Gods Playing Poker: Post Mortem

*Continued from Gods Playing Poker: A Bold Bluff

"The other side? Of what? Indiana?"

Silver laughs. Not because he finds his partner funny, but because he feels sorry for him. Silver stands in close to East, reaching up to put a hand on East's shoulder. "The other side, dude. There's another world out there. I know it, buddy. I've seen it... felt it."

East won't look into his face. "You were assaulted, Gary. You felt an attack." He can't bring himself to use the word. It seems totally inconsistent.

Suddenly, Silver angers, pushing East to the floor. "No, you asshole. I felt awesome. Then you came in and fucked it all up."

Brushing himself down, East stands back up. He needs to change the subject again. "They in the bedroom?"

The anger gone, Silver returns to the re-reflector. "Nobody's in the bedroom."

East keeps his eyes on Silver, who gradually feels the gaze.

"Seriously," Silver points to the room with a spanwrench. "Go look."

"Put the wrench down." East doesn't move.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. I've got a gun, Steve. Go look."

Mentally shrugging - crazy as he is, Silver has a point - East enters the bedroom and turns on the light. Pristine. Nothing touched, nothing moved. Bed hasn't even been sat on. The door to the bathroom is wide open. Nobody inside.

"SWAT dogs say they saw two people."

"I'm putting up mirrors. They saw me. And me."

East has no response. He simply watches Silver work and listens to the whirl-whine of the velocicopters passing by outside. East doesn't know what to do. There's no protocol for this. No field manual depicting a similar situation. He's got to figure out a way to get Silver off-balance.

"You're crazy," East starts, hoping not to arouse more anger. "All this existential religious hocus-focus is junk."

No anger, but another pitying laugh. "Oh, it's not junk. It's real."

"You're crazy."

Silver pulls out his short-round. Less to threaten East and more to remove the discomfort. One of the reasons Silver - well, sane Silver - never wears one in his trousers. That and everyone's heard an "accidental discharge" story. Even with the new body heat and hand print safeties, those things can be ridiculous.

East lets out a hidden sigh of relief when Silver places the weapon on an improvised work table, which is just a stack of instruction manuals that came with the tools, lenses, and mirrors Silver acquired to build his doohicky with. Still, East starts sliding slowly toward it. A few centimeters at a time. Subtle, smooth. Nothing too fast to garner Silver's attention.

"You'll see, my friend. You'll see."

"What is this?" East is exasperated. Exacerbated, even.  "You find God or something?"

Silver laughs yet again. But this laugh is unlike any East has ever heard from his partner. "Or something."

East suddenly wishes he'd kept his own sidearm. Or, at least, accepted the surveillance radio.

"What happened here? Before." If progress can't be made, back up and reevaluate.

Silver shifts locations, temporarily placing himself between East and the weapon. "I had a moment of purity."

"A what?"

"I saw everything. I felt everything. I understand it now. So will you."

"Understand what?"

Silver gestures his arms around the room. "What this is all about, man. Emily wasn't raped. She was elevated. I would have been, too, if you hadn't have interrupted."

East can't help it. His tone crescendos in abject surprise. "What?"

"Think about it, East. A virgin? By all rights, so was her cousin."

"You're not a virgin. And we don't know squat about her cousin."

Silver nods. "I do."

"You're still not a virgin."

A smirk. "Technicality."

Sensing defeat and sorrow at the realization of what's going to happen to his friend, East waves his hand at Silver. "I'm gonna go. You're crazy."

Silver frowns, steps to the firearm and reaches for it. East notices the expression just as he starts to turn for the door, then changes direction and rushes his partner, knocking Silver to the ground. Silver, always the one in better fighting shape, uses East's momentum against him and throws East to the wall. The vibration knocks a few mirrors loose. Silver stands, firearm in hand, and glares at the shattered glass. East has never seen his partner so angry.

Silver has the short-round in his right hand, jammed into East's kidney.

East elbows his partner and knocks him off center, and they struggle with the gun, finally coming to a standstill against the wall. In the corner where it all began. They are close enough to give the wrong impression, but the gun tells the truth.

"It's real, Steve. I'll show you."

"Don't..."

"Moments of purity fuel the universe, my friend." A small but distinguished pop ends the sentence, and Steven East shrugs to the floor, his life sloughing away in a drab room, with wide, wild eyes.

***

***

A louder discharge permeates the room, this one accompanied by a blast and a flying door. The door and reverb concussion shatters what's left of the re-reflector, sending Silver into a frenzy. Screaming in horror, he starts shooting at the invading SWAT dogs. He hits a few, but their Emflection^TM armor is more than enough to protect them from the small caliber ammunition. Silver never did acquire the larger gun.

Marquitez is in the room; drops to a knee and fires more than a dozen ballistic shockers into Silver's torso. Silver seizures and convulses violently before flopping to the ground in a sizzling slump.

The team Tac-Nurse rushes to East and checks his pulse. "He's gone."

Marquitez' head turns. "No," quietly escapes his lips.

The alpha SWAT dog shakes his head. East was a good cop. Then again, so was Silver. "Get Scene Control in here." He motions to Silver's body. "Put this asshole in a lock-jacket."

***

Detective-Captain Amanda Normandy arrives on-site just in time to see an unconscious Silver tossed into a Vault Wagon. He's been lock-jacketed and cuffed. The SWAT dogs don't even waste time strapping Silver into a mobile bed. They just sling him into the back of the truck and lock the door.

"Belay that truck," she screams as she rushes to the command and control vehicle. "What the Hell happened?" she asks Jimmy-Jim.

He doesn't have time for this. It's been a fucked up enough day already. "Your dick killed your other dick."

She holds back the urge to break down. Forces another pertinent question. "And the hostages?"

"There was nobody else up there. Just that gadget Silver was building. Your man Marquitez is cataloging it now."

***

Silver fades in and out of consciousness in the penitentiary's loony barn. He's lost in a dream world that might not be a dream. He expects a visitor. And a journey.

Finally, she comes to him. She's smiling.

"Hi, Emily." He thinks the words, at least. No one is sure he actually spoke them.

Her smile never leaves her face, but her tone is upset. "Hello, Gary."

"You here to take me? I'm ready to go."

She shakes her head. "No, you're not coming. You're headed elsewhere."

The meaning is clear. Even though nothing is explained.

"What did I do wrong?" asks Silver.

"You figured it out."

The meaning is unclear. And everything is explained. In a rush, sanity returns to Silver's mind.

"I... I'm a detective. I'm supposed to figure it out."

"Not this. This was none of your concern."

FADE TO BLACK


The Complete Gods Playing Poker

• Part 1: A Friend in Need
• Part 2: Pinched With Four Aces
• Part 3: Stranger in Camp
• Part 4: Sitting Up With a Sick Friend
• Part 5: A Bold Bluff
• Part 6: Post Mortem

Gods Playing Poker: Sitting Up With a Sick Friend

*Continued from Gods Playing Poker: Stranger in Camp

Silver lies unconscious in the recovery-recuperator. He's not comatose, but he's not opened his eyes or said anything intelligible since East found him. East watches, loyal partner that he is, from the other side of the plexiform viewscreen. Captain Normandy is beside him.

"You don't know what he was doing there?" Normandy is pissed. Silver's often gone off the reservation, so to speak, but never into a dangerous situation before. He's foolish; not stupid.

"No clue, Captain." East sips his coffee. He answers Normandy's questions on auto-pilot.

"How did you know he was there?"

"He didn't answer my calls. Ran his ping."

It's a curious matter. PDP locator apps are typically turned off if an officer thinks he needs to be subtle. Normandy smiles inwardly at the realization. At the very least, Silver hadn't been expecting trouble. Maybe he wasn't being foolish, after all. She doesn't like thinking her best are idiots. Especially when she personally tags them for a case.

Switching off her concern, she toggles on her professionalism. "Any other leads?"

"Just an obscure connection with another rapist."

"That in the report?" Normandy is almost embarrassed she hadn't read their last v-mail yet.

East nods. An ad for prescription micro-endoscopy flashes on the plex in front of him, but before he can step around the obstruction it fades.

"You want me to bump Phillips and Naifeh?" She already knows the answer, but Normandy's long-believed in professional courtesy. Even with her dictatorial tendencies.

East shakes his head.

"You'll stay on?"

East nods. He hates answering questions twice.

"All right. Just don't play bedside manner for too long."

"I'm on it." He also hates being patronized.

Normandy stares at East for a few moments - he doesn't return her gaze, instead takes another sip. She's a tough one, but not heartless. Accepting her detective's detached mood, she leaves.

***

***

The wind is not wind, but it whips as violently as a hurricane in the mid-Atlantic. Or a tornado in the American Midwest. There are hundreds of shapes, all vaguely human. It is a dream world that may not be a dream. Time and speed mean nothing here. Only patience.

A blur of a fedora dons what should be the head of one man. One thing. One it. No clue is revealed as to what it is. But it speaks.

"Why was this man attempted?" It does not seem pleased.

Another blur beside him, slightly behind. Or in front. Space and velocity mean nothing here. Only existence.

"He found us. It seemed appropriate." A mistake is realized, but it changes nothing.

