They had been watching the standoff for the past half-hour; tempers balanced precariously on the edge of a precipice. With the temperature high and the humid air suffocating them all, the street had filled with topless young men and scantily dressed young women. Eddie’s shirt hung from his back pocket and his baggy jeans slumped on his waist. The bottle of water he was nursing was warm, and he dumped its contents over his head. It gleamed in small pebbles off his skin. He fished in his pocket for a toothpick left over from the previous night’s dinner at the corner restaurant, and stuck it between his teeth, watching the corner.

An argument over a girl between two young men had sizzled quickly the night before. Their friends had separated the two rapidly enough that they had not come to blows, but too late for sparing their wounded dignity. Had they been left alone, the fight would have happened and there would be a bloody loser. Long hours of festering had brought both men to the boiling point, and there was no doubt that there would be a fresh body for the morgue sooner rather than later.

"Five hundred says he talks shit and then bites it," Callie said, patting the front pocket of her jeans.

"Bet," Eddie snorted and scratched at the prickly hairs that had begun growing out of his scalp.

Callie puffed on a blunt. The sweet mingling of tobacco and marijuana floated around her and perfumed the stoop.

"What the fuck you lookin’ at, motherfucker?" came the expected shout from one corner, and Eddie hit the ground when the first gleam of a weapon flickered in the sun.

Callie stood to her feet, smiling and crinkling her nose in anticipation. "Woo, baby. It’s on."

"Fuck you, hijo de puta. Go ahead, shoot. You ain’t got the balls for it, sonofabitch!"

Clack, clack, and they were running for cover, children and adults screaming for safety. Blood smeared a car and ran down to the asphalt, dripping into the slowly pooling gore around the fallen young man who had chosen bravado over pulling his own weapon. The shooter was grinning, strutting and holding up his hands as if he had just won a boxing match, the gun back in its hiding place at his waist.

Callie held a hand down to Eddie, the blunt held between her teeth. "See, tol’ you," she smiled.

"Yeah, yeah. Put it on my tab. Fuckin’ cops gonna come around now. Remind me to smack that stupid ass later."

More than one sleepless night had gone into dissecting the contents of the frayed notebooks that held endless numbers and the unrevealed secret of where Magali stored her money. Eddie had all but given up on the idea of finding the store, focusing instead on hoping for Magali’s quick return. Antonio hadn’t appeared in days, apparently assuaged by the large sum of money Eddie had provided in a duffel bag. But that money had been intended for other pay-offs, and they were missed, the price high—war was declared. Hot, dark nights descended, with raids on distribution sites and shootings by what the mayor called ‘justified police officers.’ Phone calls and urgent messages on beepers were never ending, and Eddie prioritized them by monetary worth, leaving hundreds trapped in downtown cages and families scrambling for income. Brooklyn had toppled first, under the heavy hand of a special task force built and financed by money recently allocated to the city. It was rumored that independent survivors of the raids were filling the vacuum. The empire was falling, crumbling into bloody dust and fragments of bone.

Callie coughed out a puff of smoke and pointed to the corner. A police car was taking the curve and speeding past to the opposite end of the street. Spinning blades of a helicopter beat down on the air above them, and the screeching wheels of an official armored truck rounded the street and came to a stop. Eddie swallowed hard, and pulled on Callie, running into the dark lobby of the building behind them. The panic rang behind them in a cacophony of voices raised in alarm and fear.

"Raid! Po-po!"

Metal scraped closed behind them with the slamming of the lobby door. They raced up the stairs, Callie grimacing at a bad twist in her knee as she ran.

"Where the fuck were the lookouts? They should have shouted this shit out!" Eddie yelled between breaths.

Trampling boots pounding on the hollow stairs above them answered him; the police had taken out the lookouts before they executed their sudden maneuvers. Callie brushed past him, darting to the left and down one of the various long, dark hallways. He followed her. If there was anyone who could find a route out, it would be Bajo Zero’s assassin. For all her seeming frailty and femininity, Callie was deceptively strong. Her violent core served her well when needed. She was never without a weapon, and the few overhead lights that were on along the hallway became targets she shot out as they stampeded through. Although the sun shone brightly outside, poorly placed windows and blacked-out panes created a cavernous feel to the buildings they worked in. Glass shattered and fell around them and, in the dark, Eddie was left with only the sound of Callie’s footfalls to guide his way.

An echoing clatter just ahead of him cast out light, and Eddie skidded to a halt just past the door Callie had kicked in. The tenants shrieked at their entrance, but Callie silenced them with a finger to her lips and a gun to their faces. Eddie shut the door; white beams from flashlights circling through the darkness and highlighting the paint peeled walls of the corridor through which they had just fled. Ruddy faces peered up at him from behind a flowered skirt. They had apparently interrupted an early dinner, and one of the four small children was having trouble keeping a slice of bread in his mouth. Callie tapped Eddie on the shoulder and cocked her head down the apartment’s hallway towards an open bedroom door. He could just make out the illegal gate barring the fire escape.

"We can’t go down through there, they’ll fuckin’ see us."

"No they won’t, watch. Come on."

Callie pushed aside the gate, a remnant left over from the sixties, its pattern reminiscent of the gates of freight elevators. The window was already open, and she crawled through it, legs first, and out into the open, then disappeared.

"What the fuck?" Eddie gasped and, forgetting the danger and puzzled at Callie’s escape, poked his head out.

"Here, stupid." Callie’s voice called from the flat brick wall.

"Where?"

"Step out and over the banister. There’s a hole in the wall, come through it. Quick!"

The height was dizzying. As children, he and Magali had run over roofs and jumped gaps to land on others, but what Callie had instructed him to do felt as if he were jumping into the void. He held his breath and swung over the railing. A protruding brick column blocked his view, but he leapt for where he had heard Callie call. Surprisingly, he landed on a narrow plank. It squealed with his weight and Callie sneered, her face half in light half in shadows. Beneath them a chasm billowed with musty air-- the vacant tunnel of an old garbage chute no longer in use and boarded up.

"Over on your left there’s like a steel ladder. Get over to it, fatty. This shit ain’t gonna hold us forever," Callie barked. Sirens screamed through the streets outside and echoed into the tunnel, bouncing off the walls and playing an eerie tune.

He felt his way in the dark, his hand finally finding the dusty rung of an escape ladder; its rust bit into his palm. He found a footing and began his descent, Callie a few feet above him. Bits of the decaying metal fell onto his face.

"Where the fuck this shit goes to?"

"The floor’s knocked out, can’t you smell it?" she asked, biting down on the collar of her T-shirt and pulling it up over her face to cover her nose.

"Smell—aarrgghhh. What the hell?" Eddie cringed, covering his mouth and nose with a hand.

"Sewer."

A few steps down later Eddie splashed into the slimy mire, Callie cruelly laughing at his discomfort.

Everything they ever showed in movies was absolutely true. Eddie expected an alligator to swim by any minute, and he had no idea how or where Callie was going. She tiptoed along a narrow brick walkway, filthy water and muck lapping the sides of her boots. His broad shoulders scraped the wall, and his sneakers slipped every few steps leaving him to claw at the wall for balance. His fingertips were bleeding with the effort.

"How much longer," he coughed.

