Lubrican Robert

For Want of a Memory

Foreword

You need to know a couple of things about this story before you read it. First, it is written primarily for my editor, Peaches. The only coin of the relm in my kingdom is words, and I owe her lots of them. So this story is based on her fantasy.

I said it was written "primarily" for Peaches. Her fantasy is about a specific man who she hopes to meet and be able to be with. Just for the record, it’s not me. By the same token, she has been so kind as to allow ME to have my own fantasies, many of which are about her. The story "Read Dirty To Me" was one such fantasy, and she was very sweet about editing that. I am on her "men I like" list, which is probably why.

So, when it came time to probe her mind for the details of her fantasy, and I found out they’d pretty much fit in four pages of text, I asked her if I could "add a little" here and there, just to make it a little more interesting to the general reader … like you.

And then there were all those people who kept writing and telling me I should write something more mainstream … something that might actually make it past the censors.

So here it is. This is a mainstream story, about one woman’s fantasy. There’s no sex for 200 pages, according to Peaches (who was NOT happy about that, by the way) but, then, a decent plot requires a lot of things to happen that don’t involve sex.

What I’m saying is this is not a stroke story. It has a stroke story buried in it, but there is much much more. You’ll meet some very interesting characters, and confront some very interesting issues.

There are world shaking events that could happen to you, in a split second, with ramifications that could last a lifetime. This is a story of how something relatively small, in the grand scheme of things, rocked the worlds of a number of people, and let two of them to fall in love.

Bob

Chapter 1

This is a story about how entirely different kinds of people, from completely disparate backgrounds, can be brought together in a dance of sorts that will have profound effects on all of their lives.

Normally, when we think of "people," we tend to think of those we are friends with or see at work. Maybe they’re in an organization we belong to or are part of our extended families. In any case, we usually think of them as being mostly like us.

We HEAR about other kinds of people-rich people, very poor people, victims of crime, lottery winners-the list goes on and on. But we don’t KNOW any of those people, by and large or, if we do, we know lots of them. We tend to gather those around us who we are most like, even if we think of them as being like us.

But sometimes, the paths of very different kinds of people cross. Fate plays a role in that, perhaps. You could call it luck-either good or bad, depending on the circumstances. In any case, when that happens, things get shaken up. Lives get shaken up.

And things change-sometimes drastically.

The first person you must meet is Kris. And it’s important that I tell you a lot about him, because you need to understand him, to understand the choices he made, which form the core of this story.

When the average person looked at Kris Farmingham, he … or she, for that matter … normally didn’t look twice. Just like the average person, Kris was … well … average.

At forty-seven years of age, he stood five-ten and weighed around one-sixty. His light brown hair was thinning on top and, rather than try to do the comb-over, he just kept it closely cropped all over. It was easier, even if he didn’t think it did much for his looks. His facial features were mixed. A smallish nose, with a straight bridge and rounded tip sat above full lips, though the bottom one looked larger than the top. When he smiled with those lips it was a tight smile, usually, as if he didn’t want people to see his teeth. That tight smile created dimples in his cheeks which, along with his twinkling chocolate brown eyes, sometimes gave him the appearance of being mischievous. He could look like trouble, but generally didn’t display that.

His tanned skin and, perhaps, the freckles on it (depending on what dermatologist you talked to) were the result of spending time in the Australian sun. That outdoorsy life was also responsible for the washboard stomach that most people didn’t know he had. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, with the possible exception of enough skin to grip at the waist, though he currently had no significant other in his life to grip it. He had a girlfriend, named Lola, but didn’t consider her a "significant other" at this point. Living in Australia was also responsible for his accent, even though he hadn’t been born there.

His hands and feet were average sized and his voice, while pleasantly deep, wasn’t anything special either.

In short, he could blend into a crowd rather easily. This was to become important, though he’d never have thought blending in might be something to crave. As it turned out … it was, but we’ll get to that later.

While no one on the street would take a second look at him, people he passed on that street might very well know who he was if they heard one of the names he used. Kris was an author-a popular author at that.

Kris came to writing almost by accident. The son of a preacher man, he already had fire in his soul when a chance trip to a summer theater camp enabled him to express himself in ways he’d never been able to before. Eventually, his college education was put to use teaching music and theater. He traveled the world, for a variety of reasons, and became something of a proverbial renaissance man.

We are, say the philosophers, the sum of our existence-which is to say that what happens to us … what we experience in life … molds us into the people we become. That sounds like a lot of double talk to some, but the fact is that we don’t necessarily turn out to be who we WANT to be. In youth, we have dreams of what life will be like later on. We often view the future as something we can manipulate, if care is taken to cause things to happen. But the fact is, largely, that our past has more effect on our future than our mind does.

Kris' past had had a lot to do with him becoming an author.

His parents divorced, which caused his older sister to seek solace in the arms of a brand of religion far more conservative than the one she was raised in. Apparently that religion was a good hugger, because she hugged it for all she was worth. Some people, including Kris, sometimes, thought of her as a loony religious fanatic.

His mother had a tendency to lie about her age and there were step-siblings, which can work for or against one. He grew up in two families, in California, which was as forgiving of parents who didn’t know how to handle money, when they had some, as anyplace can be. He didn’t want for much, on a physical plane, even though the family purse was usually empty. Emotionally, though, he was hungry. As a result, football became his center of emotional fulfillment. He memorized the stats of every player that ever held a pigskin in his hands and played the game avidly until an Achilles tendon injury sidelined him. That also killed his dream of being a sports star, which gave way to different dreams that were the result of his discovery of drugs. A good dose of common sense saved him from that.

He suffered the same kinds of slings and arrows most people suffer. His father died. His relatives were all odd, in one way or another. He was plain enough, and shy enough, that girls weren’t all that interested in him. That is to say that while there was nothing wrong with him, most girls thought, perhaps unconsciously, that they could do better.

And so he dreamed. Dreams filled in the passion and excitement that real life wouldn’t supply, and those dreams were what later became the muse that helped him create the books that people would come to love and buy in large enough numbers to support him while he wrote fulltime.

College, which he’d extended far beyond the average four years, taught him many things that had nothing to do with formal education in pursuit of a degree. He’d had to support himself and he’d knocked about, working at one time or another in a steel mill, a slaughterhouse, and as a hospital orderly. Every young boy’s dream to run off and join the circus was realized, and went well until he was caught in bed with one of the female aerialists, which is an offense on the level of a stable boy fucking a princess.

One of the things he learned was that most people were normal, unlike his family members. Moving to Australia after college got him about as far away from his crazy family as it was possible to get.

There is nothing in the world like being in a strange, faraway place to make one want to tell one’s story. And, it’s fairly normal for one to write down the story, to arrange it in one’s mind. Some discover that they’re not all that good at that. Others, like Kris, find release in writing that is second only to sexual completion.

And so, once in Australia, Kris became a writer. Others recognized his talent for writing and, quite suddenly, he was a published author.

But New York City still reigns supreme in terms of the publishing world and when his first book took off like a rocket, he decided to move back to the States, where there was the kind of stimulation that might fuel more best sellers.

He hoped there might also be a woman in New York who might bring out the "father in hiding" he thought himself to be.

There was a woman, as it turned out, but she was much more avid about forming a long term relationship than he was. She had already asked for a key to his apartment and offered him one to hers.

The problem was that Kris had only zeroed in on her because of one of his personal kinks. Kris was an ass man. He didn’t know why he was an ass man, but he was. And Lola had a luscious bubble butt that had made Kris' mouth water the first time he saw it-encased in a pair of skin tight toreador pants, with no panty line.

But, as it turned out, Lola’s ass was about all there was about her that made his mouth water. She was OK as a female. She was neither smart nor stupid. She worked at an ad agency, but had no drive to rise higher than her current position. She had no hobbies and no work experience other than her current job. That she was twenty years younger than him didn’t really bother him. She looked older than her twenty-five years and he looked younger than his forty-six.

But there was just something about Lola that made her seem vapid, once he’d spent a few months with her. When he thought of her in the role of a mother, he thought his children would be bored senseless during their formative years.

The real problem with Lola, however, was that the one dream she DID have was to be rich and famous. She made that quite clear when, after she asked "what he did" for the third of fourth time, he casually mentioned that he had written a few things that had been published. He’d made reference to obscure technical journals. She’d immediately waxed poetic about how someday he’d be a rich and famous, well-read author and that they’d live the high life then. When he wrote the books that she had in mind, and people found out how talented an author he was, she said, they’d be invited to all the best parties and treated as VIPs. At one moment, as she’d planned their fantasy popularity, she’d even sketched out a plan for personal security … for both of them.

He knew that if she became aware that he had published three best sellers, it would only be natural for her to want to brag that she was sleeping with the author of those best sellers.

And the problem with THAT was that Kris had come to treasure the anonymity that writing books under a pseudonym gave him.

It may seem odd to you, the reader, that an author who, after all, puts his work out in the public eye for all to see, might not want the public to see HIM. But there are good reasons for an author to want to stay invisible on a personal level.

One of them is that readers, particularly readers of fiction, have a natural tendency toward amateur psychoanalysis. And they always have questions. Why did you write that book? What does it all mean-between the lines? Where did the inspiration for that character come from? Is this book autobiographical? What was your childhood like? Do you REALLY have a sister who is a wacko religious nut? What denomination is she? Readers' appetites for personal details are voracious and unending.

And then there are those readers who have their own story they’d like to tell, but can’t, because they can’t write. They just naturally dream of seeing THEIR story in print … written by the author whose books they love to read. And how could that author object? It’s a GREAT story!

Of course, another pitfall is that there are those who want to be around the great man. They perceive themselves as destined to be part of his entourage-perhaps even to become the inspiration for a new character, based on their own intriguing and interesting lives and characteristics. Lola was one of those. She was forever suggesting that his "first big book" should contain HER as the main character.

And the fact was that Kris just wanted to write. One cannot write when surrounded by people asking questions and making suggestions and wanting to know when their fascinating life will be represented in print.

He was caught in a situation he didn’t want to confront. If Lola had free access to his apartment, it would be difficult to write and she would likely discover that he wrote much more than articles for obscure technical journals. She would find out, eventually, who he really was and he would have to insist that his identity not be revealed to others. Which would cause her untold misery, because her natural urge would be to brag-though she certainly wouldn’t have characterized it as bragging-about how she was intimate with the man who had created "Living With an Aardvark" and "The Cereal Killer" and "Diagnosis - Steatopygia!". That would lead to people wanting to meet him … and ask all those questions.

He took his privacy so seriously, in fact, that even his publisher did not know his real name. He received checks under his pseudonym, which was connected to his bank account. The bank didn’t care a bit that he did business under one name, while the account was technically under another. People did that all the time.

His publisher, whose voracious appetite was for profits rather than personal information, was pushing him for another book. He’d been given a hefty advance and six months to produce that book. With the advance also came the requirement to provide progress reports once a month.

The outline was done. The characters had been roughed out. The plot was generally identified. About a third of the book was already written in what he called preliminary paragraphs. He knew he was ready to write it. The story bulged inside him, demanding to be let loose. His muse was impatient. But the distraction of Lola was preventing him from letting his muse take over.

The answer was to find someplace to go where there would be no Lola … no publisher … no distractions.

Surfing the net, he found a vacation house on a lake shore in Connecticut. It was winter, the off season, and the rates were good. He made all the arrangements, using the new pseudonym of Larry Phillips. It was likely that during the six months he would be staying in Pembroke, people would find out what he was doing there. He didn’t want anyone in that town to connect Kristoff Farmingham with the book that would be written there. He sent a money order and received a contract in the mail, with a key and directions on how to find the place.

He packed three bags. His landlord had almost had a stroke when he’d paid his rent ahead for the five months he’d be gone. The advance was severely depleted, but that was all right. He’d get the rest when he turned in the manuscript. Then he’d probably start the whole process all over again.

The car was packed. The manuscript, printed off in case something happened to his laptop, was in his briefcase. He agonized over whether to take his cell phone or not, then decided it could be turned off and would be handy for those monthly progress reports.

He started the car.

And THIS is where the story really begins.

Three men sat around a card table, finalizing plans to commit a heinous crime. They were vicious men, though seeing them on the street, patronizing a hotdog vendor perhaps, one wouldn’t recognize that viciousness. They, too, had the capability to blend in with the crowds in New York City.

The crime they had planned was bold. It might turn out very badly for the victims. They didn’t really care about that. All they cared about were the rewards that they imagined the crime would provide.

These men that fate would bring together with Kris and others in the unfolding series of events were as different from the others as it was possible to be. Their story had an inauspicious beginning.

Many years earlier, Wanda Higginbotham had found herself pregnant. It had been unplanned, and unwanted, but not unexpected. Wanda was a hooker.

She found that some men would pay more for her services if they didn’t have to engage in safe sex and, after all, money was what it was all about. She took her pills religiously, but pills don’t always work.

Completely by accident, therefore, she learned that there is a different class of customers who are very interested in … and willing to pay more for … sex with a pregnant woman. Such men would take her from behind, with their hands on her pregnant belly, and fantasize that the child within was theirs. They got all the thrill of believing, if just for a few moments, that their seed had taken root, but could then abandon the product of that seed, and avoid the complications of actually getting a woman with child.

It was by chance that she was watching reruns of The Three Stooges while she was in labor. She named her little boy Moe, both because she didn’t have much of an imagination and because Moe was the smartest Stooge, in her opinion.

Because the pregnancy thing had been more lucrative than anything else she’d done, she promptly got pregnant again. And then again. Larry and Curly were the results.

Having three boys to take care of was a pain in the ass, and she’d found out that eager but infertile parents would pay a lot of money to get a newborn. She was already stuck with "the three stooges," but sold the next four babies. It was the best of all possible worlds, as far as Wanda was concerned.

Until she found out how ravaged a body could become as a result of having unprotected sex with strangers and what amounted to a litter of children.

She died when the boys were in their middle teens. They stuck together, living hand to mouth. They dropped out of school and lived by their wits. Which meant that they were lean and homeless, most of the time, because their wits had been inherited from their mother and, in a twist of humorous irony, resembled those of the men they were named after.

But, there was no humor in how they chose to survive.

Eventually, Larry got his hands on a gun, bought cheap, and which he thought was probably stolen. He didn’t care, though. Petty theft, muggings, and the infrequent armed robbery had kept them alive from that point on. But they were looking for the score that would put them on easy street.

Their first attempt at kidnapping had gone very badly. They’d stolen a car, and snatched a little girl from in front of a private school. Instead of being cowed and subservient, though, the girl had fought bitterly and cried incessantly. They’d gagged her-too well, as it turned out, because she’d died when her allergies flared up and she’d become unable to breathe through her nose. They had already made the ransom call, though, so they’d simply waited. When Moe called to give the parents directions to the drop off point, he was told they hadn’t been able to raise the money and would need more time. He’d been sure he’d heard clicks on the line. He had also been sure that meant the police were tapping the line, so he’d hung up. They’d dumped the body in a dumpster. The media, always eager to report a tragedy, had said that the girl was most likely killed because no ransom had been paid.

Their second attempt hadn’t gone any better. A boy had been chosen as their second victim. When they’d called the boy’s parents, they’d made two demands. One was money and the other was that the cops not be involved in any way.

"Remember that girl they found in the dumpster?" Moe had asked, trying to make his voice sound sinister. "That was us, and we mean business."

The parents had agreed. But when Moe had called back to arrange the trade, he’d been sure that he was talking to a different man and, again, sure that the police were involved.

This time, they killed the victim intentionally and left a note with the body that said next time, people had better follow instructions.

The media loved it, as they always love heinous acts of the worst sort. Moe, Larry and Curly loved it too, because now they had a reputation.

They were sure the next caper would make them all rich.

And it was the next attempt that they were planning as they sat around the card table. The victim would be one who could not be ignored-could not be allowed to die-whose husband had tons of money. Jean Chantal Custer would provide the millions that would put them on a Caribbean island somewhere, where they would have anything they wanted.

The proposed victim of the crime was well known; the talk of New York, both the city and the state. She was married to Randall Custer, who was currently in his third year as the governor of the great state of New York. His messy divorce, barely six months into his governorship, had caused a scandal. Taking up with a supermodel half his age, then marrying her, had cemented his fame. He was a lackluster governor, but the tabloids loved him and a preponderance of the unwashed, which represented a preponderance of the population, in his opinion, loved him too. He had it all. He had money from his parents and he had Jean Chantal. He was an important man, who people wanted to please. What more could any man want?

Jean, who used her middle name professionally, had made her mark as a swimsuit model. That had led to runway work in which her body had most likely been more important than what she was actually wearing. Few people could afford the clothes she modeled. But everyone could enjoy looking at her and did. She had even made a lot of panties damp.

Along the way, she’d gone from being a shy, tall, well built girl from New Orleans, who’d graduated high school squarely in the lower third of her class to a woman who could get anything she asked for, simply by asking for it. Men had always pursued her, but the intelligence she DID have had led her to believe that the one real gift she had to give a man needed to be parlayed to the RIGHT man.

She’d decided that Randall Custer was that man.

They’d met at a party. He had been almost embarrassingly taken with her. When, the third time he took her to dinner, she confessed, through lowered eyelashes, that she was still a virgin, he took the bait hook, line and sinker. If he’d been embarrassing before, he was pathetic now. He promised her the world and she thought he might just be able to deliver it.

The fact that she was obviously telling the truth about her virginity was borne out on their wedding night, on a yacht, on the way to Bermuda, where her screams of pain were heard by the captain and crew. It was a rocky start, but at forty-eight, he didn’t regenerate all that quickly, so she’d had time to heal up a bit before the next session. And things since then had been fine. Too much booze and poorly controlled blood pressure had hardened blood vessels that needed to be flexible for things to work well in the erection department, but Viagra got him laid and he was ever so cute when he was horny. A year into the marriage she actually liked her husband; now that another year had passed she was quite sure that real love was in the offing.

And he doted on her. She went shopping at the drop of a hat. After all, one could no longer wear a hat once it had been dropped … now could one?

There were only two burrs under her saddle, as her husband would have put it. He styled himself a Western man, hinting that General George Custer was in his bloodline, though never actually claiming it. Flirting with a relation to the famous man was one thing. Actually admitting to have inherited genes from a complete idiot was another.

The first burr under her saddle was her inability to do anything privately anymore. Her husband took great glee in telling the world where she was going and what she’d be doing. That was because he wanted the world to know that his young and beautiful wife was more than just a young and beautiful woman. In her role as the governor’s wife, she went here and there, doing this and that. Shopping was always included, but only after she took care of business. He also took great pride in the fact that she drove herself everywhere. No wasting of taxpayer dollars could be alluded to, because she always took her own sports car. The paparazzi, always knowing where she’d be, were a constant pain in the butt. And, wherever there was a bevy of cameras, there were curious onlookers too-and they sometimes wanted some time with her as well.

The second was that Randall was pathetically eager for his wife to do something else she’d never done with any other man-have babies. She shuddered at the mere thought of having to live with a distended, disfiguring, ugly belly. It would ruin her career.

On this particular day, Chantal was going to visit a daycare center on Long Island, where other women’s babies could be cuddled and kissed. She liked to stress childcare in the state. Everybody needed it. It was good press. And then, of course, shopping on 5th Avenue.

It had, as usual, been announced in the papers.

The Higginbotham boys knew where Chantal would be, because they’d read the paper, which they stole every day from a number of hotel lobbies. Curly had established a route for this purpose, so that he didn’t become too well known in any one hotel. They knew what time she would be at the childcare center and, roughly, where she’d go shopping later.

They’d decided to take her as she left the childcare center, since there would likely be fewer cops around then. There would be photographers, but they were pansies, so who cared. Besides, they planned to keep their heads down and the cameras from getting the kind of pictures that would be a problem.

The crowd of photographers actually helped their plan, since it gave Curly a reason to be close to where she’d walk. Those photographers were currently lounging around, hoping that something would happen. What did happen not only exceeded their expectations … it exceeded their wildest dreams.

Moe was driving the van. It had been stolen only hours before-chosen because it was plain white. It belonged to a company that was not open on Saturdays and wouldn’t miss it until Monday. Twelve cans of Krylon paint, purchased with money taken under the pretense of acquiring it for a teenage tagger-whom Larry had then told he was an undercover cop and pretended to chase for half a block-had made the upper half blue, just in case-including parts of the windshield where Larry hadn’t applied the taped on newspapers quite correctly. Magnetic signs had been applied to the sides and back, indicating that it belonged to a fictitious delivery company and giving them an excuse for double parking on the street.

Curly had a camera draped around his neck, but had no idea how to use it. It had been taken from a tourist, who they’d lured into an alley to buy a Rolex watch for fifty dollars. The camera allowed him to loiter near the entrance to the center, blending in with the other photographers.

Larry was standing by a lamp post, reading a paper-apparently engrossed in the sports pages-looking simply like he was waiting to see what all the fuss was about.

The plan was simple, since Moe was a firm believer in the KISS system of planning. Not only was it easier to keep things simple, but he was convinced that his brothers were stupid and incapable of following a complicated plan.

Curly was to give Moe, who was currently double parked a hundred feet down the street, the high sign when he saw the woman coming out. When Curly signaled him, he’d drive forward, get out of the van and open the double side doors, position himself within the open side of the van, and begin shooting repeatedly at nothing in particular. All the paparazzi would hit the dirt, while Curly and Larry manhandled the governor’s wife to the street and into the van. Larry had an ether-soaked rag in a plastic bag, to knock her out with, and Curly would grab her legs. Moe would keep shooting, occasionally, to keep heads down and the path to the van clear.

The getaway route had been carefully planned. It didn’t matter if the van was involved in a few bumps, since it would be abandoned within five minutes. Getting the unconscious woman to their hideout was the crowning part of the plan. They’d rented a hearse, complete with a coffin, telling the owner it was for a practical joke. You could rent anything in New York City. It was parked in the garage of another business that wasn’t open on Saturdays, which they’d broken into that morning. They could make the transfer of the woman to the coffin in the garage where no one would see them. The hearse would get them off the island and they could then work their way out of town, where an abandoned warehouse would become their hideout and Chantal’s temporary prison. When the money was electronically deposited into an anonymous off shore account, her husband would be told where he could find her. He’d find her naked and well fucked, of course, but then who wouldn’t expect that?

Kris was already thinking about the book as he negotiated the Saturday morning traffic. He’d dropped off a copy of the half completed manuscript at his publisher’s office, but hadn’t told them he was leaving town to finish it. He’d locked up his apartment in Brookdale and was working his way toward I-95.