"You've risked it all."

"No." The defiance is an unusual tone, for defiance is a rarity here.

The shapes stare at nothing in particular, and everything in particular. Their wards have long been a nuisance and most secretly wish the time was not yet near.

Still, a curiosity remains. "Why did you give him the prism?"

"We had to break the other out."

It nods. Understanding. They don't like not understanding, the concept being more rare than defiance. "Did you?"

There is another nod in return, though it doesn't answer the question asked. Instead, it answers a question implied. "Transcendence will occur soon."

***

East sleeps in a chair outside of Silver's room, his shirt wet and an empty coffee cup on the floor beside him. East stirs, something's amiss. He opens his eyes to a shadow in the viewscreen. It's Silver. Screaming.

East bursts up and activates the vovomitter.

"Let me out of here!" Silver's voice is deafening as the vovomitter automatically adjusts its line level. "I need to go!"

"What the Hell, Gary? Get back in bed." East doesn't notice the spilled coffee.

Silver glares at his partner. It is a murderous look. Just this side of hatred. "You ruined it. You. Fucking. Ruined it."

Without taking his eyes off of his friend, East calls for a nurse. The nutrichemo feed line taut in Silver's arm, East sees the pumps activate. Silver's eyes go blank and he collapses to the floor.

A nurse, clearly startled from a nap, runs up behind East. "What happened?"

East shakes his head. "He's lost his mind." He isn't speaking to her.

The nurse types her access code in the lock and she and two attendants enter the room. They pick Silver up and place him back in the bed. A few checks. Vitals are good. The attendants and the nurse exit; she locks the door behind her.

"He'll be fine. It was just a reaction to..."

"To what?" East immediately feels bad for his terse response. He knows she's just trying to make him feel better.

She takes the offense, but years of hardening in an oft-thankless job maintain their collective professionalism. "To whatever it is he's reacting to."

East grimaces, then smirks. "Sorry. Long night." He catches her name-pin. "Clare."

The nurse nods and smiles. She catches his coffee stain. "I'll get you a towel."

He nods, but doesn't know what she's talking about. When she returns, she hands a towel to him, but he doesn't take it, still confused.

"Definitely a long night," Clare says, patting down the coffee stain for him.

Dumbfounded and embarrassed, he taps her shoulder and takes the towel. "Thank you."

East needs to sleep. In his own bed.

***

Silver dreams. The nitrate soporafol does its job well, coursing through his circulatory system like flushed trash on its way to a sewage recycle-return purification unit. He's lost in the dream world that may not be a dream. So lost, he might even be awake. Which should be impossible given how much nitrate soporafol they're pumping into him.

His feed lines disconnect and the patient alarms shut off. He's given clothes and dons them quickly. Nobody seems to notice the well-dressed sleep-walking man leave via the Emergency Ward exit.

***

The convoy commander has done this dozens of times. Load the prisoner into the Vault Wagon, file in behind the lead vehicle, file in front of the trail vehicle, slow down before intersections while the autobikes run interference. It's run of the mill, and no one at the FBI/E thinks this prisoner - one Dario Ganganelli - is any different.

But that was before not one, not two, but three drunk drivers plowed into the convoy, taking out the lead and trail vehicles and tipping the Vault Wagon onto its left side. All three drunk drivers were killed instantly - each identified as local criminals. One pedophile, one murderer, and one bank robber. None of the FBI/E operators or agents were injured in the crashes, save for a cut of glass along the convoy commander's cheek. The incident seems to be both boon and bane.

Boon because three of Marion County's most-wanted are dead. Bane because Ganganelli is nowhere to be found.

***

It's almost 3 AM. East's vo-comm starts ringing incessantly, startling him awake. He considers ripping it out of the wall panel and chucking it through his window - a difficult task with a window made of Impervaglass^TM - but stops just short when he sees the ID flash.

It's Marquitez. "Silver's gone."

East bolts into a sitting position. "What do you mean he's gone?"

"Relax, East," Marquitez knows his SIS colleagues well. "Dunno. Feed shows him walking out of the emergency room."

"What?" East toes on his wurby slippers, disconnects the handset from the hang-up, and rushes to his closet.

"Oh, it gets better. The rapist in Fed custody?"

"Ganganelli?"

"Disappeared in transit."

***

*Continued in Gods Playing Poker: A Bold Bluff


The Complete Gods Playing Poker

• Part 1: A Friend in Need
• Part 2: Pinched With Four Aces
• Part 3: Stranger in Camp
• Part 4: Sitting Up With a Sick Friend
• Part 5: A Bold Bluff
• Part 6: Post Mortem

Gods Playing Poker: Pinched With Four Aces

*Continued from Gods Playing Poker: A Friend in Need

"Boyfriend's a no-go." Silver jumps in the driver's seat, smirking at his partner who's wolfing down some chocolate.

"You sure?" East isn't surprised, except by the joke written on the inside of the goo-bar wrapper. He just asks out of habit.

"Yeah, jack in."

East whips his PDP out from his jacket pocket and touches it to Silver's. Transmit lights turn green and East starts reading the boyfriend's statement. Silver puts his thumb on the unmarked cruiser's ignition and the Generalized Mobile Machines CruTector^TM hums to life. He thinks of his father's car for a moment, remembering how loud those petroleum-eating vehicles were, then hits the reverse button on the go-panel.

"A virgin?" Now East is surprised. In this day and age? Surely not. Even priests and imams are handing out short-singe contraceptives now.

Silver bites his lower lip and pauses a moment. It wouldn't surprise anyone that he had an eye on Hyra himself. He's not shown it yet, and it's obvious that everyone in the SIS is taking it hard, but East knows Silver's particularly upset. It's partially a sexist reaction, but it's genuine sorrow. "That's what he said."

"There another boyfriend?"

"That's what I'm thinking." The cruiser accelerates through a traffic director blinking mad orange.

"You want me to check her phone logs again?"

"Yep." Silver pulls the cruiser to a curb and swings the door open, the brisk chill air rushes into the car. East pops open the glove compartment, and, of course, pulls out some gloves. Other passing vehicles have their drivers scream expletives at Silver, whose car door forces them to merge into the center lane.

East looks out the window. Silver's parked in front of the Marion County Main Public Library and Words Depository. It's a technologically advanced faux-gothic building, looking strangely ominous in the lightly falling late-winter snow. "What are we doing here?"

"Checking some angles."

"New data girl's working, right?"

Silver retrieves a personal groomer from his coat pocket and smooths out a crease, slightly irritated at the wet-spots forming from melting flakes. "Who? What?" He doesn't close the door.

***

***

East slides into the driver's seat of the CruTector and pulls the door shut. Even though Silver's ultimate goal is undoubtedly a phone number, East knows his partner will come back with some useful piece of information. East isn't always sure how Silver comes across stuff... he just does.

Not wanting to sit and twiddle his thumbs, East calls Marquitez. "What's going on, man?"

"Oh, shit, dude. Nothing." Marquitez clearly sounds depressed. "All those tech-perps are dead-ends. Except for maybe one. Mark April? You know him?"

"Yeah, one of Silver's old CIs, why?" East grabs another goo-bar from the scatter-boom mount, currently devoid of a scatter-boom in lieu of a tube of goo-bars.

"Ah, that explains it. He's acting like he knows something, but not like he knows something."

East looks up. Silver's approaching. East signals to go around and Silver gets in the passenger side. "Got her number." Silver smirks as he checks it against the PDP. It's an apparels-editor on the south side of town. "Ah, shit. She gave me a fake one."

East laughs. "Thanks, Juan," he says to Marquitez and hangs up. "I got something."

Silver hands East a tear of Flixon pad. "So do I."

"What is this?"

"Two things, actually. Baker called me. But that," Silver pauses a brief moment, tapping the Flixon note, " is Emily's ex-boyfriend. Another no-go. Might bring him in anyway."

East knows it'll be a waste of time, but shrugs it off. Silver doesn't like to be disagreed with so soon after being shot down. "You remember Mark April?"

Silver nods, brushing yesterday's bullsteak bun crumbs off the passenger seat. "Marquitez finger him?"

"Sort of."

Silver flicks the siren on with a fist. "Good enough."

***

East and Silver take turns beating the shit out of April. It is an old-school tactic in a department that doesn't even remember what old-school is. Neither East nor Silver like it very much, but April wants to play hard to get, so East and Silver take their time getting hard. That April sits comfortably in a plush Zwan-K fleather recliner and not a metal chair almost makes East laugh. Almost.

April bleeds from both nostrils and both lips. His left eye is definitely going black.

"This is getting old, Mark," Silver says, slightly more matter-of-fact than one would imagine. He doesn't let on that his fist is starting to hurt.

Mark gestures with his chin at East. "Let me see." East holds a mirror to April's face. April smiles. "Okay, okay. That looks good enough."

"You informants and your rites of passage," East forces a frown while stifling another almost-laugh. He slips April a self-applied swoosh-tube of sutures.

"That ain't no shift-suit, boys. It ain't no shift-suit, no light-suit, no bend-suit, no shape-suit. Nothing like. No kind of active camouflage. That idiot Marquitez don't know what the fuck he's doing. There's no digital distortion at all. Not a single fucking pixel."