"Not far, Eddie. Just a little more."

"How the fuck you know where you’re going?"

"Well, Zee takes all her fucks to hotel rooms…she takes me into the sewer."

"That’s nasty, Callie." He winced, watching a rat swim by.

"Yeah, and you are retarded. We didn’t fuck here, Eddie. This is her escape route; we plotted it years ago. She made me do it blindfolded once, that was fucked—Here we go," she smiled. "Right up this ladder and out to the street."

Sewer covers were as heavy as they looked and then some. He was already exhausted from lack of sleep, and the raid had set him on edge. It was all the worse when he peered through the slit of the sewer cover to find they had merely traveled a square block. He could hear the sirens above it all, and could imagine the scene from within. Bodies would be lined up face down on the ground-- arms tied behind them, guns in their faces. Children crying from open windows; innocents begging for their stories to be heard while they were carted away with the rest.

"This shit just cost us a ton of money, Callie."

"A ton? Like how much is that?" she questioned, standing close to the wall, waiting her turn to ascend up to the fresh air.

"We won’t have money for the Bronx. We’ll have to cut them loose. Back to square one."

"Zee’s gonna have a fit."

Eddie nodded, and pushed the cover completely off, the grime of its sides flaking and falling, hitting Callie’s shoulders. "Yeah, and she’s gonna have it all on my head."

Callie climbed out behind Eddie, dusting herself off in vain; the stench had infiltrated the threads of her clothing permanently. "I’m going home. Call me when you need me," she sneered, sniffing her T-shirt.

"It’ll be sooner than you think. Why don’t you just come over to my place? Mariana’s shit should fit you."

"Nah, go home to your wife. She won’t be too happy to see me. Anyways, I have a tail of my own waiting at my crib." She smiled and winked at him, walking away without an outward trace of the nervousness he felt in them both.

Uncommon as it was, Callie was headed home, a term she used loosely; the streets were home. With the weather holding up she had taken to riding her Ninja wherever she needed to go. It kept her closer to Zee, though it reminded her acutely of the woman’s absence. She pressed her seat into the saddle and leant forward, recalling the feel of her chest against Magali’s back, the wind and her scent. Racing through traffic at breakneck speed, she kept the mirrors well in focus. No telling when flashing lights would appear. Her hand itched on the throttle, waiting for an excuse to go faster, closer to death where she could taste life, there on the edge where it could vanish. Adrenaline nourished her. The way water and food were a human sustenance, she breathed danger and recklessness.

The Williamsburg Bridge connected the Lower East Side of Manhattan with the coast of Brooklyn, and it was her favorite part of the trip. The bridge was all metal and beams of steel, spanning the length of the East Side River at one of its widest sections. Its grated floor, designed to keep the bridge from flooding in the rain or freezing over, made the bike wander and float as it crossed. The unstable feeling of it and her close proximity to the railing caused her blood to pump in her ears; one mistake and she would plunge into the waters. To Callie, the bridge crossing was far too short.

Pedestrians fled from her approach, her engine’s high pitched screaming their only warning of her. She slowed once she hit the corner of her street, looking for anyone who might be lying in wait for an ambush. She squeezed the small box hanging from her belt and the door to her loft lifted open. The stereo was blasting, beating bass against her chest as she shut off the engine and pulled off her helmet. She shook her head to loosen her hair; it fell around her face and stuck to her neck.

"Charlotte! God damn it, the whole fuckin’ neighborhood can hear that shit playin’. Charlotte!"

The volume decreased suddenly and the wide, radiant smile crowning dark full lips that greeted her almost made her forget she was angry. Charlotte was as small as Callie was, with skin the color of polished mahogany and eyes envied by onyx; they suffered brilliantly. When she was miffed, her Jamaican accent filtered into her speech, and Callie would lose track of what the woman was spouting off about, so trapped would she become in the spark of the woman’s eyes. Soon it would be time to let her go. Better to do so when she was still a distant figure than a piece that made her whole.

"I didn’t expect you back, boo. I’m sorry." Charlotte smiled wider, throwing her arms around Callie's shoulders and then cringing away. "Me God, you be needing a shower, bebe. W’at da bambaclat you been in, eh?"

"Nothin’ some water and some ass won’t get rid of," Callie leered, wiggling her eyebrows. Charlotte gave her arm a slap, and she wiggled her eyebrows in the delight of it.

"Tssk, and to tink ya kiss me wit’ dat mout’."

"That’s not all I do wit’ dis mout’," Callie mimicked back, and pinched her bottom as she did.

"Go on, ya nasty," the woman yelped, pushing her playfully towards the stairs and the bathroom. "Git, now. I’ll bring ya sometin’ to eat, and then we be ire."

"Sure, sure, whatever you say," Callie replied with a grin, and began her ascent up to the bedroom and as much water as New York could supply.

She left her clothes piled in a corner, as far away from her as she could get them while she dried. The thought of trashing them crossed her mind more than once whenever she caught a good whiff of them, but money was scarce and she could remember with stark clarity what it was like to steal food for survival.

Curry. It was more than a spice. Properly used, it could clear up any type of congestion, or bring the diner as close to instantaneous combustion as was possible. Charlotte lay on her side at the center of the captain’s bed, the plate of yellow rice and peas bordered with the dark gravy of Ox-tail stew beside her, midway between her lap and chest. She was playing with the sticky lumps of rice with a fork, hungrily leering at Callie’s naked form as she emerged from the shower and dried. The scent of the dish lured her out of the bathroom wrapped in a black towel, her hair wet and straight down the middle of her back.

"Hungry?" Charlotte mouthed, insinuating everything but the food as the target of her appetite.

Callie melted. With her emotions locked away from the act for safekeeping, she gave her body free rein. Her hands gripped at Charlotte’s arms, pinning the woman down for the onslaught; she tasted her lips, sultry and trembling. A willing sacrifice, open and in wait for the taking, Callie was deaf to all but the discordant symphony begun; a sweet escape. Their bodies feeding and rocking; sensations that wracked her with the need for more gave way to a richer hunger. Sounds became tangible, felt not heard, in a tangle of flesh and pulsing. The line separating pain and pleasure disappeared, what should have been uncomfortable-- transformed-- electric. Ensnared in slick embraces, devouring kisses, sweet and intoxicating. Bestial instinct and want conquered-- biting, clawing, gripping-- vanquishing thought and swaying caution. Sweat and heartbeat, flame and touch, all one, all encompassing, rising and flaring to a celestial boundary, flooding the senses and creating new ones. Breath quickening between lips, touches urgent, taking and giving, blood racing, carrying jolts of heaven, and exploding into the shakes and groans of undoing. Free.

Callie lay on her stomach, her arm hanging off the side of the bed, a cigarette between her fingers, Charlotte’s torso draped over her back, asleep. She hated after-sex, the contact too intimate for her tastes, preferring instead a shower and a quick, "See you later." The warmth of another body reminded her that she too was human; it awakened desires and needs she equated with weakness, and they disgusted her. It was always easier with Zee, who used with impetuosity and then abandoned with the skill of a child bored with an old toy. Charlotte had stayed around for far too long, yet, without known reason, Callie hadn’t turned her away. Often she thought of it, then a touch, a well-placed kiss on her neck, or the simple act of a wordlessly brought drink when it was hot crushed the intent.