His plan was to go north, taking I-287 to I-684. Continuing north from there would get him to Interstate 84, which would take him east into Connecticut. Highway 37 would take him north to Pembroke, on the shores of Lake Nassequa, where the vacation house was located. He’d never been out of the city in this direction, but he had the route written down and wasn’t worried about it. The rental agreement was in the inside pocket of his sports coat and the key to the house was in his right pants pocket. His mail would be forwarded, so he wouldn’t miss any bills.

Moe saw Curly give the sign and threw the van into gear. He lurched forward and then came to a stop. He threw open the driver’s door and put his left leg out, pulling the gun out from under his right thigh.

Chantal put on her most sincere smile and pulled her fur coat tightly around her. It was cold. She had on sunglasses, to moderate the flashes from the cameras, and the six inch stiletto heels she favored because of the way they forced her to walk, in case there was any video being shot. She stepped confidently from the childcare center, being escorted out by the beaming owner, to face the press.

Lola’s phone had been busy since he’d gotten on the road, and Kris was trying to call her for the third time, to let her know he was leaving town. His eyes were on the buttons of the phone when the door of the van he was about to pass was thrown open and half a body appeared. He didn’t even know he’d hit the man until he heard the grinding tear of metal on metal and looked up, astonished, to see the door being pushed forward by the right front fender of his car. He heard a scream and saw, just for a split second, the agonized face of a man between his car and the van. He was completely past the van before he reacted and his foot went to the brake.

Moe knew instantly he was fucked. He felt his left leg break as it was crushed between the front of the car and the van door. He watched the door slam forward and felt his leg being pulled in the same direction. His body spun, being rolled by the side of the car and, for a split second, he stared into the eyes of the driver. He knew instinctively that his leg was crushed, but still tried to stand on it as the car swept past him. He fell to the ground, knowing that the plan was fucked too. The pistol was still gripped in his hand. In a rage, he pointed the gun at the car that had ruined everything, and started shooting.

Larry and Curly were on either side of Chantal, in the act of actually reaching toward her, when there was the grinding tear of metal and the squealing sound that is instantly recognizable as an automobile accident. Their quarry, who had noticed Larry pulling a rag from a plastic bag, looked toward the van, just like everyone else did. The car that had obviously hit the van lurched to a stop, three or four car lengths past it.

Shots rang out. Larry and Curly were galvanized into action. The side doors of the van weren’t open, but they knew what to do while Moe was shooting. Larry’s hand reached toward the broad’s face.

Chantal knew instantly that something was wrong and that she was part of it. She saw a man’s hand coming toward her face and whirled to pull her knee up, connecting solidly with Larry’s balls. He gave a strangled "OOF" and wilted like a cheap suit. Feeling other hands on her right arm, she whirled again, planting her foot in preparation for driving her knee up again.

Curly had seen what she did to Larry, though, and turned his hips sideways to block her knee. That put his left foot out, flat on the ground, and Chantal, seeing that her primary target wasn’t available, elected to go to target number two. Her knee rose past where it might have and, with a gasping shout, she drove her heel down.

Her aim was true and the tip of a six inch stiletto heel contacted the top of the cheap deck shoe Curly was wearing. He felt the tip hit the top of his foot and heard the tip hit the pavement … under his shoe.

He looked down in horror as the woman lurched away, leaving her shoe imbedded in his foot.

"SON OF A BITCH!" he squealed.

Kris had just twisted around in his seat, to look through his back window, when the window exploded. Glass chips flew everywhere and he felt like somebody had hit him in the head with a baseball bat. The force of the blow turned him back around and he flopped forward, bouncing his forehead off the steering wheel. His brain told him he’d just heard a gunshot and he opened his eyes to see blood spattered all over the dashboard.

Instinct made his foot change from the brake to the accelerator and his tires squealed as the car shot forward. His vision was blurry. He lifted a hand to his head. It came away wet with shiny crimson staining it.

"I’ve been shot!" he gasped. He heard more shots and peered forward, suddenly aware that the windshield had a hole in it, with a web of tiny cracks spreading away from it.

He drove instinctively … away from danger … and his eyes picked out a sign that his brain said meant he should turn. He didn’t think-he just took the onramp. He was on I-95 before his mind began to clear.

He’d hit someone. He knew he’d hit someone. He’d heard the scream and seen the twisting body as his car crashed by it. Someone had shot at him-shot him! He’d already left the scene of the crime. He thought about turning around and going back, but he was on the interstate. Even if he DID turn around, he wasn’t sure now where it had all happened.

He didn’t know what to do. He felt as though someone was pressing a red hot poker to his temple. He was bleeding. He put his hand up to staunch the flow of blood and kept going.

Chapter 2

Detective Jim Harper surveyed the scene. The governor’s wife was no longer there, of course. She’d gotten in her car and left the uproar behind. There were plenty of witnesses, though. In fact, the place was crawling with them.

He had talked to ten of them already and his partner had probably talked to at least that many more. Paramedics were standing by and another ambulance had been called for. After impaling Curly Higginbotham’s left foot with her right shoe, Mrs. Custer had taken off her left one and methodically beaten Larry bloody with it. She had the help of several photographers, while the rest of them either took pictures of the melee or joined in "detaining" Curly, who was also the worse for the wear from being enthusiastically "detained." Moe wasn’t going anywhere. He might actually die if Jim didn’t let the ambulance take him away soon. The compound fracture of his left leg had left a pool of blood on the pavement that was about three feet in diameter. His excuse for not releasing Moe was that he didn’t have a free escort to send along to guard him.

He looked around and sighed. This was going to take hours to straighten out, and they were hours that had to be spent, since Mrs. Custer was involved. It was plain, based on the ether-soaked rag, and the statements of a dozen witnesses, that the three had been trying to abduct Mrs. Custer. Then there was the accident. Dozens of witnesses also confirmed that a passing car had disrupted the kidnapping attempt. The problem was that nobody had gotten a license plate, and their descriptions of the car would have filled a small sized used car lot. There would be plenty of paint transfer to ID the suspect vehicle, when it was found, but he couldn’t send out an APB based on what they had so far. At least he knew the car was silver, since it had left silver paint all over the door of the van.

Moe had been found unconscious by first responders, still lying in the street beside the van, a cheap .45 caliber pistol in his hand. It had been fired a number of times, but they wouldn’t know how many bullets they had to search for until the crime scene techs got there and processed the weapon. That model held eight rounds and almost everybody said they’d heard at least five shots, though nobody could say who he’d been shooting at.

Harper had four patrolmen guarding the scene, which covered an area from the middle of the street to the entire front yard of the childcare center.

He sighed. At least they had the perps, but it was going to be a long day.

Kris peered through the windshield. He had the wipers on now, because it was snowing hard. They made a funny sound as they went past the bullet hole in the windshield. The heater was going full blast, but not making much of a dent in the cold rushing through the missing back window. He’d realized a while back that the radio had stopped working for some reason, but he had much bigger problems than that.

He had made it through Mill Valley, and it wasn’t far now to Pembroke. His head wound had finally stopped bleeding, but the whole left side of his jacket and shirt had soaked up an alarming amount of blood. His vision still came and went, which was why it had taken him hours to get as far as he had. Three times he’d had to pull over and sit, until he could see to go on.

He was so tired. Another twenty miles and he could get into the house, clean up, and then decide what to do. The road turned suddenly and he felt the front wheels break loose for a second or two on the slippery surface. He had to pay better attention. Only one headlight was working and it reflected mostly blowing snow.

He knew he was in trouble. There couldn’t be any way out of that. But at least he could rest a while, before making a call and turning himself in. He’d have time to call his publisher and get a recommendation for an attorney too.

Other than pulling over because his vision was blurred, he hadn’t stopped. He’d watched the gas gauge constantly for the first half hour, worrying that a bullet had hit the tank, but there had been no unreasonable drop by the needle.

The wipers were caking up with frozen slush. He thought about stopping and knocking the stuff off, so they’d clear the windshield better. He was afraid that if he got out and moved around, though, that he’d find something else wrong with him. He’d been hunched over the wheel, his hands frozen to it for so long, that he wasn’t sure if the pains he was feeling were associated with that … or with other bullet wounds.

Five more miles, now. Then he could rest and get warm.

Lou Anne Rowan hustled from the babysitter’s front door to her car, which was still running. It was a miserable night, but she knew her boss would bitch and moan if she didn’t show up for work. It was unlikely there would be much work to do, but he wouldn’t care about that.

She felt lucky that she’d met Roslynn. She had to drive four miles out into the country to get Ambrose there, but Roslynn was willing to watch him from eleven-thirty at night until two the next afternoon, while Lou Anne worked the graveyard shift at "The Early Girl Eatery," a 24 hour diner on highway six, and then got some sleep. Working nights let Lou Anne spend her afternoons and evenings with her four year old, who was the light of her life and made all the horse shit worth putting up with. Besides, when he was at Roslynn’s, he had kids his own age to play with during the mornings.

While others met in this story thus far were all unremarkable in appearance, Lou Anne broke the mold. In fact, she’d broken it when she was thirteen and had been ever-so-noticeable ever since. The truth was that she would stand out in any crowd the average man … or woman … might wish to assemble.

Standing five feet nine inches in her bare feet, she had the body of a well developed fifteen year old. Pale skin, with a rosy hue, made her look like she’d just stepped in from the cold. A broken nose from her youth had healed slightly crooked, but no one really noticed that because her lips, while small, were lush in a way that drew attention to them. Her voice might have had something to do with that, because her voice sounded like she might be pushing thirteen.

Lou Anne was no child, however. At twenty-four she had been a lover half a dozen times, a mother once, and a thoroughly remarkable looking woman the entire time.

With the onset of puberty, Lou Anne had decided she wanted to look different from the other girls. She’d accomplished that by the simple expedient of shaving the sides of her head, leaving a wide mohawk, of sorts, except that the hair that was left wasn’t stiffened or cut short. Pick a color of the rainbow and she had dyed what was left of her hair that color. She had also made it some colors that are not in the rainbow, like electric pink. Occasionally, she even left it the almost black that she’d been born with. That hair was left to flop down over one side of her face. It was long enough that it went to her jaw, sometimes, but was usually cut short enough to leave both ears clear. Startlingly intense eyes peered through that hair, when it fell across her face.

Doc Martin’s, leather vests, and a certified, genuine Harley Davidson motorcycle jacket made her look like a rebellious and dangerous girl. In reality, though, she was a sweet young woman. She didn’t go in for the dark makeup that would have suggested she had goth tendencies. She just liked looking like she’d just as soon kill you as argue. It made getting through high school much less tense. Of course, most high school bullies tend to shy away from what they believe to be Satan-worshiping lesbians, for fear of having a hex put on them. Tattoos had been added, as sort of a garnish, when she was fifteen. She’d actually had her parents' consent for that, which gives you some idea of the freedom she’d enjoyed as she grew up. She disdained piercings, except in the ears and her navel.

Lou Anne had also disdained college, and had taken a job as a waitress in a small town she found herself in one day. That didn’t mean she was uneducated. Far from it. She’d always been curious about things, and loved learning just for the sake of learning. She was, in fact, probably better educated than the average college sophomore, though not in any specific educational track. She didn’t think college was a bad idea … she just hadn’t gone to one.

Some of that was because, out of the abandonment of joyfully exploring sex, came an unplanned little bundle of trouble, that had turned into a bundle of joy. With a little boy to support, she didn’t feel like she’d gotten a raw deal. She’d just needed a job and taken the one that was offered, though her future boss did look askance at her, initially.

She was popular at The Early Girl for a lot of reasons. She was a good waitress, for one thing. Her memory for details was astonishing. She knew her regular customers and what they liked, or might like. Those customers liked her for that, but one of the main reasons they returned again and again, was that the diner, situated on a well traveled highway, also got a lot of one-time customers. It was watching Lou Anne deal with those customers that was sometimes entertaining.

Lou Anne didn’t take shit from anybody, but she wasn’t obvious about it. If a trucker pinched her butt, she just smiled in that flirty way she had, and then accidentally spilled hot coffee in his lap. Whole plates of food had ended up on shirt fronts too, or in laps, if the offending customer didn’t drink coffee.

Regulars liked to make bets on who she would flirt with, and who she wouldn’t … what she would take, and what she wouldn’t … who she would smile at, and who would receive her wrath. To Hank, the owner, she was a pain in the butt, but the regulars made sure he knew that wherever she went, they’d go too, so he had to put up with her. Besides, sometimes she even flirted with him … just a little … if he was being nice to her.

The first second Kris knew something was wrong was when the world lurched and he was thrown to one side. He had nodded off, and there was no shoulder or ditch to drive on. There was only a drop off, beyond which were thirty feet of precipitous downhill terrain, at the bottom of which was a river.

The car rolled five times, traversing those thirty feet. Not being strapped in, Kris flopped around in the interior, amidst every loose item in the car, which filled the air with projectiles. The driver’s side window exploded in a hail of glass chips, which were added to the storm of things hitting his body. Rolling one last time, the car came to rest on the frozen surface of the river, upside down.

Barely conscious, Kris tried to gather his wits. His head wound had reopened, and he could feel blood running into his eyes and down his face. A horrible knocking noise came from the engine, which suddenly died. He smelled gasoline, and terror produced a surge of adrenaline. He wiggled through the broken window in a silence that was almost shocking after the noise of the car rolling down the hill. He became aware of creaks and cracking noises as his hands scrabbled on the ice.

His legs had just cleared the window when a crack like a rifle shot filled the silence. The car lurched and Kris scrambled away from it as it began sinking through the ice. Water rushed up onto the ice he was scrambling across and soaked his pants and side. He reached for a branch and pulled himself onto the snow-covered shore.

The only light was from the headlight, which suddenly went out, leaving him in darkness. He knew he had rolled down. It was freezing. He was tempted to just sit down and let it all be over, but something drove him to start climbing. The adrenaline helped, for the first twenty feet, and then he had to stop and rest, gasping.

Even though it was too dark to see, he wiped the blood from his left eye. He knew that if he didn’t get to level ground soon, he’d give up.

He started dragging his body upward again.

Lou Anne drove carefully. There were four or five inches of snow on the highway-nobody had come out to clear it yet-and it was still snowing hard enough be called a blizzard. She knew the winding road well, but the blowing snow made it hard to get her bearings as to where, exactly, she was. She slowed some more, but tried to keep the car above thirty, just to keep her forward momentum going. There was a rise up ahead somewhere, and she would need that momentum to get up it.

There it was.

She gunned the engine carefully. Thank goodness she had studded tires on the car. She was only going twenty when she hit the top of the slope, but she relaxed then, because she knew the worst was over. She prepared to negotiate the next curve, which she knew was there, even though her headlights made it appear that the road just stopped.

Halfway into that curve, she blinked. There was something in the road. Her foot flashed toward the brake pedal, and she slid fifteen feet. She was right on top of whatever it was. Her brain told her it was a body, but that was impossible. There was no car, and nobody in his right mind would be out walking on a night like this.

She didn’t know whether to get out of the car or not. What if it was a setup, to jack her car? The part of Connecticut she lived in was safe. That was part of why she’d moved there. But car jackings were on the news every day!

She fumbled under the seat, feeling for the thing Jessica had given her-a telescoping rod, with a knob on the end. Lou Anne had laughed when Jessica, her best friend, had patiently shown her how to use it as a whipping tool of defense. But Jessica had insisted she keep it in the car.

"Someday one of those truckers is going to try to get revenge for getting a lapful of Hank’s cooking!" Jessica had said. "Just you watch. And while you probably deserve it, I don’t want you getting beaten up by one of them. You KEEP that in your car, do you understand me?"

Now Lou Anne backed up, until her headlights shone on the lump in the road. It was definitely a body. She clutched the rod and got out, carefully. Her feet slipped on the snow and she had to hold onto the door to stabilize herself.

"Are you OK?" she yelled.

The lump didn’t move.

She noticed that snow was beginning to cover the man. He’d been lying there for at least a few minutes.

"I’VE GOT A GUN!" she shouted into the darkness. "I KNOW HOW TO USE IT!"

The lump didn’t move.

She edged forward. She snapped the rod downward and heard the swishing thunk as it extended.

"Hey!" she said, standing three feet from the man on the ground.

Nothing.

For the first time she saw the red-stained snowflakes around the man’s head. Her eyes took in the wet look of his sports coat, which was torn in several places. He wasn’t even wearing a parka.

"Hey mister," she tried again.

She edged closer and poked him with the end of the rod.

She looked around. Where had he come from? Had someone thrown him out of a car as it drove along? She couldn’t tell if the tracks in the snow around her were fresh or not.

"Shit!" she barked. "You better not be dead!"

She went closer. She’d never seen a dead body and didn’t want to now. This was already giving her the willies. She tried to remember what fist aid she knew and reached out to touch the man’s cheek.

It was cold, but not the cold of death. There was a hint of warmth in the skin.

The lump groaned, and she fell on her butt trying to skid backwards.

"SHIT!" she yelled.

The lump rolled and landed on its back. The hands didn’t come up to brush the snow away, and Lou Anne suddenly knew this man was in real trouble.

It galvanized her and she scrambled up, going to the man and getting to her knees to lean over him.

"Hey," she said, her voice softer. "It’s OK. I’ll help you, OK?"

The man gurgled, and one hand came feebly up to his face.

"Ow," he croaked.

She almost laughed. This guy was in terrible shape. She could see him bleeding all over his face, now that it was in the lights. He looked like he’d been beaten half to death. And all he had to say was, "Ow."

"You have to get up," she said. "I can’t lift you, and you’ll freeze to death if you stay on the ground. I have a car. I’ll take you to the hospital. You have to get up. Do you hear me?"

She tugged at his sleeve.

Afterwards, when she was asked about it-and she was asked about it a lot over the years-she would not be able to explain how she’d gotten the man into the passenger seat of her car. Even as she put the car in gear, she couldn’t believe she had pulled it off.

The rest was crystal clear in her mind, though. His head flopped back on the headrest. He groaned a few times as she got the car moving. She’d left her door open, when she’d gotten out to investigate, and it was cold inside. The heater had already been on full blast, though, and the car began to warm quickly.

That was when he slumped over, his head hitting her right arm.

"Sit up!" she yelped, but he was beyond hearing her now. "You’d better not die in my car, you son of a bitch!" she growled.

It was the longest four miles she’d ever driven, and she’d never been happier in her life to see the lights of the Emergency Room … not even when she’d been in labor with Ambrose.

She ran into the ER yelling her head off, and people went to remove him from her car. Then came the questions. Who was he? Who had done this to him? Where did she find him? What was his name? What was HER name?

"I have to go to work!" she shouted, finally. "I don’t KNOW who he is. I found him in the middle of the road and I brought him here. That’s all I know!"

They tried to get her to stay, warning her that they were going to call the police.

"Fine! Call them! I work at The Early Girl. That’s where I’ll be!"

Then she’d run to her car. She’d left her door open again, and they had left the other one open too, after they got him out. It was freezing inside again. As she got in, she saw the stains that, in the daylight, she knew would be red. The crapping guy had bled all over her car.

The only reason she didn’t hit twenty cars on her way to work was because no one else was on the roads in town at this time of night.

Mitch Connel put his uniform cap on the visitor’s chair and looked down at the man in the bed. His face was bandaged in more places than it was not. It was impossible to tell whether that face matched the one on the driver’s license that had come out of the wallet in the pants the guy had been wearing. That driver’s license said the man was one Kristoff S. Farmingham, who lived in New York City. The problem was that a rental agreement-wet and bloody, but still legible-along with the key in his pocket, said his name was Larry Phillips, and that he was renting one of Rudy Chastain’s vacation cottages. Mitch knew Rudy, of course. He knew everybody in town. There were only five men on the force in Pembroke, which served a population of some twenty-five hundred. Rudy worked as a fishing guide during the summer, and had seven or eight vacation cottages scattered around that he rented out.

Doctor Massouf fussed with tubes that were attached to the man.

"And you say Lulu brought him in?" Mitch asked. He hated talking to people who couldn’t speak English. Dr. Massouf was Pakistani, and he was a good physician, but he couldn’t speak English worth a damn.

"Eet vas hur, yes I am telling you. Se said se fund heem on zom hifay. You must be talking to hur I tink."

"When are you going to learn English, Doc?" groaned Mitch.

"Zer is nothing being wrong wit my spich, offitzer," said the doctor. "You haff itten ferry much too many donuts, and zay haff plooged oop your ears, I am tinking."

"So will he live?"

"Yes, I am tinking so," said the doctor. "He vas loosing much blud ven he came here. He vas shooted, I am tinking."

"Shooted?" Mitch frowned.

"You know," said the doctor, making a gun with his thumb and finger. "Bang bang." The doctor then pointed to a thick bandage on the left side of the man’s head. "Zee boolet just touch heem little beet here."

"What makes you think he was shot?" asked Mitch.

The doctor just stared at him. "I am being from Pah-kees-tahn. I am, when I was there, seeing many, many shootings veecteems."

"Just there?" asked Mitch, pointing at the head.

"Only there, yes," said Massouf. "And many glass cuttings too, I am sure." He reached into a pocket of his lab coat and pulled something out. He offered it to the policeman. "I take thees froom hees skin." Again, he pointed at the left side of the man’s face. He waved his hand over the rest of the body. "Many contusions and lacerations and so on, but no more shootings."

Mitch picked up one of the unconscious man’s hands, and looked at it. There was mud under the fingernails, which was odd, because the hands were soft. There was the suggestion they had been callused in the past, but the thick skin was being replaced with new skin that did no manual labor.

"How long will he be out?" asked the policeman.

"I am not being in a position dat I can tell you deese answer," said the doctor, shaking his head. "He is being healing while slipping until his eyes are ready to be opening, yes?"

A nurse stuck her head in the door.

"You got a phone call, Mitch," she said.

"Thanks, Jessica," said Mitch. "Hey, were you here when this guy came in?"

"Yeah, but I wasn’t in on the team that cleaned him up."

"Was it really Lulu who brought him in?"

Dr. Massouf snorted.

"That’s what they said," said Jessica. "Can’t mistake her for anybody else."

"It just seems odd," said Mitch.

"Why?" asked Jessica. "She’s about the oddest person I know."

"She’s your best friend!" laughed Mitch.

"I know that," said the nurse. "That’s why I know how completely believable it could be that she’d happen upon some almost-dead guy and haul him in here. Why don’t you just go ask her about it?"