"You saying that blur was natural?" Silver's question sounds just as stupid in Silver's head as it does vocalized.

April winces from a suture swoosh. "Not a single fucking pixel."

***

Colm Baker is an FBI/E agent and a good friend of Silver's. Baker used to work out of the Chicago office, but transferred to Indianapolis about seven years ago, just after Marion County decided to usurp executive control from city government.

Silver and East scoff at the lavish furniture and unnecessary decorations found in Federal offices. Who needs a replica pinball machine, anyway? Nobody carries coins anymore.

But the glory of envy is not why they're here.

A man in FBI/E custody, one Dario Ganganelli, is wanted for extradition in the disappearance of a woman named Anne Hyra in Rome two years ago.

"The kicker?" Baker lets the pause sink in. "Anne Hyra is Emily's cousin. Same age, even. A few months apart."

"But he's not our guy." East isn't surprised. Again.

"No, no. We've had him in custody for weeks. Waiting on the extradition."

"Then why are we here?" Silver knew this was too good to be true. Too convenient, anyway. There's no way anyone already in custody could be their unsub.

"He spent a few months in New York City and Westchester County. Looking for somebody."

"So?"

"Jesus, man," Baker shakes his head. Maybe these locs aren't as good as their reps after all. "Emily Hyra grew up in Westchester County. She came to Indiana to attend Marian University... some Roman Catholic exchange program-scholarship deal. Switched to Purdue after her first semester."

"This dude rapes her cousin, then comes to the U.S. to rape her?"

Baker nods. "We picked him up after he was flagged boarding a train for Indianapolis at Penn Station."

Silver's eyes widen and East hangs his head. "There's two of these pricks?" Silver and East sometimes say things at the same time. Like just then.

***

Both partners are tired and East lets the auto-drive take them home. Their mouths stay silent even though their brains are running at full speed. The CruTector stops at Silver's apartment first.

Silver's even more confused, to the point of having to remember what floor he lives on. Plenty of dead ends today, and way too many living ends. None of which make any sense. He reaches his floor, exits the elevator, and heads to his apartment. There's something taped to the door. Too small for an explosive, maybe. Partially from exhaustion, partially from apathy, and partially from arrogance, he grabs the paper-wrapped object without further pre-inspection and tears it open.

It's a prism. Intricate. Hundreds, maybe thousands of angles. In the shape of a crucifix.

There's no note, but he knows it has everything to do with the case.

***

*Continued in Gods Playing Poker: Stranger in Camp


The Complete Gods Playing Poker

• Part 1: A Friend in Need
• Part 2: Pinched With Four Aces
• Part 3: Stranger in Camp
• Part 4: Sitting Up With a Sick Friend
• Part 5: A Bold Bluff
• Part 6: Post Mortem

With the Fade of the Tide, Part III

*Continued from With the Fade of the Tide, Part II

"How long have you been using?" It's a futile question. Benoit's already prepared to disbelieve her answer.

"Since I was 21. I dated a footballer after university."

She's a good liar. The footballer detail might be true, but he knows she doesn't use drugs. There is guilt here. That he also knows she's no fool adds doubt. Why would the drugs be here?

"Mother and I used to get high together." Melanie's surprised at her own voice. The admission is akin to a flinch; an attempt to deflect. Not only her own guilty conscious, but Benoit's unmistakable direction of thought. And it's another clear lie.

"Do not speak of your mother this way, Melanie." It is an uncharacteristically mature statement. And hypocritical. He himself had bad-mouthed his father since coming to Le Havre. But, then, his father was not dead.

She's caught, and she knows it. Still, she's certain that Benoit isn't sure of what she's been caught doing. Or refuses to be sure. She stares out the window to avoid his discerning glare. The moon is rising early, its third quarter just visible over the eastern cityscape. There's some solace in that she's managed to make him love her for this long. She's waited a long time. Ever since her mother pushed away her step-father with her unpleasantness and irrational demands. But she's also certain that Benoit is no fool, either. And their ending is nigh.

***

Hervé motions for Benoit to sit. "It could not be Melanie."

"Why not?"

"She was in Lebanon at the time. Travel records and passport verify this. As does the French consul in Beirut."

Benoit frowns. "Why did she go to the French consul?"

"They will not say."

"Seems rather convenient, don't you think?"

Resigning himself to the possibility, Hervé shrugs and nods. Possibility, of course, but likelihood? Hervé makes it known that he doesn't believe so.

"It was not her, Benoit. As much as I would like to be, it could not be Melanie."

A sigh. A regret. Many regrets. "So I owe her an apology."

"Yes."

***

It is an easy apology, yet a strange one. Melanie immediately breaks into tears. Benoit can't tell if they are false or not. Her sobbing respiration forces him to give her the benefit of the doubt. She apologizes profusely in return, perhaps once too often, but it persuades him not to ask about the drugs.

She's unsure of what to do. She's in love with Benoit. Always has been and always will be. She tells him so. His lips surprise her. There's something hidden in the kiss, though she imagines the whole of it to be heartfelt. Upon the break of the embrace, pragmatism takes over. Benoit will figure her out. This cannot last.

***

They sit at the cafe. Benoit notices the waning crescent appears as if it's about to strangle Melanie. The image disturbs him, so he shifts his chair. And again, once he notices the tip of the moon gives her the appearance of having a devil's horn.

"Did you see my father?" The question is abrupt. As if radioactive. Why it chose now to be asked is beyond Benoit.

Melanie turns her head sharply to stare at Benoit. "What? No. I was not here."

"I'm leaving soon. Returning to America." The statement is jilted, stunted. This conversation will have no flow. Facts attempting to escape their hiding places reveal themselves at random.

"You're not staying for the trial?"

"No. Father will be found guilty. There's nothing I can do for him."

"You believe that now?"

"It doesn't matter. Do you believe it?"

"No."

I wonder why that is. He does not share his thought, for it has no conclusion. He's not certain he wants it to.

They make love for the final time that night. She's all too aware of the conclusion between them. She doesn't want it to end, but knows it must.

***

"New moon," Melanie says. There is no one around, save a lover in memory. She looks out to the horizon, invisible between the sky and the sea, and throws the gun into the English Channel.

In her hand, an unopened farewell letter from Benoit. He's finally written her back.

With the Fade of the Tide, Part II

*Continued from With the Fade of the Tide, Part I

"Why did you ignore my letters?" she asks, sure that he's awake. He was completely drunk when she found him, falling over and starting fights with anyone he thought might have shot him a concerned glance. The police in Le Havre recognized him from the newspapers - the murder was rather high-profile - and they immediately called Melanie. She brought Benoit back to the hotel, tucked him in bed, then fell asleep herself next to him, on top of the blankets. The gibbous moon shines through an open window.

"What?" he replies, voice still inebriated.

"I sent letters. You never responded."

He stares at the alarm clock on the nightstand, uninterested in answering the question. His head hurts and he's sure the pain isn't entirely from alcohol. Someone hit him. Probably a police officer. He can't remember.

Benoit does remember the letters. He won't admit it, but he still has them. A shoebox in his closet in New York. It's only contents are four letters from a step-sister. He was both shocked and amazed at how forward she was in them. The third letter, in particular. A 14-year-old explicitly expressing her love for him. Though a four-year age difference is nothing to him now, it was all-too-discouraging for one who was 18. Part of him was disgusted. Part of him was intrigued. He'd known she would grow into a beautiful woman, but the situation was just too odd for an immature young man to handle. Better to let her fade into memory.

"Why did you ignore me?" she asks again.

Her perfume makes it difficult to ignore her now.

***

Hervé grins widely, partially because of the new evidence he's about to share, but mainly because Benoit finally showed up to a meeting without Melanie in tow. "There was someone else there."

"And?" The revelation excites Benoit. Still, he takes care not get ahead of his emotions. Something he's been failing at lately.

"Could be the real killer."

"Provided my father is innocent."

Hervé's jaw drops open. He's not sure he heard what he just heard. "Pardon?"

Benoit mentally curses himself. He's always been one open to all possibilities in any situation, but he knows such skepticism in this case is better left unspoken. "Sorry. That was inappropriate."

"Heartless."

"I'm sorry. There was someone else in the room?"

Hervé hesitates, now unsure if he should even tell Benoit. Melanie's certainly to blame for Benoit's shift in demeanor. Melanie. Legally an adversary in the upcoming murder trial. Theoretically family. And, though Hervé is unaware of the development, technically a lover. "Yes. Our investigators turned up further evidence. No fingerprints or DNA, but shoe impressions on the carpet."

"Why didn't the police identify them?"

"They did, but attributed them to hotel staff. We have officially eliminated that option."

"So father will be let go?"

The lawyer coughs. It's an instinctual reaction, for he has no cold and his throat is not dry. "No. The blood and the drugs remain large hurdles to overcome, but..."

Benoit finishes the sentence. "It's progress."

***

Making love to a former step-sister had never crossed Benoit's mind. Much less making love while waist-deep in the ocean under a full moon. Even with the mixture of salt, he could taste the flavor of her skin as he kissed her neck. He'd never had sex in open water before and, for but a fleeting moment, wonders at how smoothly her vagina feels submerged in the salinated tides of Le Havre.