The phone rang, and Callie stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray by her hand to pick it up. Charlotte slid off groaning in complaint.

"Yeah?" she answered her voice hoarse.

"You need to get back over here, woman.

The tip of a finger lightly traced the middle of her back, and she caught her breath with the seductive touch. "Not now, Eddie. Can’t it wait?"

"You can get laid whenever you fuckin’ want, Callie," he argued. "I need you here and now. There’s a shipment coming in and if it gets bagged, we’re done." He had the same ominous note in his voice used by doctors in a crisis.

Wet lips teased at her neck and Callie arched into them, smiling lustfully.

"Callie! God damn it! Cut that shit out! If I want phone sex I’ll call for it!"

Callie rolled over, gently pushing Charlotte away from her as she did. "Alright, Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I’ll be there as soon as I can."

"Good. Later then."

Callie slammed the cordless phone onto the mattress, staring, as she did, up towards the ceiling and its puzzle-like shades of white. Sunlight was fading, taking with it the warmth of its brightness and bringing on the cold dimension she moved in, the darkness of night. Charlotte slid beside her, caressing her midriff with playful lips and haunting hands.

"Don’t go," Charlotte whispered into her skin, her voice black magic, bewitching her.

"You know I have to. Besides," Callie voiced, turning her head and gazing at the needle and spoon on the night table next to her, "you have plenty to entertain yourself wit’."

"I’d rather have you."

"You don’t have me, Charlotte. I tol’ you that before," Callie hissed, a fire sparking in her gut. She pushed her witch away and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed; the plate of food slid under the bed. Gentle hands held onto her shoulders, kneading the taut muscles there carefully and lovingly.

"But you can have me," came the whisper by her ear.

Callie shook her head, a chill running down her spine. "Not now, I have to get back to Manhattan."

"No, love. If you go…you no cum ba’k."

Callie heard the warning in her voice, not a prophecy, nor a threat, but uttered as a fact. Her anger flared with it, and her body, responding as it did, hurled itself towards the woman, easily throwing her down; Callie’s hands pressed near Charlotte’s throat. "What the fuck are you babblin’ about?"

Charlotte’s eyes dimmed, it had been a sore subject between them whenever she brought it up. Her brother Frank had remained loyal as long as he could, but when the raids began and the death toll rose, it was a fight to the finish. Small factions around the city had sprung up from the remains of Bajo Zero’s empire, struggling for power and territory, fighting each other for the largest holds, and most importantly to take the crown for themselves. "Zero’s dead, and if you go, you will be too. Her right hand is marked."

"You can take his place…under Frank. He’ll pay you for what you’re worth. Never the shadow again," Charlotte bargained.

Callie released her, pulling away and walking to the closet, opened the sliding mirrored doors. Charlotte watched her, sitting up and covering her naked form.

"Cum now, Callie…nuttin’ lasts forever. I know you loved her, but she’s gone and you are not."

Callie bit her lip and reached into the closet, she fingered the cold steel of a gun hanging in its holster from a hook behind her clothing. Her jaw clenched and she pulled the weapon from its sheath. In her hand it was weightless, the silencer a comforting extension. When she turned to face Charlotte the weapon was cocked and loaded, held straight out by an arm attached to her numb body.

"You’re right, Charlotte…nothin’ lasts forever."

It was quick, the fear in Charlotte’s eyes and the wisp of exploding air one and the same. The woman had opened her mouth to plead, and the lips that had caressed her body lost their color in silence. A black spot on the sheets grew crimson and spread, staining the bed in a splash of morbid art. Callie dropped the gun on the floor, and cracking her neck went down to the kitchen for the jugs of acid she liked to refer to as detergent. If she timed it all right she could be rid of the corpse in her bed by the time she was dressed.

*******************************************************************

Mariana always hid whenever Eddie was in a mood. She could read him from a distance--the strain on his face, the heaviness in his step. Their bedroom was a safe haven from whatever plagued him. Baby powder tickled her nose and she sneezed from it. Alejandra giggled up at her, turning onto her back and off the quilt to leave white butt prints on the blue sheets of the bed. The girl’s long wet hair curled into ringlets, and Mariana playfully pulled on one and watched it spring back smiling. Alejandra was looking more and more like her birth mother, the piercing blue of the eyes unmistakable. Enrique, her son, abandoned the TV show he had been watching to join her on the bed, tickling his little sister and then her. He had inherited the playful character of his father, who at the moment was slamming something in the kitchen.

"Don’t worry, Mami. He’ll buy you a new one," Enrique responded to her concerned face. His smile and exaggerated wink earned him a head rub.

"Do you like your new teachers? You haven’t said anything since you started last week," she asked, turning her attention back to the rolling toddler on the bed. Alejandra sat up and stretched her little arms up, waiting for Mariana to pull the small nightshirt over her head.

"They’re okay. But they give too much homework," he complained, then sat back on the rug in front of the TV.

Mariana nodded, the boy had begun his first year of high school, thankfully at a Catholic all boys school. Eddie had thought to delay his adventures with girls that way, hoping to keep his son from following in his footsteps, though he never framed it in that way.

"Don’t worry…it’ll get worse," she chuckled, ignoring the sound of the opening front door. Someone was visiting, and with her husband’s mood, she wasn’t interested in who it could be.

"Maybe—" A loud crash from the living room interrupted him and he turned quickly to face his mother as she jumped off the bed and ran for the door.

"Stay here, Enrique," she whispered, swallowing her sudden anxiety as she did. "Watch Alex," she instructed giving him an encouraging glance and, carefully opening the door, stepped through it. The short hallway ended at the living room, from it she could see the front door of the apartment and a quarter of the room. A lamp lay broken in half on the floor, some of its porcelain pieces scattered around it. It had been a floral lamp Eddie had given her when they had first moved into the place. He had said the violets printed on it had reminded him of her—"small and beautiful."

"Eddie?" She called out for him, but there was no answer. A mysterious silence had fallen, and it shook her from within. "Who’s there?"

"No, Mari! Get out!" She heard her husband’s voice, riddled with terror and forewarning. The sound only made her run to him, maternal instinct ruling everything that had to do with her family. Callie, that dumb bitch, she’s lost her mind again. This time I’m kicking her ass. Show her to come into my house and disrupt—

When she saw Eddie she fervently wished it had been Callie in the apartment with them. His larger body was being held at bay by a shorter, darker man, with the abhorrent leer of triumph on his face. The business had come to roost in their domain, the blue tinted metal of the man’s gun formed a lump in her throat, and she prayed that Enrique would stay where he was.

"I didn’t know you had a wife, Bishop," the man said smiling at her, then waved her to Eddie’s side with the weapon.

"What’s he want, baby?" she questioned softly, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"His retirement. Maybe you can get him to agree, eh?" the man answered in Eddie’s stead.

Mariana’s hands shook; he could see them as they tightened around him, keeping him close. Eddie was sure she was thinking his thoughts, seeing the children in the bedroom. His heart raced. If Magali had been there, the man would have been dead before he had spoken. She could always spot trouble, knew it by name and face. When the knock on the door had come, Magali would have shot through it. He, on the other hand had opened it to let in someone he knew to be a worker, a man deemed to be loyal despite the recent upheavals. Eddie held her tightly, hoping that in some way his body could shield her, though he knew what would come, and his shielding of her wouldn’t be enough.