"I will," said Mitch, a little defensively. "I just have lots to do, that’s all." He moved toward the door. "Doc says he was shot. Is that right?"

"You’re asking me?" Jessica’s face was impassive. "He’s the doctor. If he says the guy was shot, then he was shot. Why are you harassing me? I just came to tell you to come to the phone!"

"I’m not harassing you," said Mitch. "I’m doing an investigation and questioning witnesses."

"Well I didn’t see nuthin' and I don’t know nuthin', so you can just go interview somebody else. And quit looking at my boobs, too!"

Doctor Massouf snorted again.

"I’m not looking at your boobs," said Mitch, sounding injured.

"You ALWAYS look at my boobs, Mitch. One of these days I’m gonna tell Carla about it, too!" she said, referring to Mitch’s girlfriend.

"OK, OK," said Mitch, holding his hands up. "You don’t have to get all upset. I’m just a trained observer, that’s all. I can’t help it if I observe. It’s instinct."

"I know what your instincts are, you heartbreaker," said the young woman. "Are you going to answer the phone, or should I just tell them you’re too busy investigating my boobs?"

While Officer Connel was being notified about the almost-dead man who had been in some kind of trouble, and had responded to the little ninety bed hospital that served Pembroke, Lou Anne-known to most of the town as Lulu, a name she wasn’t enthralled with, but was stuck with anyway-raised another uproar when she got to work.

"What in the nine hells happened to you?" asked Hank, when she stomped in the front door of the diner.

"I almost ran over somebody," she moaned. "He was lying in the road, half dead. I just dropped him off at the hospital."

"It looks like you just gutted a deer," said Hank.

Lou Anne looked down at her coat, which was smeared red with blood. There were twigs, and mud and water mixed in with it. It looked like she’d been rolling around on the ground.

"You can’t come to work looking like that," objected Hank. There were three customers in The Early Girl and all of them were looking at Lou Anne with interest.

"Are you telling me you want me to take the night off?" asked Lou Anne, a dangerous tone in her voice. "I couldn’t just leave him there to die."

She took her coat off. Her uniform, under the coat was fine. Her knees were white from the cold, and wet from the snow, but a towel would fix that.

"See? I’m OK. It’s just the coat that got dirty."

She looked dismally at the coat, holding it up to examine it. She was pretty sure it was ruined. It was a good one too, with down filling.

"Damn!" she moaned.

"Look on the bright side," said Hank, grinning. "At least you finally found yourself a man."

About an hour later, Mitch walked into the diner. He stopped to brush off the snow that had almost covered him on the way from the car to the building.

"Coming down hard," he said.

"I didn’t do anything wrong," said Lou Anne, automatically.

"I never said you did," said Mitch. "You got any coffee that’s hot and won’t spill?"

"Ha … ha," said Lou Anne. "I just found him lying in the middle of the road, over on Hopkins Lane. That’s all I know."

"Who said I was here to talk about him?" asked Mitch. "Maybe I’m just hungry."

"You want something to eat?" yelled Hank.

"No, I’ve got too much to do. Lou Anne has managed to find herself a real puzzle."

"He’s not mine!" said Lou Anne. "What was I supposed to do, just leave him there?"

"No, of course not," said Mitch. "You did the right thing. You probably saved his life. I just need to ask you some questions, that’s all."

"She’s on the clock," grumped Hank.

Mitch looked around. There was one customer, a trucker, and he was dozing in a booth. Mitch didn’t blame him. It wasn’t a fit night out for man nor dog.

"Official business," he said, trying to make it sound ominous.

"At least order something," complained Hank.

"OK, French fries with creamed gravy," said Mitch. "You want something, too, Lulu?"

"I don’t eat lunch until four," said Lou Anne.

"Your call," said Mitch. "This won’t take long."

He knew she wouldn’t have much information, but he needed to try to nail down exactly where she had found the man. The glass indicated there had been a car crash of some kind. The alleged bullet wound complicated things, but if he could find the car, he could probably find more evidence, and it might tell him enough to know what he was dealing with. Things like this just didn’t happen in Pembroke. It was a nice, quiet little town, and he liked it that way.

She wasn’t a lot of help. She knew she’d gone up the hill, and she knew it was just past a bend in the road. The problem was that there were a dozen bends in that road, where it paralleled the river. He asked her about tracks, even though, at the rate the snow had been falling, they wouldn’t be there anymore. He was quite sure he wouldn’t be able to find the car by tracks. The best she could do was to say she was pretty sure that it had been at the first curve after topping the hill.

It was two in the morning, and there was a blizzard out there. There wasn’t much he could do anyway, so he sat and chatted when he ran out of questions. Hank brought the French fries, and sat down with them.

"I saw your dark-skinned friend," said Mitch, around a mouthful of fries. "She’s on the warpath again."

"What about this time?" asked Lou Anne.

"She says I keep looking at her chest," said Mitch.

"Well, you do," said Lou Anne. "You look at mine all the time, too."

Mitch’s eyes went straight to her breasts. It was the first time he’d looked at them since he got there.

"See!" said Lou Anne.

"You just called my attention to them," said Mitch. "I’m a man, after all." He grinned. "And both of you have a nice set."

"You’re a pig," snorted Lou Anne. "I’m going to tell Carla."

"That’s what Jess said too," said Mitch, unconcerned. He’d been in an on again/off again romance with Carla for five years. She wanted to get married and have a family, but Mitch didn’t think he could support a family on his salary, and it was his firm belief that his wife, if he ever had one, would not work.

"We should," groused Lou Anne. "You flirt with us all the time."

"You flirt back," pointed out the policeman.

"Only sometimes," said Lou Anne, as if that settled things.

"When ARE you going to make some man happy?" asked Mitch.

"When I find a man who deserves to be happy," she snapped. "I have to find somebody for Jess first."

"Good luck," said Mitch. "She’s the only black woman in fifty miles, more than likely."

"She’s a sweet, sensitive woman!" insisted Lou Anne. "She can’t help it if she’s black. It shouldn’t matter anyway!"

"Just like your haircut shouldn’t matter," said Mitch, looking at the bare side of her scalp that was exposed.

"Don’t go there," said Hank. "You’ll get her all riled up."

"Are we done here?" asked Lou Anne, her voice tight. "I have salt shakers to fill."

"Don’t go away mad," said Mitch, grinning. "I like your hair just fine."

The change that came over Lou Anne was startling. She smiled, a lazy, friendly kind of smile-the kind of smile that made a man’s groin tighten up. This would have been the point in time that small wagers would have been made, had there been any regulars there.

"Aren’t you just the sweetest man," she cooed. "I’ll be sure to tell Carla you like my hair." She got up. "You want some coffee with that?"

"NO MA’AM!" said Mitch. "I need to get going. That fella was in a car before you found him, and I need to find it." He turned to Hank. "Thanks for the fries. Put them on my tab?"

"Two-forty-seven," said Hank dryly. "Tax included."

Mitch got out his wallet and fished out three ones.

"Keep the change," he said. "As a tip for Lulu."

"I’ll be sure to tell Carla what a big tipper you are, too," said Lou Anne sweetly. "Y’all come back soon, now, you hear?"

Chapter 3

It was three in the morning and Detective Sergeant Jim Harper had to piss again. All that coffee he’d been drinking-along with being in his late forties-was taking its toll, but it had to be done to stay awake. Reports would be expected to be ready for distribution in the morning. The fucking mayor was sticking his nose into it, as if the entire law enforcement hierarchy wasn’t bad enough. Lonny Hildebrand, the Captain of Detectives, had already pissed himself earlier in the evening, when Harper had had the balls to call up the governor’s mansion and ask Mrs. Custer to come in for an interview.

"We don’t call the fucking governor’s wife in for an interview!" Hildebrand had choked. "You get your ass over to Albany and talk to her! And you’d better fucking salute the fucking flag pole in front of the fucking mansion when you get there!"

"Gosh," said Harper, trying to look mournful. "I’d be happy to do that, Captain, except that she said she’d be happy to come see us. She’ll be here at ten, tomorrow morning."

"You actually fucking talked to Mrs. Custer her fucking SELF?" Hildebrand looked like he was going to have a stroke. He deflated, slumping into a nearby chair. "Ohhhhh," he moaned. "Fuck me to tears … I’m getting too old for this shit."

Harper decided not to point out that the captain was ten years younger than he was, and had gotten the appointment to his position only because his father had friends on the force. If the idiot quit, there would be a kegger thrown by the detectives who’d suffered under him.

"Take it easy," said Jim in a soothing voice. "I’ve been doing this a while. I know how not to ruffle her feathers. It will be fine. Why don’t you go on home and relax? I’ll have the report on your desk when you get here in the morning, with copies for the chief and the mayor. I’ll give you two extra copies for whoever else decides this is their business too. We’ve got the perps. The rest of this is just a formality."

Captain Hildebrand looked hopeful.

"OK," he said. "But PLEASE don’t screw this up, Jimmy. You got anything on the good Samaritan yet?"

"Just some paint scrapings," sighed Harper. "The lab should be able to give us a make and model tomorrow sometime. Then we can start looking for it. As best we can tell, that’s who Moe was shooting at, and if there are bullet holes, it should be a piece of cake to find."

Mitch Connel stood on the edge of the road, peering down the incline, where his flashlight simply reflected light off of falling snowflakes, rather than illuminating the terrain. Just enough light got past the falling snow that he could see bent and torn underbrush. This had to be the place, but he couldn’t see far enough to spot the car.

He’d have to come back in the morning.

If the roads were passable.

He got back in the department’s 4WD and slipped and slid back to town. The office was warm, and the snow in his hair started melting immediately. He sat down at the desk and flipped open the manila folder that had only a single piece of paper in it. All he had were two names and the possibility of a bullet wound.

On impulse he pulled open a desk drawer and pulled out a black hardback law enforcement directory for the state of New York. He’d already found the address on the driver’s license on Google maps. Now he had to figure out which precinct might cover that part of Long Island. Half an hour later, feeling helpless, he dialed a number.

"Nine one one, what is your emergency, please?" came a bored voice.

"I didn’t dial 911, said Mitch, I called the Nassau County PD."

"What is your emergency, please?" asked the voice.

"I don’t have an emergency. I need to talk to missing persons."

"Reporting a missing person is not an emergency, sir," said the voice. "Please clear the line and call the administrative number in the morning."

There was a click in Mitch’s ear.

Mitch checked the book and then looked at the number on the display of the phone for "Last Dialed". They were the same. There weren’t any nines or ones in the number at all. He dialed it again.

"Nine one one, what is your emergency, please?" came a different voice.

"This is the Pembroke, Connecticut Police Department," said Mitch, as officially as he could. "I dialed the number for the detective division that’s in the L.E.O. directory and got you instead. Transfer me to the detective division, please."

"This is nine one one," said the woman.

"Look," said Mitch patiently. "I’ve got a Long Island resident in the hospital, whose been shot and might die. I need to talk to a detective down there, OK? Is attempted murder enough of an emergency for you?"

"I can’t dispatch anybody to Connecticut," said the woman, sounding upset.

"I don’t want you to dispatch anybody to Connecticut," said Mitch, his voice rising. "I just want to talk to a DETECTIVE, OK?!"

"You don’t have to yell, sir," came the woman’s voice. "I don’t have to take that. I’m in the union. You should call the administrative number. This is nine one one."

"I DID CALL THE ADMINISTRATIVE NUMBER!" yelled Mitch. "AND I GOT YOU IDIOTS TWICE! I DIALED 516-555-7000!"

"Hold please," said the woman.

He stewed for five minutes, until a man came on the phone.

"Detective… ?" said the man.

"Officer Mitch Connel," said Mitch, his voice tight. "Pembroke, Connecticut Police Department, badge number twenty-six."

"It seems as though someone threw the wrong switch," said the man. "The admin number was routed to the emergency operations center. The number you dialed is the right number, but there’s nobody there in the middle of the night."

"Surely you guys have a detective on duty, or on call or SOMETHING!" said Mitch.

"I’ll transfer you. Please don’t yell at my people again, Detective Connel. They work hard, under harrowing conditions, and don’t deserve verbal abuse, particularly from someone in law enforcement."

"I’ll try to remember that," said Mitch. "Could you connect me, please?"

"Sure," said the man, his voice bright. "No problem."

It didn’t get any better.

"Detective division," said a gruff voice.

"Yeah," sighed Mitch. "This is Mitch Connel, up in Pembroke, Connecticut. I’ve got a mystery up here who came from your neck of the woods. A passerby found him in the middle of the road, unconscious. He may have been shot and his driver’s license says he lives at an address on Chester Street. I need to know if you have any missing persons reports on the guy … wants and warrants … that kind of stuff."

"We don’t do missing persons," said the voice on the phone. "We have a separate division that does that."

"Oh," said Mitch. "Can you transfer me to them?"

"They don’t work nights," said the man. "You can call them back in the morning."

"Oh," said Mitch again. "Well, OK, I guess, can you give me that number?"

There was silence on the line. Then a dial tone confirmed that the man had hung up on him.

Jessica Dauphine looked at her patient. He was in bad shape. She lifted the gown, in preparation for giving him a sponge bath. His care in the ER had involved cleaning him up only in those areas where they needed to put in stitches or treat a wound in some other way. Now that he was in her care, she had determined to finish the job.

She wasn’t shocked at what she saw when his body was bare. She’d seen it all before. There were contusions everywhere, making him look like some odd creature with a unique style of camouflage, though where the mixture of blue, black, purple and tanned skin would blend in was a mystery.

She was glad he was unconscious as she started swabbing his skin with the sponge. He’d be wincing and complaining if he were awake. His battered body would have been crying out at her touch. This was better, because she could use broad firm strokes and clean him well, without worrying about causing him discomfort.

He was in very good shape for a man his age. He looked much closer to someone in his late twenties, than the forty-seven that his driver’s license said he was. She knew Mitch was curious as to whether the driver’s license went with the man, and she wondered too if he was really Kristoff Farmingham, or some other man who had Kristoff’s identification for some reason. She liked a mystery, and her mind wandered as she cleaned his skin.

Was he some underworld denizen, who had been left to die for some transgression against his organization? Maybe he was an undercover cop, who had been found out and "killed" in a way that would make it look like an accident. Her mind was filled with images from books she had read. Indiana Jones came to mind, for some reason. She smiled as she thought of this man with a fedora and a coiled whip at his waist.

Her reverie was broken when she got to his groin. She’d been told, in nursing school, that she’d get used to seeing intimate parts of her patients … that it would become routine and boring. That had never happened. Each man she got to see like this was unique in some way or another. Her own vivid imagination made each foray into exploring another human being’s body something new and exciting. Even the old men she looked at conjured up visions of what they might have been like when they were younger … stronger … more virile.

She looked at Kristoff’s penis, lying limply on his testicles. It was neither huge, nor tiny. Based on her limited experience with men, he looked quite normal. The skin on his penis was darker than the rest of him-a dusky brown, with purple undertones, and an overcast of gray that she knew was the result of his loss of blood. As his body made new blood, that gray would fade and the purple would probably become more prominent.

She retracted his foreskin, telling herself that there might be smegma under it-a fertile breeding ground for bacteria that would cause itching and eventually pain if it were left to fester. His glans was clean, though. She looked over her shoulder, to make sure no one was watching her take a little too long to clean his genitals. She was always curious about a man’s equipment. She didn’t have all that much experience with penises. That wasn’t from lack of trying. She was just the wrong woman in the wrong place right now.

Jessica had accepted the first offer she’d gotten from the placement office of the school’s nursing program, worried that she might not be able to find a job. She now knew that was silly. Nurses were in short supply, and a good nurse could get a job almost anywhere she wanted to. But the first year had flown by, and she’d made a few friends, and it was hard to think about leaving, even if it might get her someplace where she could find a man.

The problem was that the residents of Pembroke … Nassequa county, for that matter … were typically white, and had been for generations, while Jessica Dauphine was not.

She wasn’t the blue-black of Nigerian ancestry. Rather, her bloodline appeared to have come from a mixture of races. Her fertile imagination had supplied that scenario as well. She imagined a slave holder, who looked a little like Rhett Butler, on some plantation, looking over a new shipment of slaves one day. His eye would have fallen on her great great grandmother, who was, no doubt, a tall, thin, well muscled woman from the Massai, used to walking or running long distances. She would have had the high, conical breasts that Jessica had, with thick, black nipples that reflected light, making them look shiny.

Her maternal ancestor would have been much darker than Jessica’s cocoa colored skin and, while Jessica had a mixture of Negroid and Caucasian facial features, her great great grandmother would have had a flatter nose and thicker lips. Still, at over six feet in height, she would have stood out from the others. Even after being captured and stuffed in the hold of a slave ship, she would have been proud … obstinate.

Her owner would have been smitten by her, unable to resist taking her to his bed. She would have been a virgin, of course, more woman than any tribal man could have tamed. Only her status as a slave would have let the despicable … but handsome … white man claim her body. Their coupling would have been violent, as she resisted, initially, until his softer side would convince her that he had fallen in love with her. She would have borne him several children, who would have been his favorites.

Jessica jerked. She’d been daydreaming again. She knew it was a stupid dream. It hadn’t been like that at all. But somewhere along the line, some white man had taken a black woman and gotten her with child. Jessica’s features proved that.

She realized that she was holding something completely different in her hand than she had been a few moments ago. She stared at the erection she had created, unconsciously on both of their parts, and let go of it, jerking her hand back and looking around guiltily. When she saw no one was watching, she darted a glance at his face. The one eye that wasn’t covered by bandages was still closed, so she relaxed.

She finished her job, moving down the man’s legs. Her eyes went back several times to that now impressive manhood. It was wilting, for lack of attention. She sighed.

At six feet, one and three quarters inches, she was taller than most in town. She was in excellent condition, because she ran and did calisthenics religiously. Her firm, proud breasts rode high on her chest and were separated by a hand span of space that made it all but impossible for her to display cleavage, even when she tried to. She had the same thick purple-black nipples as her imagined ancestor and the rich brown skin tones that proclaimed her to be "black." Her Caucasoid ancestry had given her straight hair, though, both on her head and her mons, where the hair lay flat and smooth, short enough, naturally, that it did nothing to hide the thick lips that were her labia majora, which hid smaller lips inside that were the same color as her nipples.

Many people in town looked at her and thought of Tyra Banks, though their features were completely different to an educated observer.

She was a beautiful woman, by anyone’s standards. But her skin was a little too dark. It wasn’t overt discrimination, really. There weren’t any diehard racists in town. She had been welcomed and still felt welcome. But she was just different enough that men shied away from her, drifting toward the more familiar.

At least in terms of serious relationships, anyway. Men flirted with her, and their eyes consumed her like ice cream on a summer day, trying to lick it all up before it melted. She flirted back, sometimes, but it didn’t lead to anything serious.

She knew why no man in town pursued her seriously, but there was nothing she could do about it. At twenty-four, though, she was in no particular hurry. Her biological clock wasn’t screaming at her. Still, in a fit of pique, one day, she had purchased a sex toy to help her try to manage the normal urges she faced. Her pique had driven her to choose a thick, coal black dildo, obviously supposed to be an exaggerated representation of a black man’s penis. If the white men in town wouldn’t pursue the prize, then they would lose out, both literally and figuratively.

She’d only shown it to one other person. Lulu, her best friend, had goggled at the huge thing, when she’d shown it to her, and then laughed out loud.

"You’ll kill yourself with that thing!" Lulu had laughed.

"I like it just fine!" said a slightly miffed Jessica. She’d had a fantasy that Lulu would fall in love with the long, amazingly realistic looking thing, and ask to borrow it.

"Well, don’t use it too much," said Lulu, seriously. "Because if you do, and you ever DO meet a man, he won’t be able to compete in any way … shape … or form!" She’d ended laughing hysterically, waving the twelve inch long rubber penis around like it was a floppy sword of some kind.

Jessica’s patient groaned suddenly and she jumped again. She’d been daydreaming AGAIN! She moved to the man’s head, watching his closed eye carefully. If he was awakening, she’d need to call the doctor in as soon as possible.

Hurriedly she took time to pull the hospital gown over the man’s nakedness and the blanket up over him.

Jessica stood back while the resident on duty looked the man over. His eye was open, but looked glazed, and he wasn’t trying to speak. The resident fussed with tubes and looked at the readouts of the monitors. Obviously he didn’t have anything in mind to actually do, and was just going through motions. Jessica was constantly amazed at how much art was involved in medicine, which most people thought of as a science. Doctors had only touched the surface, as far as really understanding what went on in a human body. More than half the time, they had no idea what was actually wrong with someone, especially in circumstances like this.

"Keep an eye on him," said the young man. He left without another word, probably going back to the room with the cot in it, where the residents who had the night shift spent as much time as possible, trying to sleep.

"Sure thing," said Jessica, trying to suppress the impatience in her voice. What did he think she was going to do … take a nap-like him?

She stepped closer to the bed.

"Hi," she said, leaning over him so his eye could see her without him having to move his head. "How are you feeling?"

It was a silly question. She knew that. But it was a way to get the patient talking. He mumbled something and licked his lips.

She checked the chart. Nothing about restricting liquids. She told him she’d be right back and went to get a cup. She put mostly ice in it, and just a little water, and got a straw that would bend at the top. Taking it back, she tilted the cup carefully and put the straw between his lips. His tongue pushed it out and, as if it were a tool of exploration, moved the end of the straw to one side and then back again. His head lifted fractionally and she put the straw back between his lips.

He gave a tiny suck, and dropped his head back to the pillow. She could see him swishing the water around in his mouth before swallowing. His lips opened again and she gave him the straw once more. Three tiny sips later, he spoke.

"What happened?"

"We were hoping you could tell us that," she said softly. "You were in some kind of accident. You’re in the hospital now."

His eye moved around her upper body, and she imagined him thinking, "Well duh … you’re a nurse!" She felt her face get hot.

"You lost a lot of blood," she said, for lack of anything else to say. "You’re kind of banged up." She didn’t mention the suspected gunshot wound on his temple. She couldn’t have said why she didn’t mention it, but she left that part out intentionally.

"What’s your name?" she asked.

He thought about that for a while.

When he’d first awakened, he knew he was waking up, and he knew he was someplace "different than usual." He could tell that something had happened to him, because he could feel pain in various parts of his body. He’d centered on that, initially. Now he went beyond his body.

What WAS his name?

He realized that his mind was curiously empty. It was a little like knowing you’d gone shopping recently, but opening the pantry door and finding empty shelves. Where was all the stuff that was supposed to be on them?