***

It feels good to be out of the hotel. Benoit often appreciates living out of a suitcase, but his room had become stifling. The whole situation had been stifling, but Melanie's presence has been slowly returning his ability to breathe. He laughs at the thought as he prepares to brush his teeth in her bathroom. A woman he'd feared not two weeks ago is now the sole calming factor in his life. He wonders how she isn't more dour as the case begins to unfold - it is her mother who is buried - but he's glad she isn't.

He lets loose a burst of pent-up energy and the cap to the tube of toothpaste falls to the floor, rolling behind the commode. Making a mental note to grab it later, he finishes with his teeth and grabs his shaving cream and razor. He's not seen his own smile in a few months and admires it for a moment.

Melanie is at work and he can't wait to see her when she comes home for lunch. Benoit has nothing scheduled for the day and he intends on surprising her with a prepared meal. His face smooth, he pokes his head into her bedroom and looks at the wall clock. Only 30 minutes before she gets back. He must have slept in a bit too long.

Chuckling, he walks to the phone on her nightstand and bribes a host at an expensive local restaurant to bring a meal worthy of his mood over. He's forced to agree to an extra 30 euros when he requests "as quickly as possible."

"Learn to wake up on time, Benoit," he says to himself as he hangs up the phone. He pulls his suitcase from under Melanie's bed and gets dressed. He's just finishing buttoning his shirt as he hears a car pull up. Then another. He chuckles again, abandoning any thought of trying to convince Melanie that he had actually prepared the meal. Staring out the window, he grins widely as he spies Melanie paying for the food.

Suddenly, randomly, there's a trigger in memory. He runs into the bathroom and kneels beside the toilet, feeling behind it for the errant tube cap. His hand brushes something plastic... a baggie. He pulls it out, curious. Squinting at the half-empty dime bag of marijuana, he almost giggles. He had no idea Melanie smoked. He's about to put it back when he sees Melanie at the bathroom door, her face in a state of horror.

"Sorry, I found your stash."

Her expression does not relax at his attempt at humor. It is then he notices the white powder lightly dusted on the bag.

*Continued in With the Fade of the Tide, Part III

With the Fade of the Tide, Part I

"New moon," he says. He's not really sure why; it was just something he'd noticed. Trying to break the ice, likely. He's not seen her in fifteen years. His former step-sister. Their parents were married for just two years. He was 17 at the time of the divorce. She was 13.

Melanie nods in response, preferring not to speak, keeping her eyes on the gently lapping waves and the smooth sand of the beach caressing her toes. Once upon a time she had a crush on Benoit. It quickly dissipated after the four letters she'd written to him following the divorce went unanswered. From then, she shut him out of her conscious mind, walling him behind justifications of interest due to the mere convenience of having lived together.

She'd picked him up at Charles de Gaulle four hours earlier. And, like Jericho, those walls came tumbling down. The drive to Le Havre was filled with awkward silences and what little conversation there was remained safely in the realm of small talk. She feels 13 again and hates herself for it. Melanie regrets not listening to her attorney. She should have avoided Benoit altogether. Or at least until after the trial. Or, perhaps, when there was a moon in the sky.

"I've missed you." He's repeating the lie. Benoit spoke it earlier as he tossed his luggage into the trunk of her Peugeot 207, but only after he caught her too-wide smile shift into a thoughtful scowl. The expressions were instantaneous transitions, dependent on whether or not he was looking directly at her. Benoit knows why, too. He should have written back.

The false smile returns, though less forceful this time. Both are glad for the dim light, lest the deception be more evident.

Benoit fakes a chill. "I should get to the hotel."

She takes his hand, not for affection, but to lead him quickly to the car. She knows his hotel isn't far from her home and there is unspoken regret for not having remained in Paris. A sudden thought that Le Havre is too small.

***

"Should she be here?" Benoit's family lawyer speaks perfect English, almost without accent. Hervé Gauloise is, in fact, the reason Benoit and his father moved to the United States. Hervé himself had spent over a decade there. He would always talk about the women. But an American woman is not the subject of his current question.

Benoit nods. "She's fine."

Melanie sits to Benoit's right and slightly behind. She smirks at Benoit's defense and glares at Hervé. She's never liked him. Even before he convinced Philippe to take Benoit to America.

Hervé notices her expression and ignores it, preferring to get right to business. He grabs a file from the top left drawer of his ornate solid oak desk and sets it down. "The evidence against your father is overwhelming." Hervé planned to pause - to let it sink in properly - but Benoit responds quickly, almost disinterestedly.

"So I've heard. I didn't even know he came back to see Émilie."

Hervé does not ignore Melanie's subtle wince at her mother's name. Years away from field police work mutes an old instinct to pursue questioning. Instead, Hervé's compassionate side chalks it up to reactive mourning.

"Neither did I. Philippe didn't even phone to let me know he was in France."

"And they found him with the gun?"

"No. He was at the beach, covered in her blood. Many drugs in his system. Hers, too."

Benoit fumes quietly. His father had been sober for over seven years. He'd even given up cigarettes. No alcohol, no marijuana, no cocaine. None of this made much sense to Benoit, but he's been around the world enough times to know that nonsense isn't unusual. Still, he should know his father well, if anybody.

He turns to Melanie. "What has your lawyer said?"

Melanie glances at Benoit; makes brief eye-contact. Had Benoit been paying more attention to her instead of the case, he'd have noticed the flutter. "You know I cannot tell you that."

***

It's a stirring memory. Hiding under the bed, staring at Benoit exiting his shower. She'd seen other penises before, innocently enough, but the sight of her step-brother's - and his quick, absent-minded stroking of it - is an image that has never left her mind. She still remembers the color of the towel he wrapped himself with. A shade of maroon. Almost the color of blood.

***

The moon waxes crescent as Benoit and Melanie sip coffee at a sidewalk cafe. The angle of the moon makes it appear that the crescent is stabbing Benoit in the neck. Melanie smiles, though without malice. It's simply a beautiful image.

"You did not know your father came to see my mother?"

Benoit shakes his head. He's not in a talkative mood. Since he read the brief, his mind has been a whirlwind of emotion and information. Unleashed and aimless. Just... spinning. He hadn't even realized that Melanie kissed him on the neck when she dropped him off after the meeting with the lawyer.

Her smile disappears. She doesn't want it to, but neither does she want to appear callous. Benoit's father is facing life in prison, after all. As she watches Benoit half-heartedly finish his coffee, she takes note of the irony. She'd been sure that he would have the emotional edge in their reunion. His departure from her life had hurt her deeply and she was afraid that his return would scar her further. But he's a wreck. And she's in control. As she'd learned a few weeks ago, control can be exhilarating.

"Perhaps we should walk along the beach."

Melanie stands and offers her hand, affectionately this time. He takes it, though his thoughts are elsewhere. His blank stare at nothing in general makes this obvious. She'll have to rectify that.

*Continued in With the Fade of the Tide, Part II

When the Clock Strikes Now, It is Then

*a continuation of The Window Blinks When the Mirror Sees and Water Stolen from the Desert Does Not Belong to You

Two BII agents lie dead at the scene, along with dozens of bystanders. There were two bombs. One to cause a spectacle and a second to kill everyone stupid enough to want a better look at it. It's a common trick among terrorists, though this wasn't perpetuated by any normal terrorist. The first bomb, the spectacle, killed the BII agents. In fact, it's quickly dawned on Ervin and Lim that the BII agents were intended to be the spectacle.

Lim's a vet of several combat engagements, having served six years in the Marine Corps, so the sounds of the bullets and their ricochets don't bother him as much as they do Ervin, who's extremely close to freaking out.

"Who's shooting at us? Who the fuck is shooting at us?"

"Probably the bad guys," Lim replies, doing his best to scan the area without exposing himself. The corner coffee shop and most of the rest of the building it was in is pretty much obliterated. People scream and cry from all around and Lim gives up trying to listen for the shooter's location.

Ervin whips out his cell phone and dials 911. Lim hears the tones between the increasingly sporadic gunfire and starts laughing.

"Something funny?"

"Ironic, is all." Lim isn't even sure Brawley has a police department.

***

Jimenez hates being a fifth-wheel - hates it even more when he's stuck with Baldwin, the lazy bastard - but the fact that the Kern County Sheriff's Office is allowing them to observe the interrogation is enough for Jimenez to keep his mouth shut. He knows almost immediately that Joey Gould isn't their guy and, in retrospect, shouldn't even be a suspect. But it is his film set that the two Aston Martins came from, it is his crew that the three dead people were a part of, and it is his bank account that received a huge infusion of cash.

"I'm filming a fucking movie, you idiots," Gould yells at the Kern County detective. "Money comes and goes very quickly."

"Through personal accounts?"

Gould glances at his lawyer, some slick asshole from San Francisco. Maybe a cousin or something. The lawyer nods.

"My personal account? Which bank?"

"CB&T money market."

"I don't have a CB&T money market. I don't even know what the fuck CB&T is."