Boom, boom.

Eddie recognized the pounding on the door, and wanted to laugh when he saw Frank jump. No one in New York knocked that way except for the police, and Eddie had never thought he would be glad to hear it, but there it was.

"Police, open up." The demand from behind the door was clear—open the door or else. Eddie couldn’t help but smirk. He was probably holding his wife for the last time in what would be years, but she would be safe and he didn’t care if he would pay an eternity for it.

"Put the gun down, Frank. If I open the door now, they’ll take me, and that’ll be the end of it. You can walk away…forget you ever stepped foot in here and you can have the whole fuckin’ city for all I give a fuck." Mariana’s arms squeezed him; she knew perfectly well what he meant. They were there for him. They had always expected it, hoped it was just a nasty fear.

"And what’s gonna stop you from snitchin’ on me?" Frank spat, gritting his teeth. Things weren’t working out the way he planned.

"Open the fucking door, Eduardo! Last chance." The voices in the hallway were getting louder; the sirens in the street had begun.

"You think I want you comin’ back here? Or one of your boys? Drop it dumbass, and you walk," Eddie barked back.

Law enforcement had a nifty tool they called a "here we come." It was a long, thick metal pole with a flat end designed for knocking doors down with the help of only two men. When it crashed through a door, not only did it leave a gaping hole in the wood or dent in the metal, but it threw the hinges right off the wall. Eddie’s lips formed the words ‘too late, stupid" as they stampeded into the room, guns held at head level, darting in every direction. He would have grinned if he hadn’t felt Mariana’s arms slip away from him, his heart sank, her actions were too quick, too desperate. He saw their faces, alarm and decision flashing in grim omen. His peripheral vision caught Frank’s fate as it played out, his gun still in hand as he fell dead. The scream that ripped from Eddie’s throat was drowned in the popping; a searing tracer burned its way through the air and through Mariana. His breath stopped, his soul shattered into fragments, and tears that had been staunched by years of disastrous scenarios fell from his eyes.

God, no, his mind pleaded. Words wouldn’t leave his mouth; they were trapped, ensnared in the nightmare unraveling before his eyes. One step and he was closer to her, she was still breathing; he could see the slight lift of her chest through his blurred vision.

"Stop, don’t move!" Far away voices commanded.

"My wife…" he cried softly, repeating the words as a litany, a spell that could keep her alive. He reached out for her; a uniform knelt by her side, turning her over. Mariana’s eyes turned to him, begging, pleading for her life as if he could wipe it all away. "Please, Baby," he choked out, "please don’t go." He tried, as gently as he could to get closer. His legs wouldn’t carry him, he was weak with it all. They were reaching for him, taking his hands and pulling them behind him as he fell to his knees and was pushed down to the floor. She was near, her lips struggling to speak, the air in her lungs wheezing in her chest. Eddie fought the hands, pushing his body to crawl the last few feet to Mariana’s side, to touch her, to keep her earthbound. Uniforms blocked him. They pounded on her chest, breathed into her mouth, prayed, and then closed her eyes when she surrendered.

He wanted to curl up and die with her. If he could only stop himself from taking in oxygen, or get them to shoot him too, to take his life and send him to her. He clenched his fists, pulled on the cuffs that bound his hands, strained to lift his body from the floor. A pair of bronze bare feet, their toes and heels red with warm blood, chilled what was left of him. Enrique’s face was cold, his brown eyes flooded, his mouth stern and pursed. An officer embraced the boy, and Eddie couldn’t see his face.

"Get the fuck away from my son!" he yelled, kicking and rolling his shoulders to get up from the floor and get to the officer. "I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you sonofabitch. You killed her! You fuckin’ killed her!" A foot landed hard on his back, stealing the breath he had borrowed from the sanguine air. He pushed against it.

"Papi!" Enrique cried, wrestling against the officer who was pushing him away only to see the policeman above his father swing a dark stick and silence his protector. "You killed her!" rang in his ears.

******************************************************************

Callie kicked at a loose piece of concrete on the sidewalk. Everywhere she looked there were uniforms. Some were smiling; others were relating the tale of what had happened to their colleagues. She hid her face from the yellow flashing lights whenever they passed by her, though no one would recognize her. As Charlotte had told her earlier—she was the shadow. Two ambulances drove up and stopped out front. She had watched them cart Eddie away earlier, unconscious and manacled, and was waiting to see who else would come out of the building.

Minutes later a stretcher was pulled through the front doors--a body draped in white, too big to be any of the children. The second was similar, but the frame hidden much smaller. A woman she thought looked familiar entered the building, an officer close at her heels. Callie waited, long after the blue and white trucks raced away with their cargo, until only three police cars remained. She pushed her hair away from her face and took a deep breath. Walking towards the building, she held her head high. Enough officers had left to make her comfortable, and she entered the building with only a few concerned glances directed at her. The crackling of the radios echoed in the lobby.

"Going somewhere?" a male voice spoke from behind her.

She froze in her tracks; turning with what she thought was her best, worried expression. "A neighbor called me and I—Moreno," she spat when she recognized the detective. His hair as always was slicked back to straighten his natural curls, and his dark beard was meticulously combed and cut near his face. She had only seen him in passing once or twice within the past few years. There had been a period when he had spent a great deal of time by Magali’s side; it wasn’t until much later that Callie had come to know what he truly was and despised him for it. "What are you doing here?"

"My job. I’m guessing you are too. No?" he queried, putting his arm around her shoulder and leaning close down to her. "Now pretend I’m telling you bad news, and I’ll take you upstairs."

Callie nodded slightly, listening intently as they walked.

"Where’s your boss?" he asked into her ear.

"I don’t know…Like I would tell you bastards if I did."

He pretended to comfort her by rubbing her back, and they took the first few steps up the stairs. "Listen, you little shit," he crooned, "see all this shit blazing everywhere? It’s because she’s seriously missed, understand? Now her man’s locked up, these kids’ mother is dead; every fucker in the city wants a piece of the apple, and my pocket’s looming empty. Besides, I’m really getting worried about her. I heard she’s dead."

"You have your ways, find out for yourself, you sonofabitch. And don’t fuckin’ act like you care about her either. You were the one who bounced, when she needed you." Callie hid her face with her hands, shaking her head, and giving any onlookers a good show.

"Needed me? She was the one—Look, that’s way back in the past. I don’t expect you to understand shit about it. She got what she needed from me, and I got what I wanted from her, end of story. Just find her, and get her to surface," he demanded.

Officers parted for them, and Moreno led her through the apartment, past the drying puddle of blood at the entrance of the hallway and to the bedroom. Alejandra was asleep on her brother’s lap, her thumb in her mouth. Enrique looked pale, his blank look when he spotted her struck a cord. He took her glance as a sign to keep quiet and obeyed.

"Mrs. Bradford, this is…" Moreno offered, gently pushing a distraught looking Callie into the room.

"Califia Santos, detective," Callie interrupted; the man wouldn’t know her real name.

"She’s the children’s aunt. I think it would be alright to remand them to her custody."