He felt mildly frustrated. She had asked such an easy question, and he couldn’t answer it. He looked at her. She looked odd … flat somehow, two dimensional instead of three dimensional. He realized only one of his eyes was working. He brought his hand up and felt a lump with a cloth feel to it covering the eye he couldn’t see out of. Bandages. He was in a hospital and he was bandaged up.

"Can you hear me?" asked the nurse.

"I don’t know," he said.

"You don’t know if you can hear me?"

"I don’t know my name."

"You wait right there," she said. "I’ll go get the doctor."

He smiled. Where did she think he was going to go? She sounded cute and he wished he could see her better. He did an inventory of his body, sliding his hands around and moving his legs and toes. Everything seemed to work OK. There was a generalized ache all over his body, and a few sharper pains where his fingers probed. His face hurt, under the bandages, but the covered eye felt all right. He wondered why they’d covered it, if it was OK. He wondered what had happened to him. His curiously empty mind was fascinating, and he began to look around the bare shelves, to see what memories were still there.

Visions of a computer screen, with words appearing on it-letter by letter-were clear in his mind. He couldn’t see the fingers on the keyboard, but he knew they were his. He couldn’t see the words clearly enough to see what they said, but he knew they were words. His mind continued to watch the blurred words appear. Then there was a carriage return and larger letters formed: Chapter Two.

"I’m a writer," he said softly.

There was the rustle of clothing, as a man came into the room, followed by the nurse.

"How are you feeling?" asked the man. He was dressed in a white coat over baggy shirt and pants that were blue. Scrubs. This was the doctor.

He smiled again. He thought it was funny for a doctor to ask someone in his condition that question.

"I think I’m all fucked up."

A very bright light suddenly flashed into his one eye and he blinked.

"Ow."

"Did that hurt?" asked the doctor, leaning back. He had something silver in his hand. A flashlight.

"No. It just surprised me, that’s all."

"No apparent concussion," said the doctor, apparently to the nurse. He leaned back over.

"What do you remember?" he asked.

"I’m an author."

"An author," the doctor repeated. "What else?"

"That’s about it."

"When I say the word home…" The doctor paused for a few seconds before going on. "What do you remember?"

He thought. He knew he HAD a home, somehow. He had a vision of a brown couch sitting on a hard wood floor. Everything around it was fuzzy and indistinct. He suddenly saw a commode. The walls in the bathroom were white. He wondered if he spent most of his time on that couch and commode, because that was all he could remember.

"Not much," he said.

The doctor did things with his hands. They were out of sight.

"His vitals are normal. Other than the memory loss, he’s doing much better. Change him to guarded and get him something to eat." The doctor bent over him. "They’re going to get you something to eat," he said, as if he suspected the man in the bed were deaf. "After that, try to get some sleep."

"I’m not sleepy," the patient said.

"Try to get some sleep," said the doctor again. "Your memory loss is probably only temporary. I don’t think you have a concussion. There might be a little residual swelling in the brain, but I feel pretty good about your condition."

As if he’d lost interest, he turned and left the room, leaving the patient alone with the nurse.

"Why am I being guarded?" he asked.

"What?" The nurse sounded confused. He wished he could see her better.

"He said for you to make me guarded. Why? Am I dangerous?"

She giggled. "No. He just meant you’re condition isn’t serious anymore, just guarded."

"Oh," he said. "What does that mean? I mean I understand serious. But what is guarded?"

She knew that "guarded" meant that his physical condition had improved to the point that he no longer needed constant monitoring. She’d been around long enough to know it also meant that, physically, this man would probably recover completely. But the doctor had no idea how his mental condition would progress. "Guarded" was simply a way of him stating that something bad could still happen, but maybe not. Some doctors used the term to cover their asses, in case the patient tanked. She didn’t want to tell the patient that, though.

"Oh, it just means that we don’t have to spend quite as much time keeping an eye on you, that’s all." She tried to sound cheerful.

"Oh." There was a long pause. "You really don’t know my name?"

She tried to think about what Mitch would want her to say … or not say. She knew there was some mystery about this man. Since he’d awakened, he’d seemed like any other guy … not dangerous or scary. It occurred to her that Mitch would want to know he was awake.

"Um…" She stalled. "I think there was a billfold in your pants when they brought you in. They just probably haven’t had time to update your records."

"How long have I been here?" he asked.

"About eight hours," she said.

"And they couldn’t update my records in eight hours?" He sounded skeptical.

"It’s seven in the morning," she said. "You came in around midnight. The police were here, but didn’t say much to me about you. They might want to talk to you, now that you’re awake. The Patient Affairs Office will open up soon and I’m sure everything will get updated."

"Oh," he said. "OK."

"I’ll get you something to eat."

"OK."

He watched her as she left, and when she swung the door open, he had a sudden vision of a car door, right in front of him. He was driving and the door opened. He made a startled sound as the memory flooded back into his mind. There had been a man too. He had hit the car door … and he had hit the man!

Then the memory just stopped. That was all he could remember. He’d been in an accident and had hit a man. But he couldn’t remember anything after that.

While she was gone, he lay there, exploring his mind. Misty things wavered in and out of existence. She had said the police wanted to talk to him. That was no wonder. But why hadn’t they TOLD him he’d been in an automobile accident?

He thought back. She had asked HIM what had happened. What had she said? He closed his eye. She’d said "some kind of accident," as if she didn’t know what kind of accident. Surely if he’d been in a car accident … if he’d HIT a man … they would know that. He began to doubt his own memory … what seemed to be left of it.

Nothing else came to him. The vision of that opening door, and the man he’d hit-IF he’d actually hit him-was clear as could be, but there was nothing else at all, except the words, appearing on a computer monitor, that told him he wrote.

What did he write? He couldn’t read the words in his mind. They were just amorphous black blobs on a white background. But he KNEW they were some kind of story. He didn’t know how he knew that, but the feeling was strong.

He was distracted by a thick wrinkle of cloth under him, that was pressing into his body uncomfortably. He tried to sit up, but was discouraged from doing that, both by how weak he felt and by pain that blossomed in his body as he tensed his muscles.

The nurse returned, a brown tray in her hands. He recognized a carton of milk on it, but everything else was covered by pale blue plastic lids. He wondered if he liked milk. Then he wondered why he’d been able to identify it AS milk. He looked around. He knew what most things in the room were. There was a chair. He was in a bed. There were lights and ceiling tiles. He knew all the names for things. Why couldn’t he remember anything about himself?

"I’m going to raise the bed," said the young woman. "Tell me if anything hurts while I do that."

She pushed a button, and the bed sat him up. He looked down and saw a paddle, on the end of a cord, which he could have used himself to do the same thing, if he’d thought about it. She pushed a wheeled table over so it crossed his bed. His meal was on it. He lifted a hand, tentatively. It worked fine and he used it to pick up the milk.

"Let me open that for you," said the nurse.

While she did so, he examined her. She was tall and had skin the color of milk chocolate. Her hair was straight, though, and brown instead of black. She was good looking. He stared at her breasts, and examined the feelings and emotions inside him. He hadn’t forgotten how to be male. That much was obvious. She handed him the carton and he took it, sipping tentatively.

He liked milk, as it turned out.

Chapter 4

The lab tech breezed in, let a piece of paper float to the surface of Harper’s desk, where it landed on top of a coffee cup, twenty-five other pieces of paper, and a staple remover, and stood back and folded his arms.

"Nineteen ninety-eight Buick Regal," he said, with a triumphant note in his voice. "Originally Olympic white, but now a metallic blue color called Champagne Pearl, which, by the way, is a Plymouth color, not a General Motors color. It was repainted after roughly February of 2000." He leaned forward. "And, I might add, it has Goodyear Regatta tires on it."

Jim looked at the report, which he knew would be meaningless to almost anybody but the tech, and then back up at the man who had brought it.

"Tell me how you know," he said.

"It’s all right there," said the man smugly, pointing a finger at the report.

"I forgot my reading glasses today," said Jim dryly. "Humor me."

The tech snorted.

"The paint transfer told us the colors. Pieces of the headlight told us it was a Regal, and the year. The Chrysler paint was available to body shops in September of ninety-nine, but whoever painted this car probably used stolen paint. There was a shipment of that paint stolen in January of 2000. It could have been repainted any time after that. When the perp slid to a stop, he left a perfect footprint of the Goodyear tires."

"And how the hell do you know it was painted with stolen paint?" asked Jim, actually interested now.

"Because there were thick chips of bondo at the scene," said the tech. "The paint on those matched the transfer on the van that was hit. A body shop that used that much bondo was fly-by-night, or back alley, and wouldn’t have paid full price for that kind of paint. They’d use some cheap acrylic that they could get anywhere. For them to use actual Chrysler paint, it almost HAD to be stolen. I checked the records and found that there was a truckload of the stuff hijacked in early January of 2000. Ergo, the Buick was painted after that."

The tech folded his arms again, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

"He wasn’t a perp, by the way," said Jim.

The tech blinked. "Huh?"

"The guy driving the Regal wasn’t a perp. You called him a perp. He foiled the kidnapping attempt."

"Yeah, but he left the scene of the accident," said the tech, sounding injured. He’d expected to get a pat on the back, but the fucking flatfoot was just arguing semantics.

"If somebody saved your wife from being kidnapped and maybe raped or killed, and then left the scene, would you want me to bust him for that?" asked Harper.

"I’m really busy," said the tech, looking disgruntled. "You’re looking for a banged up Regal that looks a light gunmetal gray, OK?"

"Got it," said Harper. "Thanks."

The tech didn’t quite storm out, but, for perhaps the three hundredth time since he’d started working in the police lab, he thought about trying to find other work.

Harper picked up the report and glanced at it. It really WAS pretty good work. Especially the tires. Most people couldn’t get good tire impressions from a scene, even if they had something to work with.

And while a car that had been in this kind of accident could be fixed up and repainted, so that nobody could tell it had been in an accident … people never thought to change the tires.

He picked up the phone to put out an APB.

Mitch didn’t ask to see the patient. He just went to the room. He looked at the guy, who was sitting up now. Some of the bandages had been removed from his head, too, and now both eyes were visible. The guy was just sitting there, staring straight ahead. The TV was on, but he didn’t seem to be watching it.

Jess had given him a call, to let him know the guy was awake. She said he couldn’t remember much. That was very convenient for somebody who’d been in a gun battle. He pushed the door open.

"Howdy," he said, putting a goofy smile on his face. He liked the Columbo approach, because it actually worked. Criminals always thought they were smarter than the law. That’s why they went into crime. They were almost always wrong about that, but he didn’t want this man to think he was on the ball. Not yet. The fact that the department let them wear jeans with their uniform shirts added to the image of small-town dumb cop sometimes as well.

"Got yourself sort of banged up, didn’t you?" he said amiably. "How you feeling?"

"I’m OK," said the man.

"I just need to finish my report," said Mitch. "Just need to ask a few questions."

"OK," said the man.

"What’s your name, for one thing?"

"I don’t remember."

Mitch was trying to watch the artery that ran up the throat on both sides of the neck. While liars could train their eyes not to give them away, they couldn’t control their pulse. He was distracted by an accent he couldn’t quite place, but which sounded familiar.

"No idea at all?" asked Mitch.

"They said you found my billfold," said the man.

"Sure did," said Mitch smiling. Now he recognized it. It was either British or Australian. He wasn’t sure which.

"Wasn’t my name in that?"

"Sure was," said Mitch, still smiling.

"Then I don’t understand," said the man. "If you know my name, why are you asking me what it is? And why won’t anybody around here TELL me my name? Am I famous or something?"

"No," said Mitch immediately. "Well, I say no, because I never heard of you before. But we’re kind of remote up here in the far reaches."

"Far reaches of where?" asked the man. "Where am I, anyway? Why won’t anybody tell me anything?"

Mitch stepped closer. He was going to watch the pupils this time. The pulse wasn’t telling him anything.

"Tell me about the accident," he said.

He got a reaction there. The pupils dilated briefly and the patient was silent for about a second and a half too long.

"I don’t remember an accident," said the man.

Mitch stepped back. He turned around, got the chair, and moved it closer to the bed. It would put him below the suspect - he was now a suspect - but maybe that would make the man relax and slip up. He sat down.

"The doc pulled glass out of your face," he said softly.

"Look," said the man. "I woke up here. My car is wherever they found me, as far as I know. I don’t even know if I HAVE a car, to be honest. But you’re the police. Surely you went to the scene of the accident."

"Oh, I’ve been to the scene," admitted Mitch. "But I need to hear your side of it."

"What did the other guy say?" asked the man.

Mitch settled back in the chair. This guy was giving all kinds of conflicting signals. First he lied … or appeared to lie … and then he told Mitch where to find his car … sort of. His comment about not knowing if he had a car looked completely genuine, from the body language and voice. Then he tried to get information as to what evidence there was against him. Half of what he did suggested guilty knowledge, but the other half made it look like he really DID have amnesia.

"What am I being charged with?" asked the man suddenly.

"Nothing," said Mitch. "Not right now, anyway."

That brought what was obviously confusion to the man’s face. Mitch could see that clearly, even with the remaining bandages. He reached into his pocket and took out the driver’s license. He looked at the picture on it. Now that the bandages were mostly off, the man was plainly recognizable. On impulse he handed the license to the suspect.

The man took it and stared at it.

"Is this me?" he asked. There was a hollowness in his voice that Mitch was sure would be impossible to fake.

"Seems to be," he said.

"Kristoff…" The man stared. "Kristoff," he said again. He looked at Mitch. "What kind of name is Kristoff?"

Mitch faced Doctor Massouf, who was looking at a chart.

"I need to know if he really has amnesia, or if he’s just faking it."

The doctor looked up. "And vye vould he be faking eet?"

"You said he got shot," said Mitch. "Maybe he’s hiding something."

"Eef I vas shooted, I tink I vould be screaming my head oof abut eet, yes?" The doctor frowned. "Not all peeples who are shooted are being bad peeples."

"I think he’s hiding something," insisted Mitch.

"Haff you asked heem who shooted heem?"

"Well no … not yet," admitted Mitch.

"Eef I ver you I vould be asking heem this, I tink," said the doctor. "I am not being a psychiatrist, you know, but he is acting very much like a peeples who has much frustration about having no memories."

It was the longest comment Mitch had ever heard the doctor make, and the closest thing he’d ever heard from the doctor in understandable English, as well.

"How long you going to keep him?" asked Mitch.

"I can be deescharging heem in anozer two or tree days I am teenking," said Doctor Massouf.

"Don’t let him go until I say so," said Mitch.

"I can’t be keeping heem here for no reason," objected the doctor.

"Just do some more tests or something," said Mitch.

He left. He had more to do before reporting to the chief.

Lou Anne’s feet hurt, but that was nothing new. She was wiping down the counter when Jessica came in, stomping snow off her feet and brushing it from her coat.

"There is no God, because God would not have made nights like this," she muttered.

"It’s not night anymore, technically," pointed out Lou Anne.

"Well, whatever it is, I don’t think it was invented by any divine being," said Jessica. "Your boyfriend made it through the night."

"He’s not my boyfriend!" squealed Lou Anne.

"He regained consciousness, too," said Jessica, settling down onto a stool at the counter. "I need coffee."

"He did?" Lou Anne already had the coffee poured and set it in front of her friend. "What did he say?"

"If he’s not your boyfriend, why are you so interested?" Jessica sipped the coffee and made motions indicating it was too hot.

"I found him in the middle of nowhere, almost dead!" yipped Lou Anne. "I ruined my coat saving him. I’m allowed to be interested!"

Jessica leaned forward and lowered her voice.

"He’s got a nice dick," she whispered.

Lou Anne’s eyes widened and she looked shocked. Then she thought about the image of Jess peeking under a sheet and burst into a fit of giggles.

"You’re AWFUL!" she giggled. "There is something seriously wrong with a woman who checks out a guy’s privates when he’s almost dead."

"I wasn’t checking him out," said Jessica, her voice injured. "I was giving him a sponge bath. It’s part of my job."

"Probably the part that’s responsible for you deciding to be a nurse at all," snorted Lou Anne, grinning. "What did he say when he woke up?"

"He has amnesia," said Jessica.

"Really?"

"Doctor Massouf thinks he was shot."

"GET OUT!" squealed Lou Anne.

"Yep," said the nurse. "Head wound. He was lucky it was only a glancing blow. Personally, I think that’s why he has amnesia. He can’t remember his name. Naturally, Mitch is all interested in him, like he’s some kind of criminal or something."

"Well…" Lou Anne shuddered. "If he got shot, doesn’t that suggest he travels in the wrong crowd?"

Jess waved a hand in the air negligently. "People get shot all the time these days," she said. "It could have been a drive by shooting, for all we know."

"In the middle of bumfuck Connecticut?" Lou Anne sounded dubious.

"He was all cut up by broken glass," said Jessica, lowering her voice. "Doc Massouf thinks he was in a car when he got shot."

"Well then, there goes your drive by shooting theory," said Lou Anne. "If somebody shot him in a car, they dumped him in the middle of the road, because there was no car anywhere near where I found him."

"I still can’t believe you picked him up and got him in your car," said Jess, looking admiringly at her friend. "He’s a big one … in more ways than one." She giggled.

"You are SO bad!" laughed Lou Anne. "I bet you played with it too … didn’t you … huh? Didn’t you?!" She poked her friend as she insisted the nurse had molested her unconscious patient.

"I had to get it clean," said Jess loftily. "I had to get ALL of him clean." She leaned back. "Besides. You would have liked it. I know you would. It’s been YEARS since you’ve seen one."

Lou Anne stood up. "And it will be fine if it’s more years until I see another one," she said. "The last one I saw got me pregnant and then took off with its owner. I don’t need any more of that!"

"Girl, you’re crazy," said Jessica. "Here you are in the prime of your life, a knockout beauty, and you’re avoiding one of the most fun things you can get your hands on."

"Like YOU know," snorted Lou Anne. "You’re the only virgin I ever met, INCLUDING in high school." She grinned.

"Shhhhh!" said Jess, leaning forward. "Not so loud! That’s a secret! People will think I’m odd if they find out."

"You ARE odd," laughed Lou Anne. "You’re the most gorgeous woman I know. If I ever went gay, it would be your fault. When are you going to quit being so picky and find you a man?"

"There ARE no men!" snorted Jess. "Not in bumfuck Connecticut." She stopped. "Well, come to think of it, there IS an interesting man here NOW. Maybe I’ll get to know your road kill a little better. He seems like a nice enough guy."

"He’s probably a mobster or something!" squealed Lou Anne.

"Nah," sighed Jess. "He says he’s an author."

"An author … you didn’t tell me that before. I thought you said he had amnesia."

"He does, but he remembered that he’s an author." Jess sipped her coffee.

"What kind of author?"

"Beats me," said the nurse. "I’ll remember to ask him." She looked up at Lou Anne slyly. "Unless you want to ask him yourself. He’d probably be very appreciative of the woman who saved his life."

"Dreamer," laughed Lou Anne. "Sometimes your imagination cracks me up."

"Gotta run," said Jess, standing up. "I need my beauty sleep, so I can go in and sweep John Doe off his feet tomorrow, and endear myself to him, so that when he remembers he’s a millionaire, he’ll be my sugar daddy."

Lou Anne stopped laughing.

"Don’t go doing something stupid, Jess. Sometimes your imagination scares me half to death, too."

"He’s a good guy," said Jess. "A little old for me, but a good guy. I’m sure of it."

"Tell him I said hi," said the waitress, waving goodbye to her friend.

"Tell him yourself," said the nurse. "I’ll warn him you’re coming."

She was gone before Lou Anne could object.

Mitch yawned. It had been a long night and the snow was still falling. The department Jeep Cherokee sat by the side of the road, the overheads flashing, to warn any oncoming motorists. He stood looking down the hill, and pulled his uniform jacket closer around him. It wasn’t made for cold like this.

This had to be the place. In the dim daylight, he could see where the vegetation had been crushed as the car rolled down the drop off. The only problem was … there was no car. The river was there, but it was frozen over and had a good foot of new-fallen snow on the ice. There was no way anybody had gotten a tow truck up there in the middle of the night and pulled the car back up the drop off. That could only mean one thing.

The car was under the ice.

There was no blood or other evidence. The snow had covered all that up. Even the mangled vegetation that showed the path of the car was covered over. Only because he knew what it SHOULD look like, could he tell that something big had bulldozed a path through it.

He got on the radio.

"Hey Dabney," he called.

There was a ten second pause, then a static crackle.

"Damn it, Mitch, how many times do I have to tell you not to use my first name on the radio? I’m the goddamn CHIEF, you little piss-ant!"

"I’m sure the FCC will fine me a dime for using your name," said Mitch into his mike. "While they’re fining you ten thousand dollars for cussing up a storm on the public airways. You want to know what I found or not?"

"Pembroke two, report," came the voice on the radio.

Mitch grinned. "I found it," he said.

"Good work, Pembroke two. Give me the twenty and I’ll send a wrecker out there."

"Might be a problem with that," said Mitch. "Actually I only THINK I found it. I think it’s under the ice, and I mean all the WAY under the ice. It’s going to take major work to get it out of there."

"Goddamn it, Mitch," crackled the chief’s voice over the radio. "Why dint you say so in the first place? We ain’t got the budget to recover a goddamn car from under the ice. Haul your ass back here, and you better bring me some damn good pictures too, you got that?"

"Sure thing, Dabney. Over and out."

Mitch shut his door and then wondered why he hadn’t done that already. It was cold as a witch’s tit in the car. He checked the thermometer he carried. It read twelve below zero. He should have left the car running, but he liked to be able to hear his surroundings when he was out in the woods. He fired it up now and tried to turn the heat up. It was already maxed out. Dabney was foaming at the mouth on the radio, but he didn’t pay any attention to that. Instead he got out his digital camera and, once he had warmed his fingers up a bit, got back out.

He took what he knew would just look like scenic shots of the river and all the snow. He took one of the path the car had made through the brush, too, just for fun. He knew the pictures would look like somebody’s vacation photos of a winter wonderland, and he knew Chief Whittaker would be pissed. That was OK, though. Getting Whittaker riled up was about the only excitement the men ever had in Pembroke.

As he carefully negotiated the slippery road back to town, he wondered if maybe the insurance company would foot the bill for retrieving the car. That would be nice. He’d really like to see that car.

