t!”

“Yes, I believe I would.” Aloysius leaned back in his chair. “You have no idea how tiresome this is all getting. The only way it will end is if I end it, and the only way I can do that is by killing one of us. Obviously, you are right about my guilt...I cannot kill you and be happy. That leaves me.” He looked at me. “And it seems Kitty is still planning on leaving. I would much rather go with her than stay here fighting with you.”

“You’re...you’re just saying that. You’re just saying all that to—to—”

“To what?” I asked. “What does it do to you when he says all that? It scares you, doesn’t it? Because you’d have nothing to live for. What would you do all day if you couldn’t spend it hating your brother?”

Aloysius laughed. Actually laughed. “You could come along. Jump on board the Suicide Express. Try to follow me. Maybe you’d get lucky and we’d end up in the same place; you could torture me for another forty years.”

“You’ve gone insane,” Diogenes said, provoking guffaws from both of us. “Stop laughing at me, or I’ll—” He pointed the gun at me, looking at his brother.

Aloysius waved a hand. “Go ahead! But you’d better make it a clean shot, and make sure you turn around really fast, because I’m going next, and I’ve decided I like the idea of taking you with me.”

The gun barrel sank toward the floor as Diogenes stared at his brother. “You’d really—?”

Aloysius leaned forward, staring back. “Try me.”

Chapter 23    table of contents  

I opened the door to behold a smiling Aloysius Pendergast, dressed not in a disguise or a dead black suit, but in the worn jeans and chambray shirt, complete with bullet hole. I raised my eyebrows.

“I’ve decided I like the grunge thing,” he drawled, stepping through the door. He held out a bottle of wine as I burst into laughter.

I stepped past the wine and threw my arms around him. For a moment, he remained stock still; may even have stiffened minutely. Then he responded, putting his arms around my waist, kissing the top of my head. I whispered, “How does it feel to be free?”

A pause. Then, “We are not free, Kitty. He’s still out there.”

“Yeah, but he’s scared shitless. Scared that if he messes with you, you really will pull a Socrates.”

“He’ll think of another way. He’ll come up with something. As he said before he left...we’ll never know when he’ll decide to drop by. That will be our torture.”

We were silent for a moment. Then I stood on tiptoe and kissed the corner of his mouth. “If he comes up with something, we’ll come up with something.”

“Right! But for now, show me your...” He raised an eyebrow. “...corkscrew.”

Snickering, I preceded him to the kitchen.

He poured for us both and we sat at the table to drink our wine from my mismatched glasses. He cleared his throat. “I couldn’t help noticing that, when discussing the future, we were both saying “we” and “our.”

“Yes. I noticed that, too.”

“Kitty...” He set his glass down and took my free hand in both of his. “I have to tell you something. I have felt this way only once before in my life. In this life.” He smiled and I smiled back. “It was when I recognized my wife, Helen.”

I nodded. I knew exactly what he meant.

“Now, I recognize you. I know that you don’t...” He faltered, then forced another smile. “Please don’t answer now. After much research into very unfamiliar territory, I found a way to say what I need to say in your language. Will you accompany me to the living room, please?”

Mystified, I followed him, watched him put a CD in the player.

I recognized the song and my eyes blurred with tears. He stepped to me and laid a finger gently under each eye in turn, catching the brimming tears. I thought I saw moisture in his own eyes; then he blinked and held out his arms. “May I have this dance?”

I went into his arms gladly, and it was like coming home again, to his wonderful smell, his warm strength. We moved slowly, just swaying a little. He held me formally, right arm around my waist, my right hand clasped in his left, my left hand on his shoulder. That wasn’t close enough for me. I slid both my arms around his neck and leaned against him, feeling his hands go to the small of my back, remembering the first time he’d touched me there and the inexplicable attraction between us. Remembering Proctor’s story about the baby. Remembering his easy acrobatics at the gym, and my envy. His efforts to make me feel better. Dancing. Our foolishness in the hot tub. Our sweet encounter afterward. The fear that led him to leave. My own fear, that made me refuse him back. As though I could.