Callie stepped closer, inspecting Alejandra and laying a hand on Enrique’s shoulder. The boy was in shock; she knew the empty glare, and the shot of loathing he gave Moreno. Alejandra stirred and opened her eyes, sleepily reaching up to Callie; hers was a grown up face the girl recognized. Callie picked up the toddler, cradling her face and staring into the blue, half-closed eyes. The girl took a look at Moreno and stuck her thumb back into her mouth, letting her head fall on Callie’s shoulder.

"I’ll take care of them," she said dutifully to the social worker, then sneering at Moreno when the woman wasn’t looking, added, "someone in their family should."

Moreno looked away, blanching and, closing the door behind him, left them alone.

*******************************************************************

Magali fingered the four dry stitches puckered on her forehead. They had been kind enough to take her to the hospital before throwing her into a holding cell apart from the others, and though at first she had been grateful for the quiet, it was slowly working on her nerves. The nurse who had cleaned the wound had made no effort to hide her disdain as she wiped away at the cut with bloody swab after bloody swab. A small part of her cherished the hatred in the woman’s eyes, took it as a fitting and deserved treatment for the many things she had been unrepentant about and would remain so. If Magali hadn’t been so exhausted, and handcuffed to the railing of the stretcher, she would have given the woman something to look down on. Perhaps a bit to fear and loathe in her private hours. Thinking of the whole scene only made her angrier, and Magali tried to focus on something else. Believably, the metal toilet of the cell was a counterpart to every other toilet she had ever seen in a jail, and it smelled just as bad as it looked. The walls were the same putrid green and the floor the identical pebbled poured concrete she had lain on in New York. Somewhere there was an architect making a shitload of money from the single blue print he had worked on once a long time ago.

The only difference in this fuckin’ place is the way they twist the law around. No fuckin’ wonder LAPD has the worst reputation in the country, she thought, spitting at the wall and watching the foaming saliva drip slowly down to the floor. That’s disgusting…Well, so’s that sandwich, she told herself, glancing at the neatly wrapped, dry bologna and white bread sandwich on the cot next to her. It was the twenty-eighth of its kind, and without a watch or a window she estimated her stay to have stretched out to fourteen days. Breakfast was a small plastic cup of apple juice and a wanna-be donut; lunch and dinner were bologna and more bologna. I could have sworn that a prisoner had the right to a speedy trial. Shit, I haven’t even seen a lawyer yet. Every fuckin’ dick wit’ a badge that comes this way just fuckin’ ignores me. What the hell? Can I see a fuckin’ judge already so I can at least get something other than a sandwich! Okay, so I got printed. They should know who I am by now. I’ve never been extradited; maybe this is what it’s like? They could at least let me make a fuckin’ phone call! And who the hell would you call anyway? I don’t want to be here…Fuck this, I won’t be. Just wait ’til I get my hands on you—

The space was large enough to allow her pacing room, and she used every square inch she could to stomp her heels against the ground and envision its shaking under her. She needed to be angry, she decided, furious at the lot she had drawn and gambled on. Weeks of patiently waiting for the right opportunity to see her Saint--though anything but patient--just to know that she was safe and happy. The chance to speak to her for one solitary moment, gone because she had chosen to care for the fate of a foolish old woman and a brassy kid who couldn’t wipe his own ass to save his life. It had gone against her grain, not to march headfirst into the palace where Julia stashed her jewel and steal Casey away; prudence had been a virtue painstakingly won under Mei’s tutelage, one that never quite took full hold. But she had taken the safest course, not for herself, but for her Saint. A life on the run was the last thing she wanted to give Casey…and what if I had? Julia would have set the cops on me, and I would be…right the fuck where I am now. One more day, another hour, shit, that’s all I needed. So close I could touch her, find out for sure…she’s alright.

Magali crossed the room again, rubbing the spot behind her head where the ache from Casey’s bludgeoning had been. She could have changed her mind that night, seen me for what I really am…she could have decided to leave with Julia because…who in their right mind would want to step into my hell? Willingly? But, God I love her for that, because she’s not part of my world. She’s the dawn to my night, and I’m forever chasing and wanting her, knowing full well I can never have her or the day she gives. Oh, good, poetic shit, and I can’t even tell her that. Stop fooling yourself, Zero. Count yourself lucky that you had the time with her that you did; some don’t even get that. Right? You saw her, she’s happy where she is. Why take her away from that? Her school, her friends? Isn’t that what Julia did?

She took hold of the bars denying her freedom and tried to rattle them; they were unmoving. What Callie and Eddie said…they could have exaggerated, it wouldn’t be the first time…Fuck, why can’t I make up my mind? Everything else is so cut and clear, but when it comes to her…it’s as if I had two minds. Very fuckin’ funny, God. Show me everything I can’t have…a love like Casey’s, a family like Concha’s, Eddie’s…You gave me this plate! Cursing, she kicked at the bars and slammed herself onto the small cot, staring once more at the nondescript ceiling.

She heard the whistling, similar to the one the day before-- high pitched and off tune-- but not quite the same. The sound of jangling keys leapt with the promise of something new, small metallic vows breaking the monotony. Magali remained still, sitting with knees bent on the cot, the green shirt she had worn during the funeral crumpled at the foot of the small bed. Black shiny boots kicked the bars to her cell, and she looked up into the implacable face of the current guard, who was trying his best not to scan the exposed curves of her chest displayed over the seam of her A-shirt.

"Let’s go, Guerrero," he commanded coldly.

Ooh, conversationalist. She threw her legs over the side of the bed, her boots hitting the concrete floor with just enough force to relay anger and warning, and grabbed the wrinkled plaid shirt. Her fists clenched, hidden by the fabric.

"Step back. Hands out, drop the shirt."

She complied, pressing her lips together and forcing down her desire to whale against the bars. Concha had reached out for her, deep brown eyes whispering expressions of regret and trepidation, fingers outstretched to catch her and keep her safe, tombstones lining the landscape behind her. An instant of decision on Magali’s part had brought her to this, choosing in that singular slice of time to accept a sealed fate for the welfare of another, and for that she felt no remorse.

With the metal clamped around her wrists, she took her first steps out of her metal coop, keeping the officer within range of her peripheral vision. There were no other voices to be heard down the narrow corridor, no uniforms in sight. A few feet away, a solid metal door separated the hallway from the rest of the station--a place filled with noise and working police officers intent on their files and prisoners, taking phone calls, and dealing with stories the tellers shouted for emphasis. She smiled at the stupidity of having been restrained in a position that left her arms free.

"Straight ahead, slow, Guerrero. Nothing funny."

Through the door was the main room of the precinct, just as she remembered it, chaotic and busy. Heedless of her proximity, officers walked by, their hip holsters inches from her bound hands. They took no notice of her wandering eyes measuring the place, taking in its details. A prostitute begged for a drink of water. Her shaking hands clenching and wringing, her fix badly needed, Magali was reminded of a young Callie. A detective in a discolored T-shirt slammed a phone down, cursing epithets under his breath. Someone demanded a lawyer, a door slammed, phones rang endlessly.

"Step in," the guard barked at her, pointing at a dark stained wooden door bearing the faded golden words ‘interview room’.