Captain Hildebrand was sweating, but it was almost freezing outside. At least it wasn’t sub zero in the city, like it was farther north. Those poor bastards up north were getting hammered. He hugged the file to his chest as he tried to walk in a stately manner to the conference room. He already knew that Chief Richard Hooks would be there, and that Mayor Billsbury would be there. He’d gotten a "courtesy call" from a patrolman who was due for disciplinary action, trying to curry favor, saying that the fucking governor was there too. Apparently he’d accompanied his wife to the city to make sure her interview went OK.

Hildebrand stopped before going into the conference room to wipe his florid face with a handkerchief. He brushed back his hair with one hand, took a deep breath, pasted his signature smile on his face, and tried to waltz into the room.

"Good morning, everyone," he said brightly.

Three men stared at him. Two of them had coffee cups in one hand, and cigars in the other, even though the entire building was a smoke free zone. He wasn’t about to tell that to the two most powerful men in the state, however, even though the mayor, Aloisius Billsbury, had put that law into effect himself.

"Bring us up to speed," barked Chief Hooks. "The governor’s a busy man, so just give us the facts."

Hildebrand wanted to sit down, but none of the other men were sitting, so he opened the file in his hands. Papers slid and floated to the ground around him. Hildebrand flushed crimson and stooped to scoop up the loose papers. He’d have Harper’s balls for this. Hadn’t the man ever heard of a stapler?

He sorted through the pages, handing them to the other men piecemeal, until each man had a copy of the report, albeit not in any particular order.

"We don’t need this crap!" snapped Chief Hooks. "Just tell us the status of the case!"

"Oh. Yes." Hildebrand swallowed. "We have the three kidnappers in custody. They’re Moe, Larry and Curly Higginbotham." He couldn’t stifle a half hysterical giggle. He did that every time he thought about their names. He struggled on as Hooks frowned at him. "It’s an open and shut case. Dozens of witnesses. Plenty of physical evidence. They’ll kill for a deal." He blinked as he realized just how poorly he’d chosen his last words. "I mean they’ll deal for sure," he almost whispered.

"NO DEALS!" thundered Governor Custer. "These bastards touched my Chantal, and I want them to fry!"

"Um … we don’t have the chair any more, Governor," said Hildebrand. He wished instantly that he’d remained silent.

"Well then we’ll just have to bring it back, now won’t we?" said the governor, as if it might be the same thing as changing back to the previous picture on New York license plates.

The mayor hadn’t said anything yet, and that was bothering him. It was important to the mayor that his voice be heard in every serious situation, so he spoke. "This had better be an airtight case. No deals. We throw the book at them, is that clear?"

"No problem!" said Hildebrand cheerily. "Like I said, we have all the perps." He used the vernacular for "perpetrators" intentionally. He thought it made him sound hip.

"Do we?" Chief Hooks' voice sounded suddenly grave.

"Well…" Hildebrand might not be a real law enforcement officer, but he knew politics, and he knew a pregnant question when he heard it. The problem was that he wasn’t ready for that question. They DID have all of them … didn’t they? Suddenly he wondered. If the chief thought otherwise-and it sounded like he did-then Hildebrand didn’t want to sound like an idiot by insisting every question was answered. "What are your thoughts, Chief?" he asked. When in doubt, shift the focus to someone else. That was his modus operandi.

"I’ve checked into the three Higginbothams," said Hooks, sounding somehow mysterious. "They’re idiots … losers of the highest magnitude. I’m having a hard time believing that they could come up with all this on their own."

"You mean there’s a kingpin out there somewhere?" asked the governor anxiously. "The ringleader is still on the loose?"

"Ringleader?" Hildebrand’s voice had just a trace of doubt in it. He might not like Harper, but the man did good work, and Harper hadn’t said anything about any ringleader.

"He must be found!" barked the honorable mayor of New York City. "Leave no stone unturned! This despicable mastermind must be brought to justice!"

"Of course!" said Hildebrand, no trace of doubt in his voice. "We’re already working on it." He fumbled through the loose pages in the folder, looking for any trace of information on a fourth conspirator.

"Why didn’t you say so?" asked Chief Hooks, his voice dangerous. "I thought I told you to give us the lowdown."

"I just hadn’t gotten that far," whined Hildebrand.

"Well, what do you have?" asked the chief.

"We’re … um … we’re sweating Moe, Larry and Curly," said Hildebrand. That was safe. The men WERE being questioned, even though all three had lawyered up. "We might have to offer them a deal to get the big man."

"No deals!" snapped Mayor Billsbury, getting it in while the governor was still taking a breath to say the same thing.

"Right!" said Hildebrand. "I’ll just go make sure the fire is still lit under the detective working on this."

"Who is that?" asked Hooks.

"That would be Detective Sergeant Harper," said Hildebrand.

"That’s the man who’s interviewing my Chantal," said Governor Custer. "I hope he’s not giving her the third degree."

The governor, as it turned out, knew about as much about law enforcement investigations as he knew about running the great state of New York. In short … only what he’d seen on TV or in the movies.

"I’ll make sure of that," said Chief Hooks, who knew there was no chance whatsoever of anybody leaning on the governor’s wife, but wanted to look capable and in control.

The woman everybody seemed to be so worried about was lounging comfortably in a chair in an interview room. It was the same room that was referred to as the interrogation room. It all depended on who was being talked to at the time. And, in truth, Jean Custer was being treated more or less like any other interviewee that Harper had had.

There were a few minor exceptions. The chair she was sitting in, for one thing. It had been appropriated from Chief Hooks' office, because it was leather covered and had arms on it. It was a comfortable chair, something the run-of-the-mill interviewee would never have seen, much less sat in. The other thing was that instead of a styrofoam cup with tap water in it, Mrs. Custer had a dew-flecked bottle of Perrier at her fingertips. That also came from Chief Hooks' office, out of the little refrigerator that the taxpayers of New York City had paid for. They’d paid for the Perrier as well, for that matter, even though it was listed in the official expenditures as "office supplies."

Jean Custer examined the man sitting in the hard-backed gray government surplus chair across the table from her. She would have described him as "grizzled" to her friends. She wasn’t quite sure what that word actually meant, but it sounded impressive. She would also have said he was handsome, though not out loud. She’d never admit she found any man other than her husband handsome … not in public. He was wearing a gun, which made her damp between her legs.

She’d always had a fantasy about men with guns. That was one of the reasons she’d left the scene of her attempted kidnapping so quickly. She had been so mortified, after she’d finished beating Larry within an inch of his putrid life, and after Moe had stopped firing that pistol, to discover that she needed to change her panties. She hadn’t been that excited in years, and as soon as she’d gotten home, she’d called her husband. He was already aware of the incident, of course, and had been frantically trying to call her on her cell phone. He hadn’t been able to reach her because she’d been calling all her friends, shouting things like, "They tried to KIDNAP me!" as she passed cars right and left on the freeway, almost running two of them off the road.

She’d moaned that she needed him, and, of course, he’d left his office to return to the mansion-accompanied by his executive aide and press secretary-where she’d presented him with a little blue pill, right in front of his entourage.

"What’s this?" asked Governor Custer, who knew exactly what the vaguely diamond shaped pill was, but didn’t want to admit it in front of his employees.

"They tried to kill me." She burst into tears. "I need to be loved and comforted."

The governor just thought that the mess between her legs was anticipation of what he was about to do … as soon as the pill took effect.

Meanwhile, in the governor’s "home office," the press secretary and executive aide were killing time.

"We might have an opportunity here," said the press secretary.

"That’s kind of obvious," said the aide. "How often does someone try to kill a governor’s wife?"

"No, I mean about the Viagra," said the press secretary impatiently. "Bob Dole shilled Viagra. I bet he got a ton of money for doing that. And if we set something up between them and the governor, we might get a cut of the deal."

"Don’t joke about stuff like that," said the aide, mildly horrified that the press secretary wanted to announce to the world that the governor of the state of New York had erectile dysfunction.

"I’m not joking!" said the press secretary. "Think about it. Custer is always saying he’s a man of the people. If he goes out in favor of Viagra, sales will go up fifteen or twenty percent! And, if we do it the right way, our bank balances go up fifteen or twenty percent, too."

The aide did some hasty figures in his mind. His wife spent money like it came from a water tap. Suddenly, the idea didn’t seem so crazy any more. Something occurred to him.

"You’ve got the wrong angle," he said softly. "What we need is for Chantal to come out in favor of Viagra. That would leave their current profits in the dust."

Chapter 5

Jim Harper surveyed the woman who was surveying him. She was a tasty dish, no doubt about that. He wondered if the techs recording everything through the one-way mirror on the wall behind him had repositioned their cameras, like they sometimes did when a good looking woman was being interviewed. He couldn’t see Mrs. Custer’s legs, but if she wasn’t careful, the techs would find out if she was going commando or not. He didn’t need that kind of crap, so he adjusted his chair to one side, to block the camera’s view, in case the techs had been so idiotic as to try that. He knew a filing cabinet prevented them putting the camera low on the other side.

"I’m Jim Harper. Thank you for being so gracious about all this," he said, opening the interview. "I’m sorry to have had to ask you to come in for a statement."

She waved a hand in the air, and then settled long, sculptured nails down on the tabletop again, with a series of audible taps.

"I never mind doing my civic duty," she said, blinking at him several times.

"I’ll try to make this go as quickly as possible," said Jim. "If this goes to court, you’ll be called to testify, of course, but your statement now will help the prosecutor plan his case." He leaned back, signaling her in body language that she wasn’t being pressed. "Just tell me what you remember."

"And so I defended myself," said Jean Custer. "I took off my other shoe and hit the miserable man with it to make him leave me alone."

Jim held up a hand, trying to stop her. She was talking about Larry. She had already described how she had stomped Curly’s foot, apparently unaware that the spiked heel of her shoe had gone completely through his foot. She had also described how she had kneed Larry in the groin.

All that was fine, because when she took those actions, she really HAD been defending herself. But when she took her other shoe to Larry, he’d been down, helpless, unarmed, and no threat to her whatsoever. Technically, what she’d done to Larry with her shoe was assault, because she no longer had any need to defend herself. She wasn’t under attack at that point. Furthermore, the six inch spike had torn Larry up enough that it could be viewed as a deadly weapon, which would make it aggravated assault.

"I don’t need all that," he said quickly.

"Nonsense!" she said, her voice lilting. She looked a little flushed … excited. "I want other women to know that a woman CAN defend herself. That miserable little man will think twice before attacking another woman. I made him pay for what he tried to do to me."

She’d made him pay, all right. She’d almost killed him. The doctors still didn’t know if they could save his left eye, and he was still on IV nourishment, because the hole she’d driven through one cheek hadn’t healed enough yet to allow him to chew food.

Jean Chantal Custer insisted on making what was, in reality, a full and detailed confession to having committed aggravated assault on Larry Higginbotham. Jim groaned inside. If the defense ever heard this, there would be hell to pay. He wondered who was on the other side of the glass listening to this. That became clear when the door burst open and a somewhat wild-eyed Chief Hooks stood there, mouth open. Harper did groan then, but what the chief said next wasn’t what Harper had expected.

"I just want you to know, Mrs. Custer," he said breathlessly, "that we’re doing everything in our power to identify and arrest the mastermind of this egregious infringement on your liberty."

"What?" Jim looked at the man like he was crazy.

"You didn’t catch them all?" Jean Custer’s voice held a mixture of concern and anger.

"Yes, we did," said Jim, looking at her and speaking soothingly.

"We’ll find the man who planned all this and bring him to justice, along with his three underlings!" gasped Hooks, shooting a warning look at Harper. "Detective Harper is unaware of recent developments, but you can be sure that you are safe and will remain so."

Harper’s eyes went hooded. If there were new developments, then he needed to get right on them. Particularly if the Chief of Police thought it was important enough to disturb a formal interview. He had pretty much everything he needed from the victim. He had planned on just chatting with her, because she was definitely eye candy, but that was just fluff. If there was another criminal to catch, he was interested in doing that. He turned to Mrs. Custer.

"Thank you again for coming in. You’ve been most helpful. I’m sure Chief Hooks would be happy to see you back to your husband."

Outside the room, Harper approached Captain Hildebrand, who had been standing with the governor.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Why didn’t you tell me there was a mastermind involved in this case?" asked Hildebrand. "I got caught flat footed in the conference room!"

"What mastermind?" Harper felt a tightness in his chest begin to develop.

"The chief says those three are too stupid to have planned this themselves," said Hildebrand.

"That’s it?" Harper’s mouth fell open. "He broke into my interview and said all that shit, because HE thinks they’re too stupid to have come up with this by themselves?"

"He’s probably right," said Hildebrand, defensively.

"He’s a fucking moron," snorted Harper. "I talked to those idiots - and I agree they’re idiots. In fact they’re too stupid to take orders from somebody smarter than they are. There is no mastermind, except for the one in Hooks' mind … and now in Mrs. Custer’s mind, as well. What a fucking mess!"

"Don’t you take that tone with me, detective," said Lonny Hildebrand stiffly. "You just get your ass out there and find a mastermind. If the chief of fucking police says there’s one, then there IS one, as far as I’m concerned, and you’d better fucking find him."

Harper looked at his boss like the man had sprouted a third eye.

"You’re as fucking nuts as he is," he sighed.

"You take that back!" snapped Hildebrand. "You take that back or you’re fucking fired!"

Jim Harper was saved from an impossible situation by the approach of Jean Chantal Custer. Her arrival caused a very sudden silence between the two men.

"Detective?" Her voice was high and sultry, somehow. "I meant to ask you about that man … the one who saved me. Have you found him yet?"

"No ma’am," said Harper. "We’re still looking. We have a few leads on his car."

"When you find him, I want to thank him personally," said Chantal.

"I can’t really make you any promises that we WILL find him," said Harper. "He seems to want to remain anonymous."

"My husband and I will offer a reward, if you think that will help," she said.

"A reward." Harper’s mind was whirling. Who offered a reward for a witness? The guys in the crime lab had come to the conclusion that the accident was just that … an accident. There was no evidence that the mysterious driver had intentionally hit Moe in an effort to stop the kidnapping. If anything, the evidence matched that of a hit and run type accident. "The man may not know that he helped you," he said carefully. It wouldn’t do to let this woman know that if her "savior" was ever found, he might be arrested on a hit and run charge. Not that it would go anywhere … but the wheels of justice were often in a very deep rut.

"Then we WILL offer a reward," said Chantal. "That should get him to come forward. He saved my life, Detective, and I take that very seriously."

Harper wasn’t about to argue with Mrs. Governor, especially since her husband and the idiot chief of fucking police were standing ten feet away, watching the scene.

Kris looked at his tray again, but nothing else had magically appeared on it. He turned off the TV. He decided that, in the life he could no longer remember, he hadn’t been interested in morning television. It was mindless, vapid in a way that made him wonder why any advertiser would sponsor it.

He was in the midst of hypothesizing that sponsors of morning TV had decided that anyone who watched it was such an idiot that they’d buy anything, when the door opened slowly. A very odd looking young woman stuck her head in.

"Hi," she said. Her voice was high and light. It sounded more like that of a girl than a woman, though she was undoubtedly over twenty-one.

"Hello," he said.

She seemed to be looking at him like she wasn’t sure she was in the right place.

"You’re Kris … right?" She confirmed his guess.

"That’s what they tell me," he said.

She came further in, but still stood in the door. She looked a little apprehensive.

"I’m Lou Anne," she said.

That didn’t mean anything to him. "Well hi there, Lou Anne," he said.

"You don’t remember me, do you?" she suggested.

He examined her, briefly. If he’d ever seen her before, he SHOULD remember her. She was about five-ten, and slim, but curvy at the same time. She was wearing a pink and white striped dress that was obviously a uniform of some kind and had on pink Converse high tops. From the neck down, she looked like any other woman that a man would enjoy looking at. She had curves in all the right places. It was her head that made her look strange. The sides of her scalp had been shaved clean, leaving a strip of hair about three inches wide down the middle. It wasn’t a mohawk in the normal sense, where the hair stood straight up. Instead, the strip of hair fell down the right side of her head, to the top of her ear. At that, it was longer in the front, because it also fell forward and almost obscured her right eye. That hair was the color of black cherries, with distinctly red tones in it. It wasn’t the red of genetically red hair and obviously came from a bottle.

The side of her head that was exposed looked like it belonged on a much younger woman, like her voice sounded too young. The one dark green eye that stared at him was flanked by ears that glittered. The left had two small silver hoops, with a silver ball on one and a black ball on the other, hanging from the lobe. The right one, visible beside the hair that almost covered her right eye, had a silver hoop with a blue ball in the lobe and, higher up in the cartilage, a silver hoop with a silver ball.

She had the smoothest skin he’d ever seen, despite the sprinkling of light freckles that lay as if strewn there, from one cheek, across her nose, to the other. The sweep of her jaw line made him want to touch it, because there wasn’t anything angular about it. Her neck looked long, but he couldn’t decide if that had anything to do with the odd haircut or not. What surprised him the most, for some reason, was that her appearance didn’t put him off at all. He thought she was cute, verging on something very close to disturbingly good looking. There was no way in the world he could forget having seen this woman. It suddenly occurred to him that she might be on the payroll of that policeman, who seemed so suspicious of him, and might be there to get information.

"I don’t remember much of anything right now," he replied, vaguely.

"I’m the one who found you," she said, taking another step into the room. Still, she held the door open with one hand, as if she was ready to bolt at any second. "On the road," she added. "You looked a lot different then."

Kris spent a few seconds trying to dredge up some memory of anything that might involve this woman, but couldn’t.

"I don’t remember any of that," he said. "But thanks for helping me."

"Oh!" she yipped. "I didn’t mind. Anybody would have done it."

"Knowledge" leapt into his mind. It was a story he’d heard as a child. It was about the good Samaritan, from the Bible. A rush of thoughts went through his mind as he remembered being confused when a woman whose name he couldn’t remember told the story. He had been in a dim room, with other children around him. Sunday School. He’d been in Sunday School. His father was the minister of the church.

He remembered how, in some recent past, he’d been in the car with his parents and they’d seen a man on the side of the road, with his arm out, and his thumb pointing skyward. His father had been driving and had slowed down. His mother had upbraided him and told him not to stop.

"You know better than to pick up a hitchhiker!" she had complained. Then she’d turned to Kris. "Don’t EVER pick up a hitchhiker!" she’d ordered him sternly. He’d only been about ten at the time, but her tone of voice had impressed him.

Then, within a week or two, the Sunday School teacher told them about the good Samaritan and, just as sternly, informed the class that it was ALWAYS their Christian duty to help those in need.

It had been very confusing.

"I just wanted to stop and say hi," said the young woman. Her body language told him she was getting ready to leave.

"Don’t go," he said suddenly.

She stopped, as if frozen. "Oh?"

"You were a good Samaritan," he said.

She blinked. Then she smiled. It was a beautiful smile. "I guess so, huh?"

"Won’t you stay for a while?" he asked.

"I’m not actually supposed to be here," she said, apology in her voice. "It isn’t really visiting hours."

"But it’s me you’re visiting," he said. "Shouldn’t I have some say about that?"

"I have to go get some sleep and then pick up my little boy," she said. "I work at night. I just got off."

"Oh," he said. "OK. Well … thanks."

"Anybody would have done it."

"But nobody else did. You did. So thanks."

"No problem," she said. "See you later."

She turned to go.

"Hey." His voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped her and her head swiveled, so that she was looking at him over her shoulder. His eyes slid down to a uniform skirt that was packed in the back with what looked like a very nice ass. "Will I?"

"What?" She looked confused.

"Will I see you later?" he asked. "I’d like to ask you some questions, but I don’t want to get you in trouble with your husband."

She looked surprised. "I’m not married," she said, as if it should be obvious.

"Oh," he said. "I just thought…"

"Are you a mobster?" she asked suddenly.

"A mobster?" His eyebrows went up. Again, he thought about the policeman, and how she might be in league with him.

"Yeah, like in organized crime." Her body turned just a little, but she still stood in the open doorway.

"I’m an author," he said, sure of that somehow. "Why would you think I was a mobster?"

"Somebody shot you!" she said, looking surprised. "Why would anybody shoot you if you weren’t involved in some kind of funny business?"

"Somebody shot me?" His voice was hollow.

Lou Anne felt exasperated.

"That’s what the doctor said," she explained. "Didn’t they tell you that?"

"They haven’t told me anything," he said. "And they for SURE didn’t say anything about me being shot." He lifted his head and looked down at his body. He lifted both hands, even though he’d already examined them. "Where did they shoot me?"

"Jess said it was a head wound," said Lou Anne. This felt all wrong, somehow. Why hadn’t anybody asked him who shot him? Why hadn’t they even told him he’d been shot? "You have a big bandage … right there." She pointed to the left side of his head. He’d felt that bandage there, but there were bandages all over his head.

"Jess?"

"My best friend. She’s a nurse. She’s been taking care of you."

"The cute black one," he said, intuitively. He couldn’t see any of the other nurses hanging out with a woman who looked like this.

"That’s her," said Lou Anne. "Look. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe they’re wrong. I have to go, OK? Please don’t tell anybody I told you about that … the shooting, I mean. I don’t want to get in trouble."

His worries about her being somehow involved with law enforcement flew. If she was acting, she was a pro, and there was no way that she could be an actual law enforcement officer. Not with that haircut.

"Anybody who tries to give you trouble will have to deal with me," said Kris, his voice strong. "You did me a favor, and I remember things like that."

She looked at him oddly, as her head tilted. The hair completely covered her right eye. That would drive him nuts and he wondered how she stood it. The other dark eye stared right at him, and for some reason he noticed she wasn’t wearing any makeup.

"That’s what they say about mobsters," she said softly. "They remember people who do them favors."

"I’m not a mobster," he said firmly. "I write books."

"Really?" She sounded excited. "I LOVE to read." Then she jerked. "I HAVE to go! I’ll see you later."

She was out the door, which sighed closed and then reopened suddenly. That amazing head was thrust through.

"I WILL see you later," she said. "Bye!"

Then she was gone again, and the door stayed closed.

Chapter 6

The news anchor’s face lit up. Her perfectly coiffed hair didn’t move, even though her entire face changed. Her bright red lips split into a cultivated smile and showed a row of perfect white teeth.

"And we have an update on the continuing saga of the attempted kidnapping on Governor Custer’s wife."

She then went on to explain that the governor’s wife was named Chantal, as if there actually might be some idiot in the viewing area that didn’t already know that. That was followed by a recap of the same news that had been splashed on every airwave and in every newspaper for three days, as if maybe the same idiot that didn’t know who Chantal was also might not know that somebody had tried to kidnap her.