As before, I could feel every ripple of muscle in his lean body, and knew he could feel every beat of my heart, every breath I took. I wanted him horizontal so I could press even closer to him. I just wanted him. I looked up at him as the candles cast their flickering light on the planes of his face. He looked down at me as the sweet lyrics he’d selected wafted over us. “Kitty...I can’t let go.”

I stood on tiptoe again and this time kissed him full on the lips. His arms tightened around me and he bent his head, giving me easier access, responding gently. Always so gently.

I finally broke the kiss, breathless, and whispered, “Let’s go to the bedroom.” I heard the now-familiar sharp inhalation, then took his hand and led him to my bed.

I lit the candles, kicked off my sandals, and lay back, watching him step on the heels of his running shoes to step out of them. I lay back, holding out my arms, and he moved into them, lying half beside me, half over me, looking down at me. “Kitty...” He seemed unable to continue.

“Shhhh. You talk too much.” Suddenly I was overcome with joy. I think it all hit me at once—that Diogenes was gone, that Aloysius was here, that I felt free from fear enough to love him. Overcome with glee, I grabbed him and rolled him over, landing on top. “Now I’ve got you where I want you!”

Scrunching. “Oh. Please. Stop. Struggle, struggle.”

I laughed with delight and just looked at him, at his beautiful eyes, his fine features, his still-scrunching lips. I opened the top button of the chambray shirt, curious to see if either a tee shirt or a large handgun lurked within. Saw nothing in there but Aloysius. Opened the rest of the buttons, kissing my way down as I went, until I finished the excursion with a lick at his belly button. I saw a line of silky white-blond fur running from his navel into his jeans and thought of Diogenes.

Seeming to sense my train of thought, he said, “Kitty...did Diogenes...?” His face tried not to change, but his eyes betrayed fear, already bordering on sorrow, as though expecting only one possible answer.

“No,” I said immediately. “He didn’t lay a hand on me, except to threaten and scare.” I touched the ring around my neck.

He studied me silently for a moment, then either decided to believe or decided to let it go. One of his long white hands stole around my neck and pulled me back down to him. He just held me, a hand on the back of my neck, the other on the small of my back, massaging. So very warm.

He raised up, laying me back on the bed. “Turn over.”

I turned onto my stomach, felt his hands on my back through the silky material of my camisole. I was wearing the same favorite outfit I’d worn that first night. Talk about déjà vu. He kneaded the muscles in my lower back, then moved up to my shoulder blades. The heat from his hands seemed to radiate throughout my body, taking away the aches from my tousle with Diogenes, relaxing me. I remembered being amazed the first time he’d touched me, and fervently echoed what I’d moaned then: “Oh, God, you touch me so good.”

This time he didn’t stop, but slid his hands under the camisole, massaging my bare skin. I brought my arms up, resting my face on them, willing him to slide his hands around me, to touch my breasts. He didn’t. Instead, he leaned over me, murmuring in my ear, “Let’s take this off.”

I moved side to side a little, in such a way that he was able to work the silky top up and over my head, then pulled each arm out of the straps. I wore nothing underneath it. I started to turn over, my breasts dying for attention, and heard him murmur, “Not yet.” I rested my head on my arms again.

He kissed the back of my neck, caressed my shoulders and upper arms, kissed his way down my spine. My skin grew more and more sensitive, each cell more and more expectant. Soon it felt as though each small area was actually trying to rise to meet his lips, a sensation that was so raw it was both exquisite and slightly uncomfortable. He lifted the elastic waistband of my skirt slightly, kissed just beneath it, and tugged, and I raised myself enough for him to slide it down and off, leaving me in a pair of pink bikinis. He kissed just above them and my body began to quiver with desire. “Please, let me turn over...I want to see you...touch you...”

His hands roamed down my back, over my rump, down my thighs. “I can’t—you don’t understand. It’s been so long...I’m afraid I won’t be able to...to treat you right.”

“It doesn’t matter, darling. I don’t care. I just need to see you, to feel you...”