She held her hands up, smirking as she did, and glanced at him with sarcasm. "Can’t open the door. Wanna play gentleman?"

He sneered, leaned across her to reach for the knob, turned it, and gave the door a hard push open.

"In."

Mirrors the size of the one in this room were meant to provide viewers with a safe haven from which to watch. Ironically, they also forced the interviewees to observe themselves, and it was no secret that behind the very same reflection they were under the scrutiny of strangers’ eyes like specimens under a lens. The room had seen countless hours of anxiety and shattered expectations, it echoed in the very substance of the place. Magali stood before the glass, her image clouded on its oily surface, the blond tips of her short curls blurred.

She squinted, trying to see if she could make out any figures behind the pane, though she knew she wouldn’t be able to. The officer was holding her wrists, taking a key to the manacles, and unlocking the spring held mechanism. Magali grinned, winking at the mirror, and cleared her throat.

"You almost had me fooled, officer."

"What?" he queried, sticking his thumbs under his belt.

She pursed her lips and shrugged. "For a second I thought you might actually be competent."

"Fuck you, and sit down."

She peered again at the mirror, her coy grin quickly turning into a sneer. The impact of her knuckles hitting the man’s jaw sent a satisfying jolt up her shoulder. It hadn’t faded by the time she had his gun firmly in her hand. She cocked her head and tested the weapon’s weight in her palm, kneeing him in the midsection as she did, and felling him.

"Nice, but you really ought to clean it more often," she scolded. "This could be quick, or we could be here for a while, depends on how twitchy your friends are. Want to beg now, and get it over with?"

A bang from the other side of the mirror made her muscles tense.

Sounds like they are real antsy in there, this won’t be long at all. Can we say suicide by cop? Aww, fuck. "Do you have a wife?"

He wouldn’t look at her, kneeling as he was at her feet, but he managed to nod. A small whimper of a breath escaped his lips in what could have been an attempt to speak.

"Kids?" Another nod. "Do them a favor and quit."

She stiffened at the loud crack of wood splitting away from the doorframe.

"Someone thinks you’re worth bargaining for." His silence angered her, and she cocked the gun, pointing it at his head.

Any further movement on her part was unnecessary; everything from here on out would happen as it would, without any aid from her. She kept her eyes on the man at her feet and held her breath, waiting for the last pop of gunpowder and lead to bring on the darkness. I will always be with you, Casey.

The officers who held their guns, raised and braced in furious hands, aimed at her with death ready to strike at their will. Magali had expected them to fire immediately, and the unforeseen standoff set her mind whirling into plans and schemes.

"Don’t move," they shouted.

"Or what? You’ll shoot?" she sneered. "If I move…you won’t have time to think. Come on, boys," she urged. "I suggest you do it now, and get this done," she ordered, widening her stance and, squaring her shoulders, firmly planting her feet. With her back to them she wouldn’t have to see them pull the triggers, any day was just as good as the next for dying. Enraged tears threatened to take her; she held them back, finding in their hazy retreat her Saint’s smile and warm embrace, the scent of Miguelito after a shower, the laughter of a family gathered around a table, the solid grip of a hand given in friendship rather than fear. The gun warmed in her hand, heavy with power, its feel intoxicating, reminding her that it too was a part of her, a need and a want she could no more hate than love. If it were in the shadows that she would live and thrive, then she would do more than exist in them…she would reign.

A small, rectangular speaker hanging from a corner in the ceiling crackled. It stuttered with static before clearing.

Annoyed, a familiar voice broke through the speaker’s rustle, and she leered at it. "Zero. Put the gun down. I worked too hard to get you out of the mix for you to do something stupid now."

"What’s up, Daly? This better be good," she said without shifting her focus or the gun.

"I’m coming in," the speaker whispered.

"Careful now, boys. You don’t want me getting crazy now that we might just all walk away from this." She jerked her shoulders violently, and laughed when the officers jumped in startlement.

Daly sidestepped into the room, squeezing past the high-strung officers and their withdrawn weapons. Wispy strands of dark blond hair floated free from the pony tail he usually wore, undoubtedly from pulling at his hair when he had witnessed Magali’s desperate actions. Under his arm he held a large flat manila envelope. He threw it dramatically onto the small table at the center of the room and stepped as close as he dared to Magali.

"Somebody I know doesn’t follow her own directions." When he didn’t get a rise to his bait, he grinned. "E-mail. Didn’t you tell me to send you a message via the Net, Zero? Where the hell did you stick yourself at, Babylon?"

"You wanna lecture me, or do you want me to drop this gun? Make it simple, Daly."

The agent stuck his hands in his pockets and took a look around the room, zeroing in on the taut faces and the officer groveling at Magali’s feet. "Well, can’t ever say you don’t know how to start a fire. Your parole, Zero, I cleared it…but, um, they have the death penalty over here, you know? And they use it. So, how about we settle this without blood spill, huh?"

"Get out of here," she growled at the bundle of nerves at her feet and opened her hand slightly, taking her finger away from the trigger. The officers took a hesitant step closer and she waggled a finger at them, grinning. "I wouldn’t."

Daly sat on one of the chairs and waved his hand, dismissing the officers and leaning back. They backed slowly out, keeping their eyes on the tall dark menace. Magali stepped around the table and laid the gun flat between them, giving the envelope a curious stare. Flicking it with his finger, Daly made it slide towards her, his smile widening.

"Your package arrived. I had to go through hell to get it out of your box, but there’s enough in there to hang Julia Winslow up by her toes for a while. But then, she might like that," he commented to himself.

"Why go after her?" she questioned.

"You think I can bring down the Gauntlet with just you? Hate to break it to you, but there are people mixed up in this that wouldn’t be caught dead in an elevator with your kind."

Magali pursed her lips and nodded, taking a seat across from him. "Covering your bases. I suppose you want me back in New York?"

"Want you? Shit, I need you back there. The bloody place is going up in smoke without Bajo Zero."

"Yeah, sure. So what now?"

"Well, I thought you’d like to come along on the ride to snare Winslow, since…she stole your girlfriend away and everything." It was the right button to push; he could see it in her eyes--the fire that he admired in her. He was alone in this, and her firepower, honed and harnessed, he knew he could count on.

"Only if I get to kill her if she refuses."

If the looks she received from the officers as she left with Daly had the power to kill, she would have been stone cold before she saw the outside of the station. His green sedan was something out of Dragnet, and Gali nearly cringed at the smell of its interior. He had apparently been living out of it for awhile.

"So where are we going?"

"Hotel."

"That part of the deal too?"

"As much as I would like that, no," he said regretfully. "You need a shower."

"Oh, you noticed. And here I thought the smell of your car would cover mine up."

"Funny. You’re a regular comedian, Zero."

"Yeah, I was thinking of quitting the drug business and going on the road. Whadda ya think?"

He smirked. "That was suicidal…what you did in there."

"I know," she said staring out the window.

"You can’t die yet, Zero." The engine sputtered and he grimaced.

"No? Why? You want to do it yourself? Get in fuckin’ line," she said matter-of-factly.

"Like I said…comedian."

She thought for sure the car wouldn’t make it, but surprisingly it got them to the hotel, though motel was more like it.

"You’re a classy guy, Daly," Magali harangued as she slammed the creaking door of the car. "This place have mirrors on the ceiling?"