Oddly, perhaps, several million people who had heard it all before … again and again … leaned forward to listen carefully, instead of hitting the "Mute" button and talking with others nearby about something actually interesting.

"Chantal announced today that a reward is being offered to the man who saved her life on that fateful day, when three armed men tried to force her into a van while she was visiting a childcare center."

People leaned forward even farther and waved at others around them to hush.

"Chantal and the governor are offering two hundred thousand dollars for her savior to come forward, so that she can thank him."

The picture changed suddenly and there was Chantal, tall and lovely as usual, with a bevy of microphones almost obscuring her face as she spoke.

"His car was damaged in the act of saving my life," she said dramatically. "We feel we owe it to him to offer some token of our gratitude. People who act so heroically are an example to us all that, no matter who you are, you can impact other people’s lives in a powerfully positive way."

The happy anchor took back over and, for possibly the hundredth time, told everyone listening that virtually nothing was known about Chantal’s savior.

"Please come forward," she intoned, staring intently into the camera. "All of us here at Channel 27 want to thank you as well."

Within a hundred and twenty seconds, the switchboard of every television station that had broadcast Chantal’s offer - and that was all of them - was clogged with calls from people claiming to be Chantal’s savior. Women even called in, insisting that Chantal had it wrong … that it wasn’t a man who had saved her, but a woman.

911 was instantly clogged with calls as well. Over a period of fifteen minutes, while people continued to call the emergency number, fifty-four citizens who were in actual need of emergency medical response died. Thirty people had heart attacks. There were two fires, in which six people were trapped and burned to death before the firemen arrived, and fifteen collisions in which people were critically or mortally injured. Three people died of self-inflicted injuries - two who overdosed on medications and then decided not to end it all after all, and one who slit her wrists and then changed her mind as well.

The administrative number at every precinct in the city wasn’t immune either. The class of people who called those numbers was a bit elevated, by comparison to those calling 911, but the result was the same.

Emergency services came to a screeching halt for half an hour, in a city with ten million people in potential need of those services.

Nobody actually cared that all the media outlets were swamped. Stories would be written for days about the event and it would be weeks before the crush of people, all claiming to have been driving the car that saved Chantal from a fate worse than death, would be sorted out. Most of that sorting was done simply by asking the claimant what color car he or she was driving that day. Almost all the rest were discarded when they couldn’t produce the car. Many couldn’t produce any car at all and, in fact, according to the division of motor vehicles, didn’t even own a car. Hundreds insisted that they had been worried about getting in trouble for some reason and had sold the car they’d been driving. Twenty five people said they’d dumped the car in the ocean, but none could remember where, exactly. One woman, in a fit of imagination, said she’d driven the car to California, where she’d sold it to a homeless man for ten dollars, because she’d felt sorry for him.

There could have been a doctoral thesis done on the whole situation, which illuminated the kind of greed that no one would have believed could exist. Four cab drivers … of yellow cabs … claimed they were on duty when the incident happened and were owed the reward. At least two hundred said they didn’t care about the money, but just wanted to meet Chantal, or be invited to the governor’s mansion for dinner, or some similar thing. More than one said there hadn’t been any car involved at all, and that they had wrestled Moe to the ground and then run away.

Jim Harper’s world almost collapsed. Captain Hildebrand was tearing his hair out, because Chief Hooks had dumped the mess in his lap. He had tried to dump it in Harper’s lap, but Harper had said he couldn’t work on finding the mastermind if he had to deal with all the imposters. Since Chief Hooks was asking Hildebrand three or four times a day whether the mastermind had been uncovered, he couldn’t shit on Harper.

Instead, he drafted almost his entire force of detectives to weed through the unimaginable number of liars, cheats and outright bums who were trying to cash in. It was catastrophic, in the sense that over the next week, while the crowd was being sifted through, three felony cases had to be dropped because of the speedy trial rule, setting the perpetrators free. Hundreds of other cases languished, while witnesses' memories faded, or they moved without leaving a forwarding address, or even died. Only the crime lab was happy, because they significantly reduced their backlog of examinations while new evidence was logged in, but no examinations of that evidence were requested.

As much of an uproar as was created, though, unless you needed an ambulance, or the police, or for some reason needed to communicate with the media, life went on without a ripple.

Two rather distraught businessmen did, in fact, need the police during that week, and their situations had interweaving ripples.

One came to work on Monday morning to find that his warehouse had been broken into. His problem wasn’t that anything was missing. His problem was that somebody had parked a hearse in his building, complete with coffin. None of the employees were willing to open that coffin to see what was inside it.

Another was the owner of the hearse, who had rented it to Larry Higginbotham, though that wasn’t the name Larry had used. The hearse hadn’t been returned and it was needed for a funeral.

Because of the uproar in the law enforcement community, neither man could get anyone in law enforcement to do anything about their situations. In the end, the owner of the warehouse got the name of the mortuary from the side of the hearse, called the funeral home, and basically said, "Get your fucking dead body out of my warehouse!"

The only bright spot in that whole exchange was when the coffin was opened and found to be empty, except for a roll of duct tape, which the Higginbothams had planned to use to restrain Chantal Custer with.

What was lost were the fingerprints that would have tied the Higginbothams to that hearse and the eyewitness testimony of the owner, who could have identified Larry Higginbotham as the man who had rented it.

It would have played beautifully in a trial.

"I got rights!" squealed Curly.

"I already read you your rights," said Harper patiently.

"So where’s my coffee and donuts?" whined Curly.

"You don’t have a right to coffee and donuts," said Harper.

Curly turned to the young man, wearing the threadbare suit, sitting beside him.

"You said I had rights," he complained. "Ain’t I got the right to make them feed me?"

"Um … I don’t think so," said the public defender. "Didn’t they feed you in jail? If they didn’t feed you in jail, I can file a motion."

"Whose idea was it to kidnap Mrs. Custer?" asked Harper.

"Don’t answer that!" barked Curly’s lawyer.

"Where did the gun come from?" asked Harper.

"Don’t answer that either!" yelped the lawyer.

"Look," sighed Harper. "You’re in deep shit here, Curly. You’re looking at life without parole, and if Moe dies, you could get the death penalty."

"Hey!" yelled Curly. "I didn’t do nothing to Moe."

"Yes, but if someone dies in the process of a felony kidnapping attempt, then those responsible for the kidnapping attempt are also responsible for the death."

"Don’t try that bullshit with me!" yelled Curly. "You know I didn’t try to kidnap my own brother."

"Of course," said Jim smoothly. "You were trying to kidnap Mrs. Custer."

"Don’t answer that!" said the public defender.

"He didn’t ask no question," said Curly, looking at the man beside him. "He just said what we was trying to do."

"I can’t help you," said Jim, standing up. "You can help yourself, by cooperating with me, but if you don’t care about going to prison for the rest of your life, that’s fine by me." He picked up the file.

"Hang on!" yelped Curly.

"Don’t answer that!" intoned the lawyer. Curly turned to him again.

"You shut your pie hole. You couldn’t even get me coffee and donuts, and there have to be a zillion donuts around this place somewhere, what with all these cops here."

The lawyer looked hurt. "I’m advising you not to talk to this man," he said. "I already inquired about pleading to a lesser offense and I hit a brick wall. This detective can’t do anything for you. He’s just on a fishing expedition."

"I hope your lawyer will be willing to bring you coffee and donuts in prison, Curly," said Harper softly. "Because nobody else will."

He turned again, just as the door to the interrogation room opened. Harper wondered if anybody in the entire fucking world was aware of what a breach of procedure that was. You didn’t just walk in on a formal interview. He was faced with a slim, athletic looking black man, in a suit. The man’s hand slipped inside his suit and Harper tensed. He wasn’t wearing his gun … not for an interrogation. Displaying a firearm had been used more than once to get a confession thrown out on grounds that it was coerced.

The man’s hand came out with a small leather folder and Harper knew what that meant instantly.

"Richard Jefferson, FBI," the man said.

"The feds are taking this?" Harper was clearly unhappy.

"We have primary jurisdiction in kidnappings," said the agent.

"Yeah, if they cross state lines," said Harper.

"The Department of Justice has determined that Mrs. Custer has special status," said the agent smoothly. "I’ll take that file, please."

He held out his hand. Harper placed the file folder in it. He wasn’t actually all that upset, except for the principle of the thing. The Bureau only took cases like this that were solved, so they could claim the prosecution. It was chicken shit. But … on the other hand, now the problem of the "mastermind" was someone else’s. And all those gold diggers would be heaped on the FBI, too. He smiled.

"Have a good time … Dick," he said.

"What the fuck is this?" asked Curly.

"Shit, shit, shit," moaned his lawyer.

"Mommy had an adventure today!" said Lou Anne to the little boy secured firmly in the car seat behind her.

"An adventure!" said the little boy excitedly. An observer would have heard distinct similarities between his voice and hers, and the way his repetition mimicked her original excitement.

"Yes! When I was on my way to work, I found a hurt man and I took him to the hospital."

"He was hurt?"

"Uh huh. I think he was in an accident."

"CRASH!" yelled Ambrose from the back seat, smashing his hands together.

"Maybe you could draw him a picture when we get home, to make him feel better," suggested Lou Anne.

"OK," said the little boy.

When they got home, Lou Anne set about fixing Ambrose something to eat and then checked the mail. She’d gotten the four hours of sleep that was usually all she seemed to need, and looked forward to spending time with her son.

Ambrose, though not planned, was the light of her life now. It had been hard. The pregnancy itself had been difficult, for a number of reasons. Then trying to figure out how to be a mother had become the problem. Things just hadn’t gone like she’d thought they would. She’d ached to breast feed, for example, but Ambrose had turned up his nose at her nipple. He’d drank the milk, but he’d wanted it from something he could wrap his mouth around better than what nature had given him. Pumping her milk had been a pain too, at first, but had then turned into something much more convenient when she’d had to go back to work. She’d pumped enough for Roslynn to keep him well fed while she took care of him. If she’d had to go feed him two or three times a shift, it would have bankrupted her.

She took him his food and saw that he was already bent over a piece of drawing paper. He was using a pencil to rough out the drawing, but had crayons ready to fill in the colors. He was making a surprisingly sophisticated drawing of a man, lying on a bed, all bandaged up. One leg was up in the air, suspended from an invisible point, and obviously had a cast on it. Ambrose surprised her like that all the time. She had no idea where he’d seen an image of a man in traction, but it had stuck in his genius little brain somewhere and had now come out to play.

She just looked at him for a minute, her heart almost overflowing with emotion. He was so precious.

His medium brown hair was cut in a bowl cut, because that made it easy to keep trimmed up. His skin was as fair as her own, though slightly paler. He had the same freckle pattern as she did as well-on his face, the tops of his shoulders, and along his arms. Also like her, his eyes changed color, depending on his mood and any number of other circumstances. Always some shade of blue, they were sometimes lighter and sometimes darker.

He looked up, knowing she was there somehow. His long lashes blinked as he smiled. At four years old, the only trace of baby fat left on him was in his face. He had cheeks a chipmunk would be proud of and a little round chin below pouty lips, also like hers. Now she could see the faint freckles on his button nose and the little gap between his two front teeth. He looked skinny, but she knew he had lots of muscle, to go along with a brain that routinely astonished her.

"What’s his name?" asked Ambrose.

"Kris," said his mother.

"With a C or a K?"

"How did you know it could be spelled two ways?" asked Lou Anne.

"I don’t know. I just do."

"Well this one is with a K," she said.

She watched him scrawl the name at the bottom of the page. Then, quite possibly because he didn’t know if the man in question was white, or black, or oriental, he simply colored him blue. He left the bed uncolored, but then scribbled an irregular border around the man and bed, using what appeared to be the first crayon that came to hand. She marveled at how detailed the pencil work was and how lackadaisical he was at using color. The tip of his tongue, none the less, was in the corner of his lips, as he intently finished his drawing.

"You hungry?"

"A little," he said, dropping the crayon. "Will you give this to him?"

"The next time I see him," said his mother.

Special Agent Richard Jefferson stood beside the man in the bed and looked at him. If he’d seen a certain pencil and crayon drawing, recently completed by a little boy in another state, suspicion would have flared in his mind. One leg was suspended from a silver bar over the bed. The face wasn’t bandaged, like the one in the boy’s picture, but the resemblance to this scene would have been eerie.

Moe Higginbotham was doped to his eyeballs with pain killers, but even so it didn’t prevent him from muttering, "Fuck you," in an almost unbroken litany. Jefferson knew he was pushing things by being here without the man’s attorney present. But no attorney had been appointed yet, and wouldn’t be until there was an arraignment, so he took his chances. His briefing about the case had included a very serious suggestion that there was a fourth man, who was still at large, involved in the conspiracy. There was nothing in the local file about that … nothing whatsoever … but Harper had made sure he understood that the governor believed that, and so did the chief of police.

"What do you think?" Jefferson had asked the older man.

"I think you took jurisdiction and you have my file," Harper had answered. Then he’d turned around and walked away.

Jefferson had tried to question Moe Higginbotham. He’d rushed through the rights advisement, and asked the man who had done "this" to him. He’d argued that while Moe was caught, and would certainly go to prison, whoever had put him up to it was going to get off scot free. He’d suggested that wasn’t fair to Moe. All he’d gotten was eyes that glittered somehow, while being glazed over at the same time, and the words, "Fuck you, pig," over and over again.

Since then Jefferson had been feeling less and less positive about the whole stinking mess. His first step after taking jurisdiction had been to visit the New York City crime lab. His first question had been about the pistol Moe had been found with and two bullets recovered from the scene.

"Have you checked the ballistics against any other unsolved major crimes?"

The tech had actually laughed at him!

"Well, it’s a .45 caliber bullet, so we don’t have all that many of those we COULD compare them to," he said. "Just off hand I’d say there are somewhere in the neighborhood of a couple hundred. And … oh, I don’t know … maybe twice that many shell casings. I’m sure the director would be happy to put four or five of us on it full time … assuming, of course, that the bureau will pay for it." The man grinned. "This isn’t CSI, like on TV, you know. We don’t have some fancy imaginary automated computer system that will do that."

Dick Jefferson had been an FBI agent for three years, but he already knew how expensive that would be … and how long it would take.

"I may have our lab do something with them," he said.

"Knock yourself out," said the tech. "The detective that was working on this has us looking at a few things. If we find anything, we’ll notify him and I’m sure he’ll notify you. Just let the evidence custodian know which ones you want. If any of them are the ones we’re working on, I’ll be happy to turn them back in to the evidence locker so he can ship them to you."

Chapter 7

"You’re looking better," said Officer Connel. The hospital room didn’t look any different.

"I feel better … mostly," said Kris. "I have lots of questions, but I feel better."

"I’ve still got lots of questions, too," said Mitch.

"Why didn’t you tell me I got shot?"

"I was hoping you’d tell me about that." Mitch watched for signs of stress, but didn’t see any.

"I’d love to tell you," said Kris. "I’d love for you to put whoever did this to me behind bars for the rest of his life."

"His life?" Mitch waited.

"Or her life," said Kris. "Don’t you think I’d tell you who shot me if I knew?"

"I can think of a dozen reasons why you might not want to do that," said Mitch.

"Do I need a lawyer?"

Mitch frowned. He hated it when suspects asked that question. There was precedence, in some of the more liberal courts, that had interpreted that question as a request for a lawyer. He hadn’t advised Farmingham of his rights, because he really had no probable cause to arrest the man. It wasn’t against the law to get shot. And, while there appeared to have been a motor vehicle accident of some kind, Mitch didn’t have the car and there was no way he could convince even the stupidest of jurors that Kris had "left the scene."

His gut instinct was that there was much more below the surface of Mr. Farmingham than was visible, but the fact was that all he had … at present … was that gut instinct. He decided not to play anymore games. Sometimes just being up front with a suspect got some cooperation.

"I don’t know," he said. "In the first place, that’s your decision to make. I can’t advise you on that, legally. What I CAN tell you is that you’re not under arrest and you’re not being charged with any crime … at least not for now. You popped up here in very curious circumstances, though, and I’m not going to just forget about you."

"So if I’m not under arrest … I can leave?"

"Where do you intend on going?" asked Mitch.

"I’ve been thinking about that," said Kris. "I don’t know where to go. It would help if you answered some of my questions."

"Isn’t this interesting," said Mitch. "I have all kinds of questions for you and you have all kinds of questions for me. Seems like kind of a yin yang situation, don’t you think?" He smiled. "You have information that could be valuable to me, and I may have information that could help you. How about trading?"

"What do you mean?" asked Kris.

"I’ll ask you a question and then you get to ask me one," said Mitch.

"How do I know if I can trust you?" asked Kris.

"I could ask the same question," the policeman countered.

"OK, fair enough," said Kris. "How will I know if I’m getting myself into trouble by answering your questions?"

"You’ll know when I advise you of your legal rights," said Mitch.

"Don’t I already have them?" asked Kris.

"Of course you do," said Mitch. "I’m just not required to tell you what they are yet."

"That sounds pretty chicken shit," said the man in the bed.

"You’ll get no argument from me on that," said the policeman. "But that’s the law. You’re not under arrest and I don’t have any current plans to charge you with anything, so all we’re doing right now is chatting. I’ll make you this promise, though. If that changes … I’ll tell you."

"Remind me not to play poker with you," said Kris.

"Actually, I kind of hope that someday we do play poker," said Mitch.

"Why?"

"Because that would mean you were my friend, instead of a disturbing mystery."

There had been a few more moments of uneasy silence, until Kris finally said, "OK, what do you want to know?"

"You were in an accident," said Mitch. "A car crash, probably. What do you remember about that?"

He had hit on the one thing that Kris had some relatively distinct memories of, but those memories didn’t make any sense. If he’d hit a car door, and the man getting out of that car door, the policeman in his room wouldn’t have said "probably." He would already know about that part. And, he was still scared that he would be arrested, if he described what he remembered. Still, he had to give the man something.

"I remember hearing glass breaking," said Kris. "I also remember being afraid I was going to die, but that part seems kind of obvious."

Mitch frowned. He’d already told the suspect about the glass, so this wasn’t new information. He tried a different approach.

"What do you remember about your vehicle?"

Kris was quiet. The only memory he could access was the one he was afraid to talk about, but this question didn’t seem so dangerous. He closed his eyes and replayed the memory. This time, when he saw the door open in front of him, he paid attention to the front of his car hitting the door … and the man.

"It’s kind of light blue," he said.

"What kind of car is it?" asked Mitch, his voice quiet.

"I don’t know." Kris opened his eyes. "I know you ran a check on my license. Does that match?"

Mitch didn’t think giving that up was much. "You have a '98 Buick Regal registered in New York. They don’t list the color of the car in their records."

"Buick Regal," Kris repeated. It didn’t mean anything to him. He couldn’t even think of what a Buick Regal looked like.

"What about your personal life?" asked Mitch.

"I’m pretty sure I write books," said Kris. "I have this kind of hazy memory of a computer screen, and I’m writing something. It has chapters, so it has to be a book."

"Maybe you came up here to do research on a book," suggested Mitch.

"Where is here, exactly?" asked Kris.

"Here is Pembroke, Connecticut," said Mitch. "We don’t have any industry to speak of. Some people vacation here in the summer. There’s some sport fishing and a little hunting. Are you a nature writer?"

"Maybe," said Kris. "I like nature."

At that moment a scene flashed into his mind. He closed his eyes, because he was eager for anything that might drift up in his memory, and he recognized what was happening as a memory being uncovered. It was of a kangaroo, standing and looking at him. He stared at the animal in his mind. The landscape behind the kangaroo was stark and almost bare, with reds and yellows in the dirt, and scrubby little bushes, but no real trees. A joey stuck it’s surprisingly large head out of the kangaroo’s pouch and looked around before ducking back in.

"What is it?" asked Mitch, seeing the man’s face change.

"I think I’ve been to Australia," he said. "I remember a kangaroo."

Mitch blinked. That matched the accent, but it didn’t fit with his image of this man … or, more correctly, of a man who might be involved in some criminal enterprise. Australia wasn’t a place where criminals went to further criminal ends. Not in the sense of drug trafficking, anyway, which was what a lot of criminal enterprises were mixed up in, one way or another.

"A kangaroo," said Mitch.

"And a dingo," said Kris, smiling now. "I had a pet dingo named Gyp. She used to try to get me to stop writing and pay attention to her."

The kangaroo had flowed into another memory, of a mottled looking dog, that made Kris feel an ache in his heart. He knew he had loved this dog and that the dog had died. He couldn’t remember much more, except that the dog had a habit of coming up to him while he was typing and lifting his arm with its nose. He opened his eyes.

"I wrote a book in Australia."

"What was it called?" asked Mitch.

"I don’t know," said Kris.

"I’ll run a check on your name as an author," said Mitch.

"OK," said the man in the bed.

"Any idea why you have two names?" asked the lawman.

"I have two names?" Kris was obviously surprised.

"You had a rental agreement in your coat pocket," said Mitch. "It didn’t have the same name as the one on your license." He still didn’t see anything that suggested Kris knew what he was talking about. "You also had a key to the house on you. It suggests you were driving there when you had the accident."

"A rental agreement?" Kris’s voice sounded wondering. "But I live somewhere … don’t I?"

"Yes, in New York City."

"I live in New York?"

"You sound surprised at that." Mitch let the silence hang.

"I’m just surprised I live in a big city," said Kris.

"Why?"

"Beats me. It just surprises me." He blinked. "What’s the name on the rental agreement?"

"Larry Phillips," said Mitch.

Kris closed his eyes and said the name in his mind, silently. It meant nothing to him at all. He replayed the accident he could remember in his mind again. He looked past the door … and the man. There were buildings and cars and a lot of people on foot, but that’s all he could remember.

"There were a lot of people," he murmured.

"What?"

Kris realized he’d spoken about the accident. That was dangerous, so he shied away from that.

"I just remembered a crowd of people, but that’s all," he said.

Mitch saw the pulse in the man’s throat, suddenly. He was upset by the memory. The man was talking, though, so he didn’t push it.

"Any idea what they were doing?" he asked softly.

Kris thought about the accident … and all those people. They had to have seen it. They would have been witnesses. And yet this policeman didn’t seem to know about it. It wasn’t much of a leap to decide that the accident had happened somewhere else, at some other time. But that meant it wasn’t responsible for the circumstances he was in now. And yet, the memory of the accident seemed fresh somehow … not like the memory of Australia and his dog. He knew those were old memories, somehow. It didn’t make any sense.

"No," he said. "It doesn’t make any sense to me." He looked at the policeman. "What did you do with my car?"