“In a moment...just let me...” I felt his fingers lift the elastic panty band and raised myself again, enough for him to slide them down and off. He kissed the dimple in the middle of my lower back and continued to caress me, shoulders to thighs. Kissed the back of my neck again. Almost mad with desire, I turned over, pulling him down onto me.

A gasp, and he lifted himself, moving to lay beside me, leaning over me. I looked up into eyes that glowed as though lit from within. Lit by desire. He looked at my breasts, let his eyes roam downward, back to my face. “You are so lovely,” he breathed. “So lovely...”

“Kiss me,” I begged, and he did, gently, being careful not to touch me too much. I couldn’t stand it. “Please, touch me...come to me...let me feel you...” I pulled him against me and felt how hard and ready he was, wrapped my legs around him so he couldn’t get away. He moaned softly. “I know you’re worried about treating me right, darling, but I don’t care about that now. I just want to feel you...feel you inside me.”

Suddenly he was kissing me, deeply, desperately. His hands were on my breasts, caressing, fingers fondling my nipples until they ached with rigidity. Overwhelmed, I simply lay still for a moment, then threw my arms around him, around his shoulders, murmuring encouragement as his lips left mine to trail fire down my neck to my shoulder to my breast. He seemed to be trying to devour me, all of me at once, his hungry mouth moving from breast to breast, then downward to my stomach, my belly, and finally, fingers opening me gently, my center.

His tongue took my breath away and I could only writhe and moan his name. His strong hands held my hips firmly, keeping me captive as they began to undulate uncontrollably, and I heard myself cry his name again, cry that I loved him, as orgasm slammed through me, wave after wave of pleasure so intense it brought me off the bed from shoulders to heels as he continued to lick me, my nerve endings finally shorting out until it became excruciating and I begged him to stop.

He raised his head and, eyes glittering, moved over me, breath jerking in and out of his chest, his entire body shaking with desire. I reached down and unfastened the jeans, sliding them down enough to free him, then clasped his buttocks and pulled him into me, wrapping my legs around him again. He froze for a moment, murmuring indecipherable words into my ear, then wrapped his arms around me, pulling me even closer, and began to move slowly, each thrust accompanied by a breath, each breath a moan, until moaning wasn’t enough, and he whispered, “Oh, God... oh, God...”

I thought my heart would burst with joy at being able to please him, to give him what he so needed. It seemed I had known him forever, loved him forever, and would love him forevermore. I matched his movements, trying to give him more somehow, whispered, “Yes, darling...yes...yes...”

Then, with an unintelligible cry, he shoved into me and squeezed the breath from my lungs and I felt him coming deep inside me, and it seemed to go on forever. He slowly relaxed onto me, relaxed his arm muscles, and I could breathe again. I heard him draw a deep breath, let it out in a moan—”Oh, my God—” and he finally grew still and quiet in my arms.

A few minutes later, I felt him move slightly, then his lips pressed mine lightly for a moment and I opened my eyes to behold his, inches away. He scrunched a little. “You okay?”

“Yes, considering that a nuclear device just detonated between my legs.”

I felt him shaking with silent laughter. “That’s crude, love.”

“Sorry. Don’t know what I’m saying. Ninety percent of my brain cells are still focused on my clitoris.”

He finally laughed out loud, and so did I, making him wince and exclaim, “Ouch. You’re squeezing very tender flesh when you do that.”

I squeezed down on him on purpose. “Had enough?”

He grew serious. “It’ll never be enough. Not with you.”

“I love you, Aloysius Pendergast.” I laughed. “That’s saying a mouthful.”

“And I love you, Shecky Barrett.” He kissed my nose. “Soon to be Shecky Barrett Pendergast?”

I caught my breath in surprise, but managed to say, “Hell, yes.”

“Kitty...what do you suppose our purpose in coming here this time really was?”

“Sex. Just plain old-fashioned, making-up-for-lost-time, in-the-body sex. And if that’s not it, it’ll do until we figure it out.” I gathered all my strength and rolled him over, landing on top again. “Now I’ve got you where I want you.”

“Indeed,” he said.

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