"Probably, but at least no one will look at us too much here." He spat out the toothpick he had been chewing, and tossed her the key. "Go on in. I’m going for a soda."

"Sure."

Magali hated the floral patterns on motel quilts, they reminded her of the curtains that kept light out of her mother’s bedroom. She was filthy and she knew it; the itching of her skin was driving her mad for a shower. A simple rotary phone in its cream color on the nightstand stood out from the rest of the dark stained wood furniture.

She tapped into the long distance access and dialed Eddie’s number. The phone rang, she waited; it rang some more, and she hung up. Beeper. What the hell is the number to here? She looked around the phone, finally finding a small scrap of paper with the motel’s address and number on it that had fallen off the phone, and dialed Eddie’s beeper. Punching in the number of the hotel she added her own code to the end. She waited. Daly returned with his soda and an extra for her; he sat quietly on the edge of one of the beds after turning on the TV.

He never takes this long to call back. What the fuck? Office, maybe he’s there. Again she picked up the phone, and called. No answer. It was annoying: whenever she didn’t need him, he was all over; when she did, he was nowhere to be found. He should have been a cop. I’m gonna kill him. Maybe Callie knows. It was amazing how she remembered all the numbers. Digits were so much a part of her life that they were simply another language she added to her repertoire. No answer. No answer?

"What the fuck? I go away for a while and everybody goes on fuckin’ vacation!" It was a simple case of too many things going wrong that caused her to lift the lamp and smash it against the wall. Daly flinched, but remained silent, watching her stomp into the bathroom.

Grime rolled off her and stained a ring around the tub. She couldn’t complain, even if the showerhead was more like a hose; she had grown used to poor plumbing. Towels were always too small in run down motels. She bit down on the stud in her tongue in frustration, using two of the towels to dry herself off. The clothes she had worn were piled on the floor, filthy, and there was no robe. She shrugged and opened the door, walking casually out into the room, water dripping from her hair.

"You’re buying me clothes," she demanded, spotting Daly’s wallet discarded on the TV set. Judging by his expression, he wouldn’t refuse.

********************************************************************

Casey had taken to sleeping with Daniel at the foot of the bed, two pets Julia kept snuggled closely while she watched their slumber. They were both fit and tanned from days spent at the pool, enjoying the day as friends and taking the night to entertain her. She had the best of both worlds, and she could choose to delight in them separately or as one. For Julia it was a small price, of almost no consequence at all, to pay to bring back the girl she had known. Soon Daniel’s training would be complete, and she would have Casey to herself. Whether or not the younger woman took other diversions was irrelevant. She would be happy, content and a part of Julia’s life.

Though the sadness remained a fixture in Casey’s emerald eyes, it had become much more common to hear her laughter or her intelligent debate with Daniel over the newest treatments of modern day diseases. Time, Julia thought, is the best of all cures. Slowly it would remove the residue of grime and grit that had been left by Casey’s brief affair with the underbelly of society.

Julia flicked the power button on the kitchen TV and poured herself a mug of fresh coffee. Through the window she glanced at the plastic draped wooden skeleton of her would-be guesthouse. Weather had stopped its progress nearly a month earlier, but with the return of the California sun, it had resumed its noisy pace with its scent of sawdust. She enjoyed the early hours, before the house filled with servants and the grounds were abuzz with the labor of men. A creature of routine, she waited for her cook every morning, sipping her dose of caffeine and watching the morning news. She wasn’t much for fraternizing with the help; nannies and maids had left their mark on her youth, and she had learned it was best not to befriend any of them. Concha was as close as she got to mingling with the hired help, but the sullen change in the woman’s demeanor had put a damper on her mornings for the past two weeks. She had thought it best not to pry, lest the conversation become too intimate.

Daniel padded into the kitchen in bare feet, a white towel knotted around his pelvis. He knelt by Julia and kissed her hand. Then wordlessly rising and getting a glass from the cupboard he poured himself a cup of orange juice from the refrigerator. The young man was always thirsty, as if thieves in the night ritually dehydrated him. Julia smiled to herself; she was the brigand.

"Daniel," she called over the mug, "wake Casey, dear. I think we’ll do some shopping today. You two may shower," she said, throwing it over her shoulder like a treat for a dog, and drank from her coffee. "Separately, Daniel. I don’t want to waste the day waiting," she added, turning up the volume on the news and leaning forward onto the counter. She had had her fill of them the previous night.

"Yes, Mistress." Daniel softened his voice when he spoke to her. He liked the effect it had on her, and if they were to spend money then it was for the best that she be pleased with him. He was a good boy, and did as he was told.

The cool wood of the floor was smooth under his feet. As a boy he had refused to wear shoes. Running through fields of corn and wheat with the sun warm on his chest and back, a breeze through his careless black hair, and the call of his mother’s voice from the porch of the old wooden house were pieces of his fondest childhood memories. He missed the pebbles that stuck between the spaces of his toes and the moist dark soil that clung to his heels. They were soundless memories he kept close and dear, chasing away the specter of his stepfather’s belt and the smell of the tool shed behind the house. Within its walls, his tastes for pain and pleasure had been conceived.

Casey’s hair hinted to him of the sun on the fields. He could see the upper swell of her breasts just above the edge of a blue sheet, her hair fanned out on the pillow under her head. She tended to grip the blankets in her hands, holding them to her as if they protected her from the night’s shades. Her sleep was always peaceful when she slept by him, curled in the blankets and quilts they laid on the floor at the end of Julia’s bed. On the occasion that Julia demanded she sleep with her, he often heard Casey’s whimpers in the dark. Helpless to give any comfort, he feigned sleep and waited through the hours until the sobs faded. Julia hadn’t noticed--she slept heavily, and he didn’t dare to ask his friend what it was that tormented her so much. Heathcliff was his only clue, the stuffed green rag of a toy that resembled a frog. It was the name that haunted him, and somewhere under the mass of cloth that had covered them through the night, the toy was hidden. He had felt it rub against the bare skin of his back.

"Casey," he whispered to her, kneeling on the downy rug of the floor. "Wake up, Casey. We’re going shopping," he crooned.

She rolled over and covered her head, hiding from the light that filtered through the sheer curtains of the veranda doors. "Danny, only you would be happy to be up at this time on a Saturday," she groaned from under the quilt.

"Shopping," he sang to her teasingly.

"So what? Sleep," she sang back.

"Shopping," he pouted.

"Sleep."

"Spending Julia’s money," he sang again and waited for Casey’s tawny head to reappear and smiled when it did.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and shielded them from the light with a hand, smirking at the half naked man kneeling by her with a goofy grin. "I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a closeted gay man."

"Me? Nope. Do I have to prove it to you…again?" He leered, closing the distance between them and nipping at her neck.

Casey pushed him away, gently and tenderly as she would a playful puppy. In the dark she could disguise him, make him who she wanted, but in the light of day he was Danny--her friend and companion, a goofy prankster who made her laugh when all she wanted to do was cry. He took her out in the sun, where she could lose her sense of time in his pale blue eyes, and think of other places and times. "Behave, Danny boy. I’m sore enough as it is."

"Where?" he asked, pretending ignorance, and pushing her over on her stomach to straddle her.