"I haven’t found your car yet," said Mitch.

"How can that be?" asked Kris. "If I had a wreck, and somebody brought me here, they had to have seen the car. What about the other people in the accident?"

"It appears that your car went off the road and into a river. I found the place, but your car isn’t there. It may be under the ice."

"Ice?"

"You’re in Connecticut, in the middle of winter. It’s below zero outside."

"Shit!" said Kris.

"You’re telling me," said Mitch.

"You’re telling me nobody saw this accident?" Kris sounded amazed.

"A local woman found you on the road, almost dead. She got you to the hospital."

"I met her," said Kris.

"You did?" The policeman sounded surprised.

"She came to see me," said Kris. "She’s got a weird haircut."

"That’s Lulu," said Mitch. He smiled for some reason. "She may be a little out there, but she saved your life."

Nothing made sense to Kris. He was, if anything, more frustrated now than he’d been before getting his questions answered.

"Have you got that rental agreement?" he asked.

"It’s in your personal effects," said Mitch. "Not that there’s much left. Your clothing was cut off in the ER. As far as I know, all they have is the rental agreement, the key, some loose change, and your billfold. I’m not even sure they kept your shoes."

"Can I look at what they have?" asked Kris.

"It’s your stuff," said Mitch, shrugging his shoulders. "Be right back."

He was gone for only five minutes, during which Kris tried to make sense of what he now knew. What he’d learned suggested he’d had TWO accidents; one in a city, where he hit a man and another here in Connecticut, where his car had gone into a river. That didn’t seem likely, but it’s what the evidence suggested. Mitch came back into the room, a plastic bag in his hand.

The bag was upended on the table they put his food trays on, and Mitch pushed it across the bed. Everything except the loose change looked like it had been wet. The paper had been folded into three equal sections, but was wrinkled and stained with red. He realized it was his blood and was fascinated by it as he unfolded the document. It was still legible, but just barely. It said the rent had been paid in full up to the end of May.

"What day is it?" he asked.

"Today is the thirteenth," said Mitch.

"I mean what month?"

"November."

"So I obviously just drove up here to come to this house," said Kris.

"Looks that way."

"I don’t remember any of this," sighed Kris. He was obviously frustrated.

"Maybe you came here to meet somebody, or write a book that you couldn’t write in the city," suggested Mitch.

"Why couldn’t I write a book in the city?" asked Kris.

"Too many distractions?"

"I’m pretty distracted right now," said Kris explosively. "I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be writing!"

"Can’t help you there," said Mitch. "While they were getting me this stuff I Googled your name. If you’re a writer, you either haven’t written anything noteworthy or wrote it under another name."

The men looked at each other, both arriving at the same conclusion.

"My other name," said Kris. He picked up the rental agreement. "This name!"

"I Googled that one, too," said Mitch. "I didn’t get anything on it either. Not about an author. Who’s your publisher?"

Kris closed his eyes, but got nothing.

"I don’t know!" he moaned.

"Maybe it will come to you," said Mitch. "The place is paid for. Why not just move in and see what happens?"

"You want me around … in case you find out why you want to arrest me," said Kris.

Mitch grinned. "I can’t exactly tell you not to leave town. Used to could do that kind of thing, but those days are over."

Kris looked at the man, who was at the same time a threat, though a hazy one, and just a man doing his job. He had told Kris some things that he’d wanted to know and he WAS, apparently, being honest about what he had in mind. While that was threatening, Kris liked it that the man was honest and direct with him.

"I don’t even have any clothes," said Kris.

"You’ve got a credit card," said Mitch, standing up. "It’s valid. I checked that when I ran your license." His smile looked friendly, but his words robbed it of that attribute quickly. "And, as soon as you decide to tell me what you’re holding back, maybe we can figure out what to do with you."

He left and Kris picked up the billfold he didn’t recognize. Other than the credit card, it contained a twenty and three ones, a library card in the name of Kris Farmingham, a discount card showing that if he bought two more pizzas from Tony’s Real Italian Pizza and Pub that he’d get a free cheese pizza, and three pieces of paper with phone numbers on them, but nothing else. The wallet looked starkly bare to him. There were no pictures. Maybe the policeman was right. Maybe he was some kind of hermit who shunned contact with the outside world, even to the point of fleeing the city he lived in so that he could write without anyone bothering him.

He couldn’t remember being like that, but his billfold suggested he didn’t have much of a life.

He looked at his left hand. There was no wedding ring and no indication that one had been removed. He wondered if anybody was looking for him.

Chapter 8

Lou Anne looked at Ambrose playing and felt the surge of warmth in her heart she always did when she saw him like this. She loved him more than anything she could think of and every time she saw him her heart reminded her of that.

She didn’t want more children, but that was because of the difficulties she’d had carrying Ambrose. It had been torture for her. Her body hadn’t coped well with hosting a child. The thought of going through that again had convinced her to take precautions.

Not that she’d needed them. There hadn’t been "another man" after Ambrose’s father. There had been some that were mildly interesting, but that was all. At least until now.

She thought again about the man she’d found on the road. She remembered the feeling of fear that he might be dead, and the hope that had leapt into her heart when he had turned out to be alive. He was very interesting. She tried to figure out WHY he was so interesting. She had a hard time with that. She knew almost nothing about him, and her short visit with him at the hospital had been routine in a very strange kind of way. She’d noticed his accent while she was there. Maybe that was it.

All she knew was that something made her want to learn more about him. She hadn’t thought about any man this much for almost as long as she could remember. She’d said he’d see her again and she’d meant it. That she’d meant it was one of the reasons she was thinking about him so much. She WANTED to see him again … she just wasn’t sure why.

Lola Henderson was one pissed off woman. Kris hadn’t called her in over a week. All the message she left for him at home went unanswered and his cell phone had been turned off every time she’d tried to call it. She’d gone to his apartment twice. The second time she’d waited around for a while, hoping to catch him. She was sure he’d dumped her and that he’d done it the gutless way of not telling her about it. She was positive she’d catch him bringing some other woman home to his apartment and she was primed to make him pay for it.

But he never came home. His parking spot was empty, too.

She had been THAT close to getting a commitment from him. She’d had to ask him for a key to his apartment THREE times, but the last time, at least he’d said, "We’ll see." And now he’d disappeared off the face of the Earth.

It suddenly occurred to her that he might have been involved in an accident. She felt panic at the thought. He was her ticket. She just KNEW it. He was so secretive about his daily activities. She hadn’t met any of his friends. He never talked about any friends either. If he was laid up in the hospital or worse … dead … she’d have to start all over again.

She was just barely getting by on her salary and she HATED her job. She didn’t want to work. She wanted a man to take care of her, so she could sleep late and go shopping whenever she wanted to. Kris wasn’t rich. Not yet. But he WOULD be, if he wrote the right book, and she was quite sure if he listened to her she could tell him how to write it. After all, she’d read at least ten or fifteen books. She liked the ones with pictures of muscled men on the covers, set in England, when people still rode horses and men took what they wanted from a woman. Kris wasn’t like that. She’d managed to get him into bed a few times, but he wasn’t helpless yet.

She was thirty-six, though she’d told him she was only twenty-eight. She needed to get him dependant on her. If he was in a hospital somewhere, she needed to find out, so she could go and feel sorry for him. She’d get the key to his apartment, to get his mail for him or something, and have a copy made. She’d visit him every day, and take him home to finish recuperating from whatever was wrong with him. He’d see that he needed her.

She picked up the phone book. It took some effort, because it weighed a lot. Turning to "Hospital" she stared at the page. It was covered with names and numbers. So was the next one … and the one after that. She couldn’t call all of them! It would take days!

She thought of a shortcut. Let somebody ELSE do all the calling.

She picked up the phone and dialed 911.

"What do you mean I have to come to the precinct?" objected Lola. "My boyfriend is missing. Do your fucking job!"

"I can’t take a missing persons report over the phone," said the operator. "That’s not an emergency. We’re all backed up down here. You’ll have to make the report in person."

The line went dead and Lola shouted at the phone.

She checked her watch. She had to go to work. She definitely couldn’t afford to get fired right now. She cursed again as she grabbed her purse. She’d have to do this later. She thought that Kris had better be in practically critical condition when she found him, because if he wasn’t, he would be when she got done with him.

"You’re sure I can go," Kris said to the little Pakistani doctor.

"I am being very sure of deese, yes," said Dr. Massouf. "I vas telling the Mitch Connel dat I was being ready to deescharge you for sure." The man looked up at Kris. "Are you wanting me to be referring you to a psychiatrist?"

"Do you think I’m crazy?" asked Kris.

"Of course not," said the man, his voice on edge. "You are being troubled with memory losses, yes?"

"I’ll let you know," said Kris. He stood up. That didn’t feel odd anymore. The nurses had had him up and walking around for several days now. All the bandages were off and he had only a little residual ache in a few muscles and bruises. "I don’t have any clothes," he pointed out.

"Ah, yes, vun moment, pliss," the doctor said and hustled out of the room.

Jessica came in almost immediately, two bags in her hands.

"The hospital chaplain got these for you from the Salvation Army," she said. "I hope they fit."

From the first bag he pulled out a blue checkered shirt, long sleeved, thankfully, and a pair of gray work pants. There was a new package of jockey shorts, containing three pairs, and another package that had three pairs of new white tube socks in it. A pair of hiking boots -used, but in surprisingly good condition - were in the bottom of the bag. The other bag had a folded up coat in it. He stood there, while she waited. Apparently she didn’t intend to leave while he dressed.

"You going to stay here while I change?" he asked.

"Oh!" Her face got darker. She didn’t answer his question. Instead, she posed one of her own. "Um … did you remember anything about your health insurance?"

"No."

"In that case, I’m supposed to take you down to the cashier’s office. They want to make arrangements for payment."

"Of course," he said.

"I can leave if you want me to," she said, but she didn’t move.

"Well, I’m going to be naked here in a minute," he said.

"It’s not like I haven’t seen that before," she said. Her face was still darker than usual. He thought again about how she was really a strikingly good looking woman. "I gave you a sponge bath when you were still unconscious," she added.

"Makes no difference to me," he said. He was surprised, for some reason, to find that it really DIDN’T make him uncomfortable for her to be there. Maybe she was interested in him. THAT he found to be an odd concept, for some reason.

He dropped the hospital robe and looked at her. She had turned around after all.

"You’re not going to make me leave here in a wheel chair, are you?" He smiled. He still hadn’t moved to put anything on.

She turned her head just far enough to see he was still naked, then looked away again. "Do you need help getting dressed?" she asked.

"I don’t think so," he said. He ripped the bag of shorts open, somewhat enthusiastically, and pulled a pair on. Being in this room naked, with a woman, was affecting him, but the shorts kept it from showing too much. He pulled on the pants, which were loose around the waist.

"No belt?" he asked.

"I guess not," she said. "Mitch says you’re staying here to write your book."

"I suppose so," he said. "I can’t remember what it’s about, and I don’t have a computer. I don’t even have a pad of paper, though I don’t think I write that way. I’m hoping something will come to me." He looked around. "Got anything that I can use as a belt? These things will fall off of me if I don’t do something."

She left, without a word, and he’d put the shirt and shoes on by the time she was back. She had several safety pins in her hand. She didn’t ask, but just went to kneel behind him, lifting the shirt and pulling the waistband of the pants tighter. He felt her hands for half a minute and then didn’t. He turned to find her standing close to him.

"Thanks," he said.

"You’re welcome." She took a deep breath, and his eyes strayed to her chest. He was pretty sure she noticed, but she didn’t say anything. "I won’t make you ride," she said.

He followed her to the cashier’s office, watching the sway of her hips. She had a really nice ass and it kept him half hard as they walked. He had no idea if he could put the bill on his credit card, or if he did, if it would exceed his credit limit. He thought it was almost funny that he could remember that there were things like credit limits, when he couldn’t even remember what the clothes they had cut off of him looked like or if he’d ever worn a checkered shirt before. He arranged, with relatively little fuss, to make a down payment on his card and be billed for the rest over a period of months. That was possible because he had a local address, which he showed them on the rental agreement.

Jessica walked him to the front doors. He put the coat on. It was tight over the shoulders, but it was better than nothing.

"OK," he said, feeling a pleasurable surge at knowing he was about to be free of restraint. "Now all I need are directions to my rental. I hope you know where it is," he said. "Cause I sure don’t. How do I call a taxi?"

"We don’t have a taxi company in Pembroke," she said smiling. "We’re a little small for that."

"So, how am I supposed to get there?" he asked. "It looks cold out there." He looked through the windows. "And it’s dark too. What time is it?"

"Oh my!" she said. "It’s seven-thirty. I didn’t think about that." She frowned and appeared to be thinking. "I’m almost off shift," she said. "If you can wait another half hour, I guess I could take you."

"Deal," he said.

There wasn’t really anything else he could do.

He was sitting in a chair in the lobby, leafing through a People magazine that was eight months old, but still held nothing in it that sparked any memories in him. It was eight when she came up to him, bundled up in a hooded parka. It had a dark fur ruff around the hood that set off her light brown face nicely.

"Ready?" she asked.

"I suppose so," he said, standing up. "It seems kind of early to be discharging somebody … doesn’t it?"

"It’s because you came in in the middle of the night," she said. "If we kept you here past eight, they’d have to charge you another day, and they knew your insurance situation was a little odd."

"Oh," he said.

They went outside and the cold hit him like a brick. They got into her car and she started the engine.

"It will warm up in a bit," she said.

"Any chance I could buy you breakfast?" he asked, thinking of how, when he got to the rental, it would be empty.

She looked over at him.

"I forgot about that, too," she said. She sounded disappointed in herself. "You really have nothing, huh."

"Not yet," he said. "But life goes on. I’ll figure something out. I guess I need to find a job."

"I thought you were an author," she said, pulling the car out onto frozen streets.

"I am," he said. That feeling was rock solid now. "But all I have is twenty-three dollars and a credit card. I’m going to have to call the company and have the bill sent to me here, and I’ll have to have something to pay it with. I might have a bank account somewhere, but I don’t know where, and I don’t know if there’s any money in it or not, so a job seems in order."

"I never thought about that," said Jess. She tried to imagine being in his situation, and was almost pathetically glad she wasn’t.

They ended up at The Early Girl Eatery, of course. They got a warm reception when they went in.

"Well HI!" yipped Lou Anne. "Look at you! All walking around and acting normal and everything!"

"You didn’t come see me again," he said. He wondered why he’d said it as soon as it left his lips. She didn’t owe him anything.

"I’m sorry," she moaned. "Work was crazy, because they closed some roads and people got stuck here. I had to work overtime, and still take care of Ambrose. I MEANT to come see you again."

"It’s OK," he said. "I have no idea why I even said that."

"Because I promised," she said. "And I like to keep my promises. I’m so sorry. How can I make it up to you?"

"You can serve us a delicious breakfast that is nothing like what they have in that hospital," he said firmly. "For which I will render a handsome tip."

Kris leaned back and patted his stomach, which felt huge to him, but was still flat as a board. Jess sat across from him, delicately cutting up her French toast into small bites, which she transferred to her mouth with a fork. Lou Anne had been back to the table five times, pouring only a few tablespoons of coffee into his cup each time and beaming when he extolled the delicious virtue of Hank’s cooking.

"Ohhhhh," he groaned. "That was soooo good."

"I would hope so," said Jessica. "You ate like a starved man."

"I had to," he said. "I don’t have anything to eat at home." He blinked. "That sounds funny, calling it home, when I haven’t even seen it yet." He ran a hand through his hair. "And yet, it’s the only home I know about." He slumped. "I have no idea how this is going to work out. I’m an author without anything to write with, and without an idea for a book. I’ve got a home I haven’t seen, and no clothes and no car."

"Maybe that’s what you should write about," said Jess, pushing a single piece of French toast to the side of the plate. She was a picky eater and there was just a little too much black on the edge of that piece.

He blinked again. "You might have something there," he said. "I mean think about it. If this isn’t an adventure, what is? I have no memory and I’m stuck in a small town I’ve never been to." He stopped. "At least I don’t THINK I’ve ever been here." He grinned. "Anyway, I have no plans and nothing to draw on from my past. The local policeman thinks I’m a criminal of some sort. So does Lou Anne, for that matter."

"What?" Jess was suddenly alert. "What are you talking about?"

"When she came to see me in the hospital she asked me if I was a mobster," he answered.

"Oh pooh," she said. "That’s nonsense. You’re mysterious … yes … but I’m sure you’re a very nice man."

"That’s another thing," said Kris as Lou Anne approached the table for the sixth time. "I managed to meet the two most beautiful women in the whole town, within twenty-four hours of getting here. This has all the makings of a great romance novel."

Lou Anne poured his coffee cup full again, while Jess covered hers with her hand. She smiled at both of them.

"Isn’t he the charmer," giggled Lou Anne. "And intelligent too. Who would have thought a stranger would have such good judgment?"

None of them noticed that three booths over, Clyde Watson was paying off a losing bet that the stranger would end up with coffee in his lap for flirting with Lulu, while Buzz Wilder grinned and took his money.

Lou Anne appeared one last time, the check in her hand. She slid into the booth across from Kris, bumping Jess’s hip with her own to make her friend move inward.

"I’m on break," she said, handing him the check. "So what are your plans?"

"Jessica has agreed to drop me off at my rental house," he said. "After that … I have no idea."

"Wait a minute," said Lou Anne. "I can see about a dozen flaws in that plan." She ticked them off on her fingers. "First, you have no transportation. Second, you have no food. Third, you have no clothes. Where did you get those clothes?" she asked curiously.

"Salvation Army," he said. "They donated them to me. It was really nice of them."

Lou Anne turned to her friend. "You can’t just dump him."

"I don’t know what else to do, Lulu!" exclaimed Jess. "I’ve got stuff to do today and I have to go in early tonight because Sandy is puking her guts out all over the place and we’re short staffed."

"We can’t just abandon him," said the waitress.

"You’ve done plenty for me," said Kris. "You saved my life. I’m the one who owes YOU."

"Yeah, sure," said Lou Anne, waving a hand. "When you’re rich and famous and on the best seller list, you can pay me back." She stiffened. "Hey! What if you ARE rich and famous and on the best seller list?"

"Don’t think so," said Kris. "That cop said he checked and nobody’s ever heard of me."

"Oh." Lou Anne’s slump, and the disappointment in her voice made him smile.

"Don’t worry," he said. "With thoughts of you two to motivate me, I should be able to write something that will make every woman who reads it blush and have to go change her…" He stopped suddenly, and blushed himself. "Sorry."

"You’re very naughty, aren’t you," said Lou Anne archly, and in a tone that made it perfectly clear it was a statement, rather than a question. Then she grinned. "So you’re a romance novelist?"

"I don’t actually know," he sighed. "But why not? It can’t be all that hard. Some steamy looks, a few stolen kisses, a little intrigue with handsome men and beautiful women…"

"I don’t know," said Lou Anne. "I like reading that trash and I’m still a pretty demanding reader too. I know within the first five or six pages if I’m going to finish it. There’s a lot of junk out there."

"Well then, perhaps you’ll lend a little editorial support to my venture," suggested Kris. "You know, keep me going in the right direction?"

"Me?" Lou Anne’s smile was brilliant.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Jess, her voice petulant. "I saw him first, Lulu. You might have saved his life, but I gave him a sponge bath. We’ve already been intimate." She grinned as the man across from her turned red again.

"YOU," said Lou Anne, turning to her friend, "were going to just abandon the poor man in a strange place, if I might remind you."

"I can’t help it!" objected Jess. "I told you. I have stuff to do." She looked at her watch. "In fact, you took so long to serve us breakfast that I’m going to be late getting to the bank and I HAVE to talk to them this morning!"

Lou Anne grinned. "Don’t tell me you bounced another check."

"It’s NOT funny!" complained Jess.

"You’d have money if you quit giving it all to the bank in penalty fees," said Lou Anne. "I wish you’d let me teach you how to balance your checkbook."

"I know how to balance my checkbook." Jessica pouted. "I just don’t do it … that’s all. I’m very busy."

"Yeah," laughed Lou Anne. "Busy going to the bank all the time to explain why you keep bouncing checks."

"This will be the last time," stated Jessica firmly. "I promise, OK? Now, I have to go. Can you take care of Kris?"

"Me?" squealed Lou Anne. "I have to get some sleep and pick up Ambrose!"

"Well, you can’t just abandon him," said Jess, pushing Lou Anne out of the booth and putting on her coat. "You said so yourself."

"You just did!" snarled Lou Anne.

"Ladies, please," said Kris. "I’ll manage. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself."

Lou Anne turned on him. "Really? And how are you going to manage that? You don’t even know where you live!"

"Bye!" yipped Jessica.

"Hey!" yelled Lou Anne.

Bets were made left and right as the other customers looked on with interest.

"See you later!" called Jessica. "Thanks for breakfast, Kris."

"But… " Lou Anne turned to look at Kris. "OH!" she snarled, stamping one foot.

"Could I get some coffee over here?" complained a trucker, who had never been in The Early Girl before.

More bets were made and the clink of silverware almost stopped as the regulars waited for things to play out.

To the disgust of four patrons, Lou Anne did not explode or make anyone suffer her wrath. She picked up Kris' bill and held out her hand, waiting while he pulled out the twenty from his wallet and laid it there. Then she turned on her heel and went to the register, making change, which she promptly put in her apron pocket. She made a trip to the trucker’s table, taking him his coffee and his check. Then she went to a line of pegs on the wall at the end of the service lane and took down her stained jacket.

"I’m leaving, Hank!" she yelled.

"You’ve got twenty minutes left!" he objected. "And you just took a break."

"I’m leaving, Hank!" she yelled again. "I have this … problem."

She turned and stared at Kris.

"Really," he said, shrugging. "You don’t have to…"

She held up one hand, as if she were a traffic cop showing him the stop sign. His mouth snapped shut.

"Are you ready to go?" she asked sweetly.

"Better do it, man," came suggestions from three different booths nearby.

Kris craned his neck to see who had spoken, but all the men were busy with their meals. He winced as partially healed muscle strains in his neck made themselves known. One man glanced up and jerked his head toward Lou Anne. Then he was eating again, as if nothing had happened.

Kris stood up. "Really, Lou Anne, I…"

"Get your coat!" she snapped.

There was a low murmur from the booths behind Kris. He was quite sure he heard a male voice say, "Get moving bud!" and another one say, "No fair!" He leaned over and picked up his coat, not sure what to think. He’d taken only two steps towards the waitress when she turned and strode out of the diner.

She didn’t hold the door open for him.

Chapter 9

Men were pressed up against the glass of the front windows as Lou Anne put her car in reverse and backed up.

"Damn!" said Randy Thornton and handed a dollar to Butch Flannery. "He actually made it into the car!"

"Keep watching!" yelled Tim Clark. "She’s going to kick him out within two blocks."

"Bull!" snorted the Reverend William Hoskins, minister of the Third Avenue United Church of Christ. "She’s an angel of mercy. I think our Lulu will take good care of the poor man." He watched as Lou Anne’s car made it to the street light at the corner of Hickory and Madison, and held out his hand to Tim. Tim sighed and put a dollar in it.

"Don’t you go to hell for betting?" complained Tim. "Or for saying bull?"

"Wasn’t really a bet," said Reverend Hoskins. "I knew what she’d do." He smiled. "And bull is just a vigorous way of saying nonsense."

"Who do you suppose he really is?" asked Joe Peters, who had also lost money that morning.

"What’s the skinny on him?" asked Phil Zucker. "I didn’t hear about it yet."

"Turned up half dead over on Hopkins Lane," said Hank, who was watching with the rest of them. "He was lying in the snow, all by hisself, all torn up. Lulu put him in her car and took him to the emergency room."

"That little slip of a girl muscled HIM into her car?" Phil sounded doubtful.

"An angel of mercy," sighed Reverend Hoskins. "God gives strength to those in need."

Several men groaned at the impromptu sermon and there was a generalized movement back to their tables and meals.

"I heard he don’t know who he is and can’t remember nothing," said Gerald Witherspoon.

"One of us should have gone with her," said Tim Clark. "What if he tries to hurt her?"

"I’ll take that bet," laughed Hank. "How much you want to lose, Tim?"

"I’m just saying," said Tim, picking up his fork. "Maybe he’s fooling about not being able to remember anything."

"We’ll just have to keep a watchful eye on him," said the preacher.

"How we gonna do that?" asked Phil.

"You all heard the man. He’s got no car and no clothes. We’ll just have to be neighborly and check in on him once in a while. I’m sure all you men have something you’re not using that could make his life a little better."

"But he’s an outsider!" complained Gerald.

Reverend Hoskins' voice was stern. "He’s a man lost in the wilderness, Gerry, and he’s with a young woman we all care a great deal for. It’s our Christian duty to keep an eye on both of them." He smiled. "Besides, she just won me a dollar. I owe her."

The young woman the preacher was talking about was driving along, staring at the road ahead and not talking.

"Thank you," said Kris, trying to lighten the mood.

"Don’t thank me yet," said Lou Anne. "We’re taking a little detour before I take you home."

"Oh?"

"We’re going to pick up my son and you’re going to babysit him while I get some sleep. Then I’ll take you shopping, to get the essentials, and THEN I’ll take you home."

"You’re taking me to your house?" His voice rose. "Isn’t that a little dangerous?"

She looked over at him. Her hair covered her right eye, but the other one seemed to bore into his insides. "And why would it be dangerous?" she asked. "You said yourself, you’re not a mobster."

"Well I’m not," he said. "But we just met. You’re being awfully trusting."

"If I find out I can’t trust you, I’ll just cut your balls off," she said carelessly.

"What?!" His voice held shock.

"Aren’t YOU being awfully trusting?" she said, glancing at him.

They picked up Ambrose, which surprised Roslynn, of course. Ambrose didn’t seem surprised, though, and got down to the business of being curious about Kris immediately. Roslynn was curious too, but not quite so openly. Her raised eyebrow expressed it to her charge’s mother.

"It’s a long story," said Lou Anne, picking up Ambrose and hugging him. "I’ll tell you all about it later."

"I can’t wait," said Roslynn, meaning it.

In the car Ambrose kept up a stream of questions from his car seat. He wanted to know who Kris was and why his face had all those marks on it and where he lived and if he had a little boy too. Kris turned around and talked to the boy, explaining that he couldn’t remember very much because he’d been in an accident.

"Your mommy helped me," he said. "She took me to the hospital."

"THE ADVENTURE!" shouted Ambrose. "Mommy TOLD me about it! I made you a card."

Lou Anne reached for the card, which was still in a tray under the dashboard, and handed it to Kris. Then she let them discuss the card and drove, wondering if she really was being foolish to take this unknown man to her home and trust him with her son. She slowed as she came to the place where she’d picked Kris up, and rolled to a stop.

"This is where I found you," she said.

He looked around and shrugged his shoulders. "If you say so."

They went on, while Kris continued to talk to Ambrose, telling him everything he could remember, with the exception of running over a man in a city somewhere. He was just finishing his story of getting served breakfast by Ambrose’s mother when they pulled up to the house.

Lou Anne lay in bed. She couldn’t sleep, even though she was tired. Her son was out there in the living room with a strange man. She’d tried to tell herself it was fine, that she had no reason to believe he was anything other than a nice man with amnesia … but she still couldn’t sleep. Even taking the keys to the car into the bedroom with her hadn’t helped.

She got up, put on her robe, and went to the door silently. She eased it open and then crept down the hallway until she could peek into the living room. She could hear Kris' voice.

He was sitting on the couch, with Ambrose sitting next to him. They were reading a book. Kris read a line and Ambrose corrected him. At four, Ambrose knew what the book said, even if he couldn’t quite read every single word without help.

"You’re pretty smart," said Kris.

"Yup," said Ambrose, as if that were common knowledge. "Read some more. I’ll help you when you need it."

It all looked so normal to Lou Anne. She felt her muscles relax and turned around. She had to get some sleep, then she could figure out what to do about the man who fate had decided to drop into her life.

She woke five hours later, knowing she’d heard a shout, and got up immediately. She almost ran to the living room, tying the belt of her robe around her as she went.

She found them in the tiny dining room and gawked. Her old computer, which had been sitting in a box waiting to be taken to the recycling center, had been set up on the table. Kris was sitting in a chair, with Ambrose in another chair beside him. Kris' fingers flew across the keyboard, while Ambrose talked.

"And then the robot stepped on the house - SMASH!" yelled Ambrose.

"Keep it down!" cautioned Kris. "Remember, your mother is still sleeping."

"No she’s not," said Ambrose, pointing. "She’s right there." He jumped off the chair and ran to get a hug.

"Hi," said Kris. "We’re writing a story."

"I thought that thing was broken," she said.

"I think the connection on one of the cards was just corroded or something," he said. "I took the liberty of playing around with it. I didn’t figure you wanted me messing with the new one." He glanced over at the computer Lou Anne had upgraded to.

"You fixed it?"

"It booted up," he said, shrugging. "I figured I’d try writing something. Ambrose was helping me. He’s got a very vivid imagination for a four year old."

"Kris is writing me a book!" announced Ambrose.

"Well, a story anyway," said Kris, smiling.

"And I told him what to write," said Ambrose proudly.

"Well good for you!" said Lou Anne, roughing up his hair. "Now, I need to get you some lunch, then we’re all going shopping and I’m going to take Kris to his new house. How does that sound?"

"Yay!" said Ambrose, jumping up and down.

"We’ve got a lot of stuff," said Kris, looking at the shopping cart, which was mostly full.

"Without a car you’re going to have to survive on your own for a while," said Lou Anne. "Jess and I will check in on you, but it won’t be every day. When you get the phone hooked up you can just call one of us when you need to go somewhere. Besides, you need to stay there most of the time. You have a book to write."

"I can do the outline with paper and pencil," he said. "But I don’t think I want to write the whole thing that way. I’ll have to get a computer, and a job so I have the money to do that."

"Why don’t you use my old one?" she asked. "I was going to throw it out anyway."

"That would be really nice," he said. "You’re being awfully nice to me, you know."

"Why wouldn’t I?" she asked. "Now, what kind of vegetables do you like?"

When they pulled into the driveway, Kris was not just surprised-he was astonished. It was a nice house. The yard and house were covered with a thick layer of snow, but he could still see it was a well kept and spacious place.

"Wow," said Lou Anne. "Maybe you’re rich after all. This is a lot nicer than where I live." She got out. "Should have gotten you a snow shovel."

"I’m going to be in debt for the rest of my life," he moaned. "We spent over three hundred dollars!"

"Well, you said you were going to get a job of some kind," said Lou Anne, picking up a sack of groceries.

Ambrose had carried the toilet paper and paper towels on his lap, and there had even been a sack of stuff between Kris' legs in the front. It took them eight trips to get everything out of the trunk and passenger compartment of the car. The depth of the snow prevented Ambrose from carrying anything except the paper goods and even then he struggled. By the time they got done, though, they’d packed down a trail from the driveway to the door.

The inside of the house was as nice as the outside, though barely above freezing. The first thing Lou Anne did was find the thermostat and turn it up. Then she unpacked bags and started putting things away in the cupboards.

"I can do that," he said.

"Of course you can," she said. "But you’d put them in the wrong places." She grinned at him. "I’ll just get you started off right."

She inspected the refrigerator and pronounced it clean, then tested the microwave.

"It’s good that it’s furnished," she said, looking around. She climbed the stairs to the loft that overlooked the living room. "It’s also a good thing we didn’t get those queen sheets," she announced. "It’s got a king size bed." She came back down. "I’ll get you some sheets and bring them to you as soon as I can. You have the blankets for tonight and it’s warming up already."

"I’ll be fine," he said, looking around. "I can’t thank you enough. You’ve done way more than you had to."

She turned and looked at him. "My grandmother used to say that if you saved someone’s life, it belonged to you and you were responsible for taking care of it."

He blinked. "Do you believe that?"

"I don’t know," she said. "But I feel good about all this. You just write a best seller. I’ve always wanted to do the cover art for a novel."

"You have?" He looked surprised.

"I do some graphic design and web programming on the side," she said. "It’s to bring in a little extra money. When your book is finished, maybe you can talk me into setting you up a web site. I can create the graphics for the cover art and let the world know how good you are." She dimpled. "If you’re any good, of course."

"What if I’m not?" He frowned.

"Jess said you paid for this place in advance. I don’t think you’d be able to do that if you weren’t any good. Maybe we can find something of yours on the net."

"How? I can’t remember anything I’ve written and that policeman said he already looked."

"Mitch?" she snorted. "He doesn’t know anything. Let me play around with that," said Lou Anne. "I know some tricks of the trade about searching the net. And besides, you might remember something. You’ve remembered some things already, haven’t you?"

"A few," he said doubtfully. The first thing he thought about was the accident where he’d hit the man … if it was a real memory. It was just as real to him as the other things that had come back. The only problem there was that he didn’t know if ANY of those memories were true.

He was left alone to think about that as Lou Anne and her son left.

It was suddenly very, very quiet in the house.

Chapter 10

Mitch called the number he’d gotten from the web. It was the home office of the company listed in the New York records as Farmingham’s insurance company.

"Northern Mutual Insurance," came a svelte female voice. "How may I direct your call?"

"This is Officer Connel of the Pembroke, Connecticut PD," he said in his best official voice. "I need to talk to someone about recovering the car of one of your clients. It’s been in an accident."

"Claims?" asked the woman. "One moment please."

Mitch hummed while he waited for someone to come on the line. He heard a recording that said his call might be recorded to ensure quality service and snorted. All those recordings were used for was to cover their asses.

"Thank you for calling Northern Mutual claims service, the fastest and most complete service in America. This is Rodney, how may I help you?"

Mitch frowned. Rodney sounded like he might be seventeen. He repeated his identification and the explanation of why he was calling.

"You’re not the insured?" asked Rodney.

"No, I’m the police officer investigating the accident."

"What’s the customer’s name?" asked Rodney.

Mitch told him.

"And his social security number?"

"I don’t know that," said Mitch. He gave him Farmingham’s home address.

"What’s the customer’s phone number?"

"I don’t know that," said Mitch.

"I’m sorry, but we file all claims under the social security number and phone number of the insured," said Rodney.

"He hasn’t made a claim yet," said Mitch. "He’s been in the hospital ever since the accident."

"If he hasn’t made a claim, there’s nothing we can do," said Rodney.

"You folks insured the car, right?" asked Mitch. "Can we at least get that confirmed?"

"I’d be happy to do that for you sir. May I have the policy number?"

"I don’t know that," said Mitch, getting impatient. "I gave you his name and address, isn’t that enough?"

"I’m really sorry, sir," said Rodney. "Without the social, or phone number, or policy number, I have no idea how to confirm the insured is one of our customers."

"How 'bout I talk to your supervisor," suggested Mitch, hoping that would shake the tree enough for some information to fall out.

"Certainly, sir," said Rodney, who actually sounded happy at the prospect of handing this problem off to someone else.

There was another wait. It was longer this time. Mitch was treated to a few recordings, alternating between a peppy woman and a downright elated man, who extolled the virtues of ten or fifteen different programs offered by Northern Mutual.

"Thank you for calling Northern Mutual claims service, the fastest and most complete service in America. This is Priscilla, how may I help you?"

Priscilla, who had obviously been found by Rodney, had apparently not asked Rodney any questions of any kind. This was suggested by the fact that Priscilla asked Mitch the exact same questions that Rodney had. It got to be too much for Mitch and he vented his frustration.

"Look, Priscilla, I’ve got a man in the hospital and his car under the ice in the river. He was shot, OK? The car has evidence in it and I need you all to get it out of the river for me, because you insured it, OK? Send an adjuster with the tow truck, or whatever you want to do, and he can gather all the information he wants to. I just need this to happen as quickly as possible, all right?"

There was a silence on the phone that lasted six or seven seconds.

"Sir," said Priscilla. "If the car was damaged while being used in a crime, it voids the coverage. I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for you."

"I didn’t say the car was used in a crime," said Mitch, his voice rising. "I said the car was involved in an accident and went in the river. You’re the insurance company. If the car is totaled, it belongs to you, and I suspect-I’m just guessing here-that the car is totaled, OK?"

Silence again. Mitch realized that this woman would be of no help to him either. He sighed resignedly.

"Let me talk to YOUR supervisor!" he said tightly.

This time the canned ads went through three complete cycles before someone came on the line. Mitch didn’t let the man get through the whole welcoming speech again.

"Thank you for calling Northern Mutual…"

"Stop right there … I’m a police officer, please identify yourself," Mitch broke in.

"Um … this is Ed. How can I help you?"

Priscilla had apparently told Ed she had a problem, but not what the problem was. For the third time, Mitch patiently explained what he needed.

"Of course, sir. What is the insured’s phone number?" asked Ed.

Mitch didn’t want to arrest Farmingham anymore. He wanted to arrest every Tom, Dick and Harry on Northern Mutual’s employee rolls instead.

In the end, Ed, who said he was the regional supervisor and there wasn’t anybody higher up in the company than him, at that location, came up with half a dozen reasons why Northern Mutual wasn’t going to do a damn thing. They couldn’t confirm (or deny) that Farmingham was a customer. They couldn’t locate his policy with the information available. There was no claim to act on. There was no police report as a basis for action. Mitch’s call was not considered a police report. Ed said he didn’t want to hurt Mitch’s feelings, but the fact of the matter was that Mitch could be anybody at all. There was no proof he was a law enforcement officer. There was "suspicion" that the vehicle had been used in the commission of a crime. The VIN number of the vehicle in question had not been verified. Without a review of the customer’s account record, there was no way to determine whether or not the policy, if one existed, was in force at the time of the accident.

It was when Ed said, "This is all highly irregular," that Mitch finally hung up on him.

Kris was sitting at the table, a legal pad in front of him and a Bic pen in his hand. He’d written only two outline bullets. One said "Accident" and the other said "Hospital." He was in the process of writing "Pembroke" when there was a knock on his door. Surprised, he got up and went to open it. He found two men on the porch. A gust of freezing air caused him to step back without thinking, inviting them in wordlessly.

"Thanks," said the older one. "I’m Bill Hoskins, pastor of the church downtown. This is Butch Flannery."

"Uh, how do you do?" asked Kris.

"We do fine," said Reverend Hoskins. "Which brings us to our purpose for being here. We understand you’ve had a run of bad luck. Butch here thought he might be able to help a little."

Butch didn’t look very happy. That was because HE hadn’t thought a damn thing about helping this man. It had been Reverend Hoskins' idea that since Butch had four cars, and only used two of them, one should be loaned to the mystery man so he could get around town. When Butch had objected, Hoskins had reminded him that he’d already made money on this man.

"Yeah, a whole two bucks!" complained Butch.

"Two dollars you didn’t have before he came here," said Hoskins patiently. "And, if you lend him a car, you’ll have an excuse to visit him occasionally, to make sure it’s running OK, and we can keep an eye on him."

"I thought you said in your sermon that charity started at home," groused Butch.

"And if you’d actually been listening instead of napping, Butch," said the reverend, "you would have heard me explain that you arrange your heart … your home … to get involved in charitable acts."

"But this isn’t real charity," said Butch. "You just want an excuse to snoop into his business!"

"God does work in mysterious ways," droned Reverend Hoskins. "You find yourself with more cars than you need, and we find ourselves with a need to keep an eye on a man who has shown an interest in one of our sisters."

"Lulu’s not my sister," complained Butch. "She’s my waitress."

"Tell you what, Butch," said Hoskins. "You donate one of those extra cars to the church and I’ll take care of the rest."

"I’m not giving you a perfectly good car!" yelped Butch. "I already put money in the plate last Sunday!"

"Maybe Bernice would see it differently," said Hoskins.

"You leave my wife out of this!" said Butch. "She’d give you BOTH cars. You know she’s been pecking at me to get rid of them. They’re both good cars, dammit!"

"Perhaps if you got rid of one, she’d be more understanding about the other," suggested the preacher. "And please don’t curse like that, Butch. I care about your soul, even if you sometimes lapse in that area of concern."

Butch had just stared at him for a few seconds. "You ain’t gonna give up on this, are you?" he sighed. "Oh, all right. I’ll RENT him a car."

"That’s not charity, Butch," said Hoskins, throwing in a few "tsks" for good measure. "You know his situation."

"I don’t know a damn … a darn thing," said Butch, "except for the rumors we’ve all heard. You gonna get somebody to give him a job too?"

"I’m already working on that," said Hoskins, smiling. "Now … as to that car…"

In the end Butch had decided that it was more important to try getting Bernice off his case than it was to argue, even though he still thought he was right. He also convinced himself that it was better for the old Ford to be run now and then, rather than just sitting and rusting in the yard. And, if it broke down, maybe the stranger would have to fix it before giving it back.

"She’s a real good car," he said, extending the key toward Kris. "You take good care of her for me, OK?"

"I don’t understand," said Kris, looking at the key. It was only natural to reach for it, since it was being offered to him.

"We thought that having transportation available might make your stay here more pleasant," said Reverend Hoskins, beaming at the man. "Butch had an extra car and thought to loan it to you until you can get your feet back under you."

"Wow," said Kris. "Thanks! The people in this town sure are helpful."

"You’re certainly welcome," said the minister.

"Who told you I needed a car?" asked Kris. He frowned. "And about my run of bad luck?"

"Oh," said Hoskins, waving a hand negligently in the air. "It’s a small town and any news is eagerly sought to relieve the boredom. I’ll check in on you once in a while to see how you’re doing. You’re more than welcome to come to services on Sunday, too. Are you a churched man?"

"My father was a minister," said Kris.

"Really!" said Hoskins. "Well, it appears that those who think your memory is gone were mistaken."

"I don’t remember much," said Kris. "But I remembered the story of the good Samaritan when I was talking to the woman who found me, and that memory was tied to my father."

"An angel of mercy," brayed the pastor, his smile dazzling. "Our Lulu is surely an angel of mercy!" His smile evaporated as if it were smoke in the wind. "Lulu is near and dear to the hearts of our little town," he said. "We care a great deal about her."

"I can see why," said Kris, completely missing the veiled threat in the minister’s voice. "She’s pretty special to me, too."

"Yes … well…" said Hoskins. "She won’t have to carry the burden alone. We’re all willing to help a stranger in need." He smiled. "At least until you get situated and back on your feet. Please feel free to let me know if you need anything. We’ll leave you to your … writing, is it? See you Sunday."

With that the two men whisked themselves out of the door, leaving Kris standing there with a key in his hand and a vague feeling that he hadn’t understood everything that had happened in the room.

Perhaps because of some subconscious memory of the wreck, he didn’t go out and drive the car right away. Instead he sat and thought about how to start a book. Nothing happened in his mind. It was just blank, like a canvas on a painter’s easel. He didn’t know what the first step was. Finally he decided that he would just write something as if he were telling some friend the story.

"I woke up in the hospital," he wrote on the pad. "I had no idea who I was or what had happened to me. It was only the first of many puzzles I was to face in the coming months."

He looked at the lines. Then he spoke them. It sounded OK. He didn’t know if it was the "right" way to start or not, but soon he was writing more.

He stopped when he realized his hand was cramped. It was obvious to him that he didn’t normally write longhand. His hand muscles didn’t seem to be used to holding a pencil for so long. The memory of a computer screen flashed into his mind again.

He got up, put his coat on, picked up the key from the table where he’d laid it, and went out to see what kind of car Butch had loaned him.

Mitch walked up to the car and was amused to see who was driving it. The face turned towards him as the window rolled down.

"What now?" asked Kris, his voice level.

"I saw Butch’s old heap," said Mitch. "I didn’t even think it ran. The tags are about three years out of date."

"Oh," said Kris. "He loaned it to me and I never thought to look and see if the registration was current."

"Butch Flannery loaned you that car," said Mitch, obviously amazed.

"He and some preacher showed up at my place," said Kris. "He said something about helping strangers in need. I’m supposed to go to church Sunday."

Mitch laughed. "Well, if Reverend Hoskins gets his hooks in you, I won’t have to worry about you. Tell you what, you tell Butch the car needs to be registered and I’ll let you off."

"I’d be happy to," said Kris. "Except I have no idea where to find him."

"Try the diner in the morning," said Mitch. "There’s a whole bunch of them that go in there all the time for coffee or breakfast."

Kris remembered the gaggle of men who had been in the diner that morning. He hadn’t paid any attention to them, except to try to figure out who had been whispering things at him as Lou Anne took him out.

He drove away, looking in the rear view mirror. He knew the cop was interested in him. He wasn’t really worried about that, exactly. The memory of hitting the man bothered him, but that obviously wasn’t the accident that had put him in the hospital. And it might be something from his past that had already been dealt with. Still, he wondered if the cop was following him around. He decided he must not be, since he’d driven most of the way across town before he’d been stopped.

Kris, for