The taller of the Kern County interrogators shoots Gould a questioning look.

"Okay, that's not true," confesses Gould, "but I don't have an account there."

Jimenez turns to Baldwin to say something sarcastic, but his unfortunate partner is sleeping.

***

She may be a puppet in all of this. Or she may be the marionette that learned to pull its own strings. Or maybe everyone involved is a puppet. And can pull their own strings. Maybe it doesn't matter what anyone thinks. So long as they're afraid.

Her wicked green eyes are terrified.

***

"Brawley PD's on their way," Ervin calls out. Even with Ervin's face buried in the floor, Lim can hear the relief in his partner's voice.

"Guess that answers my question," Lim says to himself aloud.

"What?"

"Nothing." Lim continues to scan, propping up and glancing in a certain direction, then ducking and repeating the process in another direction. Gradually, his scans become longer. "It's quiet. Shooter's probably gone."

"It's too quiet," Ervin pleads, well aware of the cliché. "Shooter wants you to think that."

In the distance, sirens from what sounds like an entire platoon of Brawley PD cruisers crescendo.

"I doubt it. Shooter probably wants to avoid prison."

***

Behind a set of binoculars, there's a grin and a chuckle. Shooter can read lips. The cops will find the rifle and remnants of the explosives. Pieces of a puzzle that, the shooter knows, will build the wrong picture.

This is a game the Devil would love to play. An old-fashioned pocket watch is checked and there's another grin. The Feds will be getting involved today. It's almost time to set up the board.

*To be continued...

Killing Softly, Part III

*Continued from Killing Softly, Part II

Sliding glass door shatters and a puff of down and cotton springs from a puncture through the bottom corner of the mattress. The lovers react instinctively without breaking their intercourse, though labia stretch uncomfortably for an instant. His right hand reaches for his pistol on the left night stand. She reaches for her pistol on the right.

***

They've been partners for three years now and have even spoken of marriage. Such a thing is unlikely, however, since their line of work would make the arrangement more dangerous for the both of them. But Jonathan Ferrari and Gemma Bianci are very much in love. As much now as they were three years ago.

Donnie had been right. The cliché fit. Violently lonely souls found peace in the violent hearts of each other. As she sleeps, silhouette reflecting blue-white glow from a filtered moon, he traces a finger from her nude thigh to her neck. She moans softly, dreamlike, and turns over onto her stomach. He gently kisses her between shoulder blades, then shifts her hair to the side and kisses again on the back of her neck.

He can't sleep and very much wants to make love, but she is exhausted from a harder-than-expected assignment and he takes care not to wake her. Instead, he places his head just below his pillow - his nose mere millimeters from her left shoulder - and inhales the scent of fading perfume interrupted by a hint of sweat.

There was a time in life in which he would not even allow himself to imagine such moments. He still doesn't really believe he's living this one.

***

Shards of glass begin their musical percussion on hardwood floor as ballistic zips permeate the room from two sides. Wet tongues maintain their taste of each other as silenced flashes from the ends of pistols return fire. With simultaneous quiver there is an acknowledgment - cognitive and carnal - that they are already dead.

***

Work had been difficult lately. A young enforcer began a power-play for Donnie's position and the body count kept getting larger. So tight was security that Donnie felt the need to bring in his assassins as body guards. He held off calling in Jonathan and Gemma - they were his best, after all - until he decided he had no other option. Their reputations, internationally renown among organized crime and law enforcement circles, helped to stem some of the attempts on Donnie's life, but not all of them.

Reactive defense quickly became aggressive offense and, though their protests remained silent, Jonathan and Gemma soon found themselves soldiers in a war happening in the shadows of New York and New Jersey. For a time, Jonathan and Gemma would continue to operate together - often accompanied by several others - but constant betrayals and shifting of loyalties forced Donnie to send them on different assignments at the same time. Neither minded to the point of refusal, having been solo operators before, but circumstance led to a drastic drop in the amount of time Jonathan and Gemma could spend in each other's company.

Donnie was aware of this, for it eventually reflected quite evidently in the moods of each, but there was nothing he could yet do about it, save cut them loose from their responsibilities. He wasn't willing to take that chance.

***

A 5.56 mm round tears through the flesh of breast and passes near the heart of the other. Crimson from exit wound sprays lover. The assailants move loudly and .45 caliber bullets blaze atmospheric paths towards any sound created by boot and foot. The legs of man and woman straddle each other, continuing to foster oscillating motions as adrenaline adds to lust and regret of dying reminds of love.

***

She massages his shoulders, careful to avoid the black and purple of the fist-sized bruise near the top-right of his ribcage. He loves her hands and their professional technique. And, in his case, their loving technique. The movements of her fingers and thumbs threatens both to induce sleep and elevate libido. As he adjusts his hips to make room for the encroaching discomfort, she gently rolls him over. His eyes are closed but he's smiling. Fingertips glide from chest to stomach; from stomach to inner thighs, then slightly higher. She removes her shirt in a smooth, almost choreographed transition, and she grabs him, drawing him into her in a seamless glide.

His eyes open and palms extend, just barely allowing erect nipples to brush them while her body begins its slow bounce. Watching her for a few moments - this, one of his favorite views - he slides his hands to her hips, palpating her buttocks and finding her ticklish spot on the rear-right of her pelvis. She squeezes him in playful response and he lets go, finding the urge to gasp overpowering.

***

Another bullet cracks scapula, pushing bodies downward for an instant, posture righting itself with an orgasm of life that will end in seconds. The kiss fades, replaced by embrace, neck to neck. Blood rushes from eyes in an attempt to keep bodies and lust alive. With their fading sight, attacking silhouettes are effectively engaged, ensuring that Orpheus and Eurydice will have plenty of fresh company in Hell.

***

Donnie enters the bedroom, unsure of how he'll react. The Handler was right. A massacre was expected and a massacre is what was delivered. Outside of the room are four dead. Inside are six more. Four enemy. Jonathan. Gemma. Were this anyone else, Donnie would take heart in the 8-2 score, but here the thought doesn't dare cross his mind. Even he's failed to realize how much he loved Jonathan and Gemma. They had saved him as much as he'd saved them.

Donnie runs out into the hallway, trying to catch his breath and fight back tears he didn't think existed. He slumps into a chair and pulls out a cigar and his cellphone. His fingers fumble the lighter and it falls to the floor. He's shaking too badly and knows he won't be able to retrieve it.

The cigar thrown across the room, Donnie finds that neither can he dial the number. Holding down voice-dial, he commands, "Call Handler."

A few rings.

"Send in the boys. I can't do it." Donnie hangs up.

He closes his eyes, a numbing sadness forcing a sense of sleep he's not had since he was too young to remember. In his mind, he snaps a photograph of Jonathan and Gemma posed in their final moment of life.

Lovers until the end. Covered in blood. Eyes open, pistols in hand, bodies locked in coital embrace.

Killing Softly, Part II

*Continued from Killing Softly, Part I

"You need a woman," Donnie said, with that half-smile that made it hard to tell if he were joking. Donnie wanted to tell Gemma that she needed a man, but knew Gemma would react more than poorly to the suggestion. So Donnie figured to tell the man he had in mind for her instead.

Donnie knew people. And he knew that Jonathan and Gemma, despite having not yet met, were lost souls who could find themselves in each other. Donnie couldn't help it; the thought made him laugh. Still, there was no doubt in his mind that the cliché fit.

"I don't have time for a woman, Donnie." Jonathan's answer was blunt; emotionless. The sentiment behind the response was clear, even if the words were somewhat of a lie. When he wasn't working, Jonathan did little save read books and watch movies. In essence, he had all the time in the world. That it was painfully obvious Jonathan was depressingly lonely was what sprung Donnie into doing something about it.

Donnie knew people. And the subtle and devious machinations of his demented crime-boss of a mind would, Donnie was sure, eventually come to fruition. He thought briefly of some law of attraction or magnetism he once read about when he was a kid in high school. He didn't understand it then - doesn't understand it to this day - but he figured the principle had to work.

"You need a woman."

***

Gemma Bianci is intrigued. Jonathan's laughter means he's either sick and twisted like damn near every other man she's  met, or that he gets it. It's against her nature, but she's leaning towards the latter. She thought she recognized something different when they met. Something in his posture, in his eyes. Part of her even knows that he thought the same of her.

"So, what about you?" she asks, uncharacteristically wanting to keep the silence broken, though she still does not look directly at him.

"How'd I get into killing?" Jonathan asks in return, flicking what's left of his cigarette out the car window.

"Yeah." She almost smiles. Almost.

He studies her for a moment. He knows he's older than she is, but she looks like she might be the older one. Rough lines from a rough life. He briefly wonders what gene determines how a person's appearance is aged by stress.

"It's kind of a boring story, compared to yours."

"Not sure there's such a thing as a boring how-I-got-into-killing story." Gemma senses Jonathan readying to recount his tale and she pulls another cigarette out of his pack. He stares at it, surprised at her intuition, and licks his bottom lip in burgeoning curiosity - he finds himself wanting to really know her. Noticing his hesitation, she places the cigarette in her mouth and lights it. Taking a drag - a false one, Jonathan guesses - she hands it to him. He can taste her lipstick.

***

The first time Jonathan ever killed somebody, he was only 16. It was a clear-cut case of self-defense... some gang-banging hoodies tried to rip off Jonathan's skateboard and when Jonathan put up a fight, one of the thugs whipped out a knife. In what Jonathan himself calls the quickest reaction of his life, he swung the skateboard into the knife, deflecting the weapon into the assailant's own ribcage. The knife pierced the heart. In shock, Jonathan couldn't do anything but stand there and watch him die.

When the cops showed up, they quickly realized what happened - plenty of witnesses confirmed Jonathan's story - and went easy on him. Though Jonathan was still taken into custody, the arresting officer put on the cuffs as loose as they could get without falling off. Jonathan spent less than two hours in the holding cell.

He, too, wound up with an abusive partner. Amanda Pratt. She had a scolding scream that still causes him nightmares.

Ostensibly abused herself by a high-school boyfriend, she became a self-professed defender of the abused. Amanda was overweight for most of her life and after leaving the abusive boyfriend she resolved to get into shape. Starting with Tae Bo, she engaged in a variety of physical exercise. Rock climbing, Kempo, scuba. There was no activity she wasn't willing to try. She never quite lost all of her weight - though much of it was replaced by muscle - but that didn't stop most men from finding her attractive, particularly Jonathan. Less for her appearance and more for her confidence, he was enamored.

A few months into their relationship, he was slowly exposed to her dogmatic view that men were essentially scum that needed to be cleansed and controlled. He also learned the details that constituted the abuse she endured. Speaking to her sister, he discovered that her "abuse" consisted of a boyfriend slapping her once - by all accounts, the only time this boyfriend ever struck Amanda - at a high school dance. Without excusing the slap, Jonathan realized that Amanda's outspoken defiance was misguided and due more to a public embarrassment, rather than any true sense of abuse.

Finding Jonathan mysteriously against her - so she perceived - she began a quick spiral into abusing him. At first the abuse was emotional, no physical contact at all. But one day she went too far and, in the heat of an argument, grabbed him by the throat. He broke. Feral instinct took over. An elbow to the neck and a violent yank of a pony tail - accompanied literally by a bone-chilling snap - resulted in Amanda's death.

Frightened - both by his own action and of its potential punishment - he fled overseas. He eventually joined the French Foreign Legion - at the time they still fostered changes of identity - and soon became a decorated soldier. Then a mercenary operating out of South Africa. Then a hit-man out of Austria. It was there he first worked for Donnie.

***

"So your name's not really Jonathan Pino Ferrari?" She takes notice that he's let the now-extinguished cigarette dry to his lower lip. It still has her lipstick on it.

"Nope." He spits the cigarette butt out. Point of fact is that he's not even Italian.

"Pino?"

"I love horses."

"And fast cars, I'm guessing." She, too, loves horses, often finding long rides her only form of solace.

He laughs. "Yeah, but I prefer Jaguars."

She understand it's a joke, but doesn't quite find it funny. She's not a car person. Nevertheless, she accepts that he definitely intrigues her. It doesn't hurt that she finds him attractive.

"Huh," she says, finally looking at him. "That was kinda boring."

This time, she joins him in his laughter.

*Continued in Killing Softly, Part III

Killing Softly, Part I

The Handler eyes his boss carefully. Initially, he thought that the request might have been some sort of twisted joke - the boss certainly has a reputation for those - but the sadness so clearly painted on Donnie Adduci's face dispelled the notion.

"You sure you want to do this yourself?" the Handler asks. "We have people already on their way."

Donnie sighs. He does not like to be second-guessed. Under normal circumstances, he'd probably put out his Dominican cigar on the Handler's arm. These are not normal circumstances.

"Yes, I'm sure. I should do it."

"You haven't cleaned up in a while." The Handler adds more respect to his tone, noticing too-late Donnie's subtle ire with the previous question.

Donnie probably should let the others take care of the mess, but this is far more personal than any other mess Donnie can recall at the moment. Far more personal than any of his people could possibly realize.

"Doesn't matter. They were mine. It's my fault."

"What do you mean?" There's alarm in the Handler's tone now. Something's definitely off. Whatever it is, Donnie's not singing.

"Just get me a car, will you?"

***

Jonathan Pino Ferrari eyes the woman sitting next to him. He feels insulted that Donnie gave him a partner - outside of his first three assignments, Jonathan's always worked alone - and even more so that the partner is female. There was a moment that he thought it was a joke. When that proved not to be the case, he surmised that he was expected to train her. The woman - Gemma Bianci - is, however, already a reputable killer. Jonathan couldn't fathom why they were put together. As he sits next to her in a brand new black Chevrolet Impala, he still can't.

He also can't shake the fact that she's... strangely magnetic. Ever the gentleman, he quickly resigns himself to the situation and, finally seeing opportunity, tries to break the ice.

"How'd you get into killing?" It seems a natural thing to ask, though its awkwardness makes even Jonathan cringe as he hears his voice speak it.

There's a moment of silence, barely broken by the almost inaudible separation of wet lips. "That's kind of a personal question, isn't it?" She doesn't turn to look at him.

"It was meant to be." Jonathan pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket - both killers are dressed in Armani - and tears the plastic wrap, placing it in the cup holder in the driver's door. Before he can tap a cigarette out for himself, she fingernails one out and hands it to him. It is not a gesture of friendship, merely the result of being trained to seduce marks. Jonathan recognizes the professionalism behind it and allows a smirk.

"You want the long version or the short version?" she asks.

"I want the however-much-time-we-have version," he replies, lighting the smoke.

***

Gemma was once the girlfriend of Gabriel Adduci, the son of deceased mob boss Alfonso Adduci, Donnie's brother. She was 19, just starting her junior year at Seton Hall. Gabriel was 22, a fresh baccalaureate, though there were questions as to whether or not he truly earned his degree in economics. She didn't care. Gabriel had the look of a movie star and the money, to boot. He bought her expensive things and all of her friends were jealous. Things were great.

Until she graduated and Gabriel asked her to move in with him.

She'd heard the stories of mob kids. Spoiled brats, usually, and not fans of not getting their way. She wanted to apply to graduate school. Gabriel objected. The arguments came to a head and, finally, she threatened to leave him. But instead of having asserted her independence, she provoked Gabriel's wrath and he struck her.

"You leave me when I say you leave me," Gabriel informed her.

For the next two years she dealt with the abuse, afraid that Gabriel would follow-through with his myriad of threats.

One day, he'd come home drunk and wanted to fuck. At first she was going to allow him to masturbate with her body - as she referred to it, for the love was long gone - but it was clear that Gabriel had recently fucked another woman... maybe more than one, and Gemma refused. Not more than a second passed from her screaming, "Not a chance in Hell," to the butt of his Colt Super .38 connecting with her jaw. The blow drew blood and spun her around onto the bed. He spread her legs apart and pulled her towards him, intent on ripping her sweats and panties off. But he made one mistake. He placed the .38 on the corner of the bed.

Not thinking - indeed, not even sure how to fire a pistol - she grabbed it, turned over kicking, shoved it into his belly and pulled the trigger. Gabriel, mainly from shock, backhanded her across the face. While trying to cover her head from further blows, she instinctively pulled the trigger again, blowing out her left ear drum. She couldn't hear a thing.

But then, there was nothing to hear. The second bullet entered Gabriel's nose, traveled into his brain, deflected off the top of his skull, and exited his head from just above the left ear. The sight froze her. She couldn't even bring herself to resist when some enforcers showed up to apprehend her.

It was then she finally met Donnie Adduci. Everyone around the situation thought Donnie would kill her right then and there, but Donnie instead got her medical attention. He told her she was going to be all right.

Donnie, in fact, hated Gabriel. Hated the thought of Gabriel advancing through the ranks. Gabriel was an out of control punk in his eyes. In everyone's, really, but he was Alfonso's kid and, as such, had to be looked after. But Donnie didn't care. Both Gabriel and his brother, Michael, would eventually cause trouble for the Family. Donnie was convinced of this.

So he made Gemma a deal. Kill Michael, too, and all would be forgotten. She didn't think she could at first, but Michael resembled Gabriel in appearance - quite closely - and that made it easier. That was the day after her 24th birthday. Eight years ago. She's been killing ever since. And, outside of her assignments, hasn't allowed a man to so much as hold her hand.

***

"Damn," is all Jonathan can bring himself to say.

"Yeah, Lifetime movie stuff, isn't it?"

Jonathan laughs. She turns her head further away from him and he sees her purse her lips, then frown, in her vague reflection in the car window. He can tell there's still a lot of femininity inside of Gemma, and he's glad for it. Nobody should have to shut off their identity completely. Psychological survival or not. He should know.

*Continued in Killing Softly, Part II

Exhale: A Requiem

"You ever just stay up all night, listening to the same song over and over again?"

The expected cough never comes. There's the sensation of having shoved an ashtray in his mouth, but the flavor takes over quickly. The drag on the cigarette is slow. By design. It tastes good, even though he quit years ago. How the other man in the room knew he smoked Camel Turkish Silvers is unimportant. He knows. And what a godsend that is.

"Like, when you know you should sleep, but the song is just so fucking good, you just keep on listening?"

He laughs softly.

"Kinda like this cigarette."

It's a gentle mutter, as if the embarrassment of falling off the wagon is somehow lessened by being as quiet as possible.

"You don't smoke, do you?"

The question is loud. And unanswered. Not even a nod or shake of the head. Just two eyes staring. Waiting.

"Didn't think so."

He doesn't flick the ashes. He's trying too hard not to shake. It takes every ounce of his strength to hold still. Holding still, watching the end of the cigarette burn into a limp-dick of tar and tobacco. Privy to the wind. C'est la vie.

"It doesn't happen to me much. The song thing. And almost never when a song's got lyrics. You know?"

The cherry finally falls, ending its observation and allowing another slow drag on the stick. He imagines a scene from a movie. Sound amplified. The burning paper as audible as a forest fire. He wishes he could listen to some music.

"I don't suppose you have a radio, by any chance?"

A gloved hand reaches into jacket pocket and produces an iPod. His iPod. He should've known. The cigarette safely stuck to his lip, he grabs the device and turns it on. The gloved hand tosses him his earbuds. He nods in silent thanks and puts them in. The last song played is by Emancipator. How apropos.

"This is a good one."

Closing his eyes, he tastes the cigarette and disappears into the music. He's always found it a liberating song. Freeing thought from worry. The only thing on his mind is the heat from a cigarette burning to its filter. It's time.

***

"You want to tell her anything?"

He's always been patient. It's only fair.

***

"No. She won't miss me, anyway."

But, oh, he will miss this song. He thinks he hears the gunshot. Probably just percussion.

Water Stolen From the Desert Does Not Belong to You

*a continuation of The Window Blinks When the Mirror Sees

"We almost missed it," Jimenez says, proud of the small box-like device in his hand. "Everyone thought it was just part of the computer system, but one of the boys at impound used to work for an effects company."

Detective Ervin shakes his head. This is getting weird. "So the car was rigged?"

"Oh, totally. See these two leads?" Jimenez points at two connectors. "Left-right steering. These three? Gas, brake, and clutch." Jimenez lets it sink in. "Me, I'd have just rigged an automatic tranny, but I'm guessing whoever did this wanted to show off."

Ervin's partner, Lim, bursts into the room.

"Dude, what?" Ervin scolds, a bit startled.

Lim catches his breath. "That girl? Green eyes?"

"Yeah, man. Spit it out."

"Her dad's an effects technician. Specializing in remote-controlled vehicles."

***

The two Kern County Sheriff's deputies didn't seem to care what's going on. Both are, by cruel serendipity, Los Angeles transplants and harbor stereotypical ill-will towards most things Hollywood. Particularly the rich pricks who work in it. Then again, most will accurately describe the man yelling at the two deputies as a prick.

Joey Gould is not a tall man and is more than a little heavyset. He knows he's not physically imposing, but he's mastered the art of the insult and has more than enough money and influence to throw around. That the deputies aren't budging is only make his blood pressure go even higher.

"You found my fucking car, right? It's my fucking car! I need it to finish the goddamn shot! You know, the shot we were nice enough to shoot in this fuckhole of a place!"

Gould's rant is a comical sight, explaining why the deputies are trying very hard to stifle laughter. "We don't have your car, sir. LAPD has it."

An expression of shock is followed by an expression of relief. Shock from the car being in Los Angeles. Relief from knowing he can more easily pull strings with the Los Angeles police.

***

Somewhere a smile widens beyond even the limits of its face. The Devil's joke makes even God laugh. Laughing so hard there are tears. And sobs.

***

"There are no bodies," Ervin says, tapping the photos of the remote. He's smiling, wondering what she's going to do when they bring her father in.

She leans forward slowly, a succubus knowing well and good what her body can do to men. A far too dangerous trait for one so young. "There are always bodies, Detective Ervin."

His smile begins to disappear with the appearance of hers. He leans back, careful to leave her thinking she's in the position of superiority. "Who stole the car?"

"What car?"

The one your father rigged, you dumb bitch. It is a thought he would be more than happy to let loose upon his lips, but Ervin simply nods, gets up, and leaves.

***

"You've gotta be fucking kidding."

Someone throws up. Must be the heat wave.

***

"We don't even know if the bodies in the tub are related to the car," Lim protests. "For all we know, we're forcing two puzzles together and pretending we're Picasso."

Jimenez and a couple of the other detectives turn to stare at Lim, oblivious to what Lim was trying to say.

"If," Lim continues, pounding the two files with his finger for emphasis, "these are related, then shooting up the Aston was done for what? To gather attention, right? Other than the property damage and discharge of firearms, there's nothing to the crime for a pro to be worried about."

Jimenez nods and one of the others, Baldwin, leaves to get get coffee. Lim glares after him. "I'm sorry if I put your brain into overdrive, but for fuck's sake."

Jimenez waves Lim's attention back to the task at hand. "Keep going, man."

"Yeah, fine. Look, we don't even know who the melted bodies are. Burbank's still taking a crack at them. But the point is... if you wanted to claim the killings, why not just call? Or mail a fucking letter? Why get so complicated?"

Ervin storms in. "Because they just found her father's body in the other Aston Martin."

"Other Aston Martin?" Lim asks, the confusion he thought he'd finally begun to sift through returning all at once.

"Propped up in the passenger seat like he's on a Sunday drive."

"Other Aston Martin?" Jimenez repeats the question.

Lim can't keep it in. An exhaled chuckle, full of disbelief. "Except he's dead."

*to be continued...

Twenty Minutes and a Gun, Part I

"Where you going?" Moira asks.

Linda smiles in response, a smile that reassures Moira that, yes, the same conclusion was reached. Linda is going to kill him. It's only fair... Just desserts for all.

Moira nods and reaches into her purse, pulling out her cell phone. "What do you need? I'll make the arrangements."

Staring at the wall, Linda thinks about it for a brief moment, then stands up and heads for the bathroom door. "Twenty minutes and a gun."

*01:00*

Linda looks at herself in the mirror, surprised at the sudden bloodthirsty resolve. There is a momentary recollection of some Commandment she learned years ago in Sunday School, but she shakes it off. In that moment, she has her justification. There is another about coveting, after all. Somehow, in the cosmic lot of drawn straws, everything will remain in balance.

Blinking, she turns on the hot water and splashes her face.

*02:00*

Setting the face cloth down, she clears her eyes and stares at her reflection again. This time, with drops of water obscuring her view, there's the sensation of seeing a ghost. Herself, a few years ago. Like a peek through a soft lens on a camera.

Linda was in love with life those few years ago. Everything and everyone she touched seemed happy. College was wrapping up, her boyfriend just asked her to marry him, her favorite cat had a litter of five (of which she kept two). So simple, then.

She grits her teeth suddenly and smacks herself in the face. "Bullshit," she utters. The facade was simple then, a walled-up complication just waiting to crumble. Things are truly simple now... rubble notwithstanding.

*03:00*

Her favorite three-color toothpaste glides onto a pink toothbrush. She remembers advice her college roommate - a dental student - gave her: "Floss before you brush, Linda. It lets the toothpaste get in the cracks." She has no idea why that popped into her head, but she sets the toothbrush down carefully and grabs a plastic flosser out of a ziploc bag. Flecks of last meal hit the mirror and bathroom counter as she quickly counts to 30, one for each flossed gap.

Throwing the plastic tool in the trash can, she picks up her toothbrush and begins brushing her teeth. He often told her that her smile was the most beautiful smiles in the world. She's going to be damned sure it's the last thing he sees.

*04:00*

Before she's even done brushing, she turns the hot water on to the shower. No time for a bath, unfortunately. Exhaustion creeps through anger for a moment and reminds her how tired she is. She really could use a soak... but that will have to come later. Time is of the essence, as they say, and there's only one essence to her time: she wants to be dressed to kill.

She rinses the toothbrush and sets it in its holder. Mouthwash is poured into lips and she jumps into the shower. There are a few seconds of introspection - and appreciation of the water - before she grabs the facial cleanse. Her hair does not need washing... it shines when it's a little bit dirty, after all... and she's going to be doing something just a little bit dirty.

*05:00*

The apricot exfoliate feels good on her face. She lets it set while she lathers up a washcloth with shower gel. She wants very much to enjoy the shower, but she's well-aware that she's on the clock. It's a self-imposed time limit, to be sure, but a time limit nonetheless. This needs to get done, and she needs to do it. Beginning with her neck, she quickly scrubs her skin down to her breasts - there's a brief recollection of his hands doing the same - then her stomach, legs, and feet.

She considers rubbing her feet with the pumice stone, but decides against it. She'll save that for the soak. After the murder.

*To be continued...

Overthought and Underdead

"We could do it."

"Are you sure? Like, really sure? Because we don't need this fucked up."

The fat guy might not need this fucked up, but he definitely needed a bath.

"Yeah, we could do it."

***

Funny how confidence is so fleeting. Maybe even more fleeting than love. Hell, perhaps both are just myths perpetuated by the aberration known as sentient thought. Or something like that. This is an awful lot to think about during a premeditated murder. Should we have charged more than $5000? $5000 seems kinda cheap now that I'm staring at the guy. I mean, what did he do to me? Sure, he supposedly did something bad to somebody... something worth $5000. But maybe the victim is just an asshole with money to spend and people to have killed.

Ugh. I'm thinking I need a new line of work.

***

"You agreed to what?"

My brother didn't seem happy. We're both former soldiers and we've both killed before, so I figured taking the job wouldn't be a big deal to him. Guess I was wrong.

"A hit." Saying that made me sound so official at the time. Like in the movies. Maybe I should've taken up acting. I've got the looks. Not being able to act never seemed to stop anybody in Hollywood before.

"You're a fucking idiot."

I suppose I was.

***

No, I definitely am. I'm sweating a lot and my brother's asleep in the spotter position. I don't have the heart to wake him up. He'd probably just try to talk me out of this, anyway. But we need the money. Our GI Bills ran out a while ago. Then our unemployment did, too. This economy sucks, you know. Of course, it doesn't help that he has a bum leg and I'm lazy. Yes, I'm lazy. I admit it. You want a cookie, mom? Funny how every thought before a kill seems to be a confession. I'm still thinking too much.

I'd really like a chocolate eclair right about now. Mental note: bring snacks next time.

***

"So you're not going to help?"

"Are you fucking out of your mind? We're not killers."

"Sure we are. You've got more confirmed kills than I do." My logic was so spot on at the time. I should've joined a debate team. The expression on my brother's face was priceless. He was flabbergasted.

***

That's such a cool word, flabbergasted. I wonder if it's a compound word. You know, flabber and gast put together with a past tense "ed" for good measure.

Oops. There's the target. Coming out of his multi-million dollar house in Lake Tahoe and heading to his six-figure car. Lots of trees here at Tahoe. Beautiful area. Bad place to live if someone wants to kill you, though. Too many places to hide. Fighting a war here would suck. I suppose B-52s could just napalm the place, but too many hippies would complain about napalm. Including my brother.

I don't remember how I finally convinced my brother to come help me, even though he's technically not helping right now, snoozing the day away with marks on his face from sleeping on his binoculars. It probably wound down to familial guilt or something. Yeah, that was it.

I guess I better pull the trigger before the target reaches his car.

Okay. Breathe. Blink out the blur. Check the wind. Verify distance. Here we go.

"Let's go get doughnuts."

My brother's voice startles me. But out of anything he could've said, that is the best line ever.

"Leave the gun. We don't need it."

The second best line.

Later, as we enjoy our coffee and doughnuts, we both wonder if the rich dude who just bought a latte and a bear claw knows just how lucky he is. I'm tempted to ask him. But I'll let him finish reading his paper. It's a nice day, after all.

The Window Blinks When the Mirror Sees

*In a feeble attempt to overcome a lack of writer's mood, I started this story for the current Muse at The Tenth Daughter of Memory. Obviously, due to length, I'll have to finish it another time.

"Nobody but you knows what happened." A male's voice. Inquisitive, interrogative. It wants to get to the bottom of things.

"I know." A female's voice. Evasive, rebellious. She's having fun. Or is scared out of her mind. It's hard to know.

"So why won't you tell us?"

"Maybe because it's all part of the plan."

***

It was an unusual safety switch for an unusual weapon. A simple push-button. Though she had no military, law enforcement, or any other type of weapons-oriented training, she knew that most safeties were levers. Well, most on readily-available common firearms, anyway. This was no common firearm. The whole thing weighed about 20 pounds and was over 3-feet long. The stranger who handed it to her called it a "saw," she thought she heard. Prior to hearing the term, she mused that it might have been what her father often lovingly referred to as a pig, but thought better of it. How long ago would that have been? Using a firearm her father used before she was born would have unsettled her.

Why was she here again?

***

A click. An inhalation. A quick prayer even more quickly disregarded. God should not watch this. Explaining this to the Almighty might be a tough sell.

***

Despite the all-too-frequent examples of slow response times, the Los Angeles Police Department is a competent institution and its cops usually get to where they need to get as rapidly as possible. That the shooting began in Magnolia Park was the only factor in tonight's hesitation. Machine gun fire was expected in North Hollywood - a hangover from the infamous bank robbery - but not in Burbank. Still, the bureaucracy was sorted out before anybody even reached the scene. An Aston Martin V12 Vantage riddled with over one hundred rounds of 5.56 millimeter ammunition. Two blood types splattered all over the interior. But no bodies.

***

She had been over-thinking things in an attempt to alleviate her panic. Running in high heels was never a good idea, this much was obvious. But stopping to break off the heels was an even worse idea. Too many movies viewed in the place where movies are made.

She'll never forget the police officer. Over six-feet tall, black, eyes that never see anything surprising. His voice was soft, cautious, and like his eyes... unsurprised.

"Next time," he started, "just kick off the shoes."

At least he hadn't put the cuffs on too tightly.

***

The Detective stares at her through the one-way mirror. Her prints are all over the machine gun, but the forensics team found no carbon residue on her fingers. Gloves are the obvious answer, but her hands were covered in dirt and oil, as if she had been changing the oil in her car. A witness had seen her bolt from the yard where the gun was found, and there was only an estimated four or five seconds between the witness losing sight of her and the officer locating her. Sure, a lot can happen in four or five seconds. But how did she get her hands dirty? There were no fibers or powder caught in the soot, and her hands weren't smudged. Near as anyone could tell, she hadn't been wearing anything on her hands.

***

"Where are the bodies?"

She smiles. Very attractive smile - it almost lights up the room - on a very attractive woman. 5'7", athletic yet curved body. And green eyes. Wicked green eyes. "What bodies?"

***

The Forensics officer smiles at the approaching woman. Most of the patrol units - both LAPD and BPD's - have already left, and he was used to curious neighbors coming up to ask questions. He couldn't stand the CSI shows on television, but they at least gave the viewing public more respect for forensic departments.

"Excuse me, officer?" She's an elderly woman, at least 70. His mother, an uptight English woman, would have called this one a blue-hair.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Has anyone checked on Phyllis and Henry?"

The question confuses him, but on a night like this, with a crime like this, it isn't an alarming state of mind. "I'm sorry, who?"

She points to a residence three houses down the street. It looks like every other house on the block. Built in the 40s, serene under its trees. Except... its lights are off.

He glances up and down the neighborhood. Every single house with lights on. Hard to sleep through a war zone, after all.

"The lights are off."

***

The Patrolman pukes. A lot. The smell didn't get to him; it rarely ever does. But the scene is the most disturbing he's ever bore witness to.

A bathtub full of lye. Two chemically burned - indeed, partially dissolved - bodies thrown together. Evidence of dismemberment. No blood anywhere else in the house. Stranger still, no shell casings or slugs.

They now had two bodies. And, perhaps, a new crime.

***

"Burbank taking this one?"

The Detective's partner shrugs. "They want to know what we want to do. This isn't exactly run of the mill."

Staring again through the mirror, a single thought races through his mind. Wicked green eyes.

*To be continued...

Don't Hide in my Bushes

Let me just start this off by stating that I am, by no means, a fighter. I avoid fights if at all possible, and anybody who knows me knows that I'd usually get my ass kicked in a few seconds.

So there I was... minding my own business, checking emails and such before getting ready for bed. Now, over the past few weeks, my dogs have been going nuts at night for no apparent reason. Tonight, I appear to have apparently discovered that reason.

Not only were my dogs going nuts, I heard a couple of voices screaming outside of my window. So I did the sensible thing: grabbed a flashlight, my trusty gator knife, and my German Shepherd and went to see what was going on. Three kids (two guys and a girl) had some dude cornered in my front lawn... some felon on the run named "Mike" who decided to hide in my bushes.

I advised him to come out, or I'd send the Shepherd in, so he complied. At which point he started fighting with the two guys. Now, he wasn't fighting all that hard, and the older boy was clearly a high school wrestler, so I went inside to call the cops. They were already on their way, but to a different address, so I informed them where the perp was and they adjusted course.

As I went back outside I noticed my neighbors had been woken up, and the wrestler kid was trying to talk the perp into staying put until the cops showed up, but then, as perps often do, the jackass tried to take down the kid. And the next thing I know, I've got the idiot on the ground in a Nelson, one of the perp's arms locked high, and his free wrist under my knee. He tried claiming that he couldn't breathe, at which point I informed him that I had been an EMT and that I was doing nothing to constrict his airway, and kept him there.

Oddly enough, the kids' mother showed up and decided to sit on me in order to add some extra leverage (or so I thought... she later informed me she was just distraught and needed to sit down... go figure). The dude kept struggling, so I told him if he didn't stay still I'd dislocate his shoulder.

Long story short, cops showed up, drama ensued, I caught some conversation about the guy running through backyards and opening gates (my neighbor figured it was his gate), and I went back inside. After everyone left, I let my dogs out for one last bathroom break of the night.

Of course, with my luck, it was my gate that was opened, and now my dogs are off gallivanting around the neighborhood at 1 in the morning.

I should've dislocated that fucker's shoulder.