She rolled over, his weight not nearly enough to withstand her strength. "Danny," she accused, pointing a finger up at him. "You know perfectly well where, and I thought you wanted to go shopping."

"Shopping," he echoed and jumped off her. "I get the shower first!" he yelled, dashing off for the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

Casey shook her head and searched under the sheets for Heathcliff. He was stuck under a wad of cloth and she had to pull hard to get him out, but once free, he was in her hands and she held him up to her face. "You would have liked him…I think," she whispered to it. "That’s if you didn’t try to rip his head off." She smiled, giving the frog a kiss on the nose. "He’s nice to me, and he keeps me from being lonely. I know, that’s not such a good excuse, huh?" She shrugged. "But in a way, he kind of reminds me of you. More than just the eyes, Baby. He cares for others without thought for himself; you hid that behind that scowl of yours. He’s what you were deep down, without all your scars. The ones on the inside. Self sacrificing, self loathing."

It was early enough that the servants hadn’t started their duties around the house, and quiet enough for her to hear the crunching of tires on the driveway. Someone was visiting. Nothing unusual, though, she surmised, unexpected--since Julia would not have invited them out if she had other plans. Daniel had closed the door to the bathroom, which meant he either wanted his privacy or Julia had ordered him away from her. Julia would be busy. It gave her excuse to stick her head under the pillow and doze off for a bit longer.

Julia’s voice rose in anger, a strange sound Casey couldn’t distinguish as a lament or frustration. It stirred her from that place where sleep and wakefulness collided; even Danny popped his head out from the bathroom. His hair stuck up and slanted in all directions, dripping water on his face and bare shoulders.

"What the hell was that?" he asked, peering out from the doorway.

"I don’t know. But it’s none of our business. If we go check, she’ll only get angry that we’re interfering without being summoned," Casey assured him from her safe haven on the floor.

"Do you think there’s a problem?"

"Nothing she can’t handle. It’s all right, Danny, trust me. And finish up already so I can get in."

He shrugged and closed the door; she could hear the sink faucet go on and knew that he would be shaving. He was meticulous about his appearance. At times they behaved like siblings. This was one of those times, and she wished he wouldn’t take so long. Her bladder was complaining painfully, and she had half a mind to simply throw him out of the bathroom.

California made for strange weather. At night it was all she could do to stay warm under the blankets, even with Daniel’s body heat near her. It helped that they slept in the nude. But by daybreak the sun would heat the air and she would begin the process of peeling away the covers. They used enough to cushion the floor so that the pile looked more like a nest then anything else, and as she sat up now, she chose a sheet to wrap around her naked form. The oval mirror caught her image in the makeshift toga, and she wanted to laugh at the reflection. Only the milder acts that happened in the room could be considered Romanesque, despite their excesses; she was sure most of the others were actually illegal in most states and countries. Nero would have been proud.

"Bella!" Daniel yelled, startling her. "My, my, don’t we look good in a sheet and nothing else."

"Are you talking about yourself again, Danny? The vanity, geesh," she said. Shaking her head and padding into the bathroom, she let the sheet fall behind her; it earned her a whistle as she closed the door.

Daniel smiled behind her; Casey seemed to be in a good mood. He was grateful for it, as rare as it was, and couldn’t help feeling elated at her disposition. It was a bright day, and he intended to enjoy it. No better way than with my two favorite women. Clad only in a pair of dark cotton pants, he drew the curtains and opened the veranda doors. The air was dead, without a breeze or delicate rustle wafting through the leaves of the peach tree. He walked out to the stone platform that circled the house and overlooked the driveway. A green, four-door sedan was parked in front of the house. He thought it odd that whoever was visiting hadn’t chosen one of the parking spaces instead. Leaning on the passenger door was, from what he could tell, a rather tall woman.

Her hair was short and curled at the ends. It crowned her face loosely and swirled down her neck. The tips gleamed in the light, as if she had dyed it at one point and then had changed her mind; the rest was the darkest of blacks he had ever seen. The most striking thing about her was the white suit she was wearing, white right down to the button down shirt. If Lucifer could choose an image for himself as female, she would have been it. Thankfully, her shoes weren’t white, and he gave her a nod for good fashion sense. He could just make out the shine of silver from the hoop in her eyebrow over the rim of the dark shades she wore. She was smoking a cigarette, nonchalantly looking over the grounds, and pushing back her hair. Her body moved with the grace of a predator, ready to strike out at its prey.

The front door opened, and a man’s voice called to her. As she stood away from the car, her blazer fanned open and there was no mistaking the dark butt of a gun at her waist. She looked up as she walked towards the door, and Daniel moved out of her line of vision, a lump of fear in his throat.

He reached for the knob to the bathroom then withdrew his hand, trying to string words together to form a coherent sentence to explain what he had seen to Casey. The woman’s presence had been strong enough to send shivers down his spine, and despite the numerous implements he had ever seen in the house, to his recollection there had never been a gun. After the initial shouting he had heard, there had been silence. Nothing else to indicate trouble, but he knew that the quiet could be deceiving.

Casey walked out into the room toweling her hair, and strolled over to the walk-in closet. Expecting to get some commentary from Daniel, as was his custom whenever she paraded around nude, she was disappointed by his lack of a play by play description. It was always good for a laugh or two.

"Are you okay, Danny?" she asked as she searched for a pair of jeans.

"Something’s wrong, Casey."

"What?" She picked up a pair she found folded on a shelf and shook it out, holding it against her.

"There’s a woman downstairs with a gun."

Casey swallowed down her initial reaction to his flat statement, and sought a plausible explanation other than the one fueled by her hopeless desires. Any one that wouldn’t give rise to hopes she knew to be futile. "Police maybe?" she questioned, trying desperately to remain calm. Her heart betrayed her, wildly beating and infuriating her pulse rate so as to make her breathing difficult.

"She didn’t look like a cop, Casey."

Not a cop…by the looks of him, not a client either. He’s frightened. What could she look like to have given him that expression? "You’re letting your imagination run away with you, Danny. I’m sure it’s nothing. It could be part of a role-play for all you know." She voiced the words, but her hands shook with the possibilities, and she pulled on the jeans and tore through another pile of clothing looking for a light sweater.

Her hair was still wet when she walked back out. Daniel hadn’t moved, his face pale with worry. "If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go downstairs and make sure everything’s all right."

He nodded his agreement as she opened the door, adding "If you’re so sure that nothing is wrong. Why is your voice shaking?" She didn’t reply, stepping out quietly into the hallway and softly closing the door to the bedroom behind her. Faint and ungraspable she heard their voices; one was distinctly Julia’s. Her bare feet allowed her to walk down the corridor and take the steps soundlessly. If she could avoid being caught peeking in on Julia, she would.

The door to the study was closed, and through its thick wood she could only make out a few words. From what she could understand of the droned syllables Julia was making some sort of arrangements, and although there was an incensed note to her voice there didn’t seem to be any danger. She listened for a woman’s voice, but heard only an unidentified male’s and Julia’s, and so turned to tip toe away. A deep thud she had heard on more than one occasion coming from the study halted her step. Julia was angry and banging her fist against the top of her desk, but the barrage that followed made her blood run cold.

Continued - Part 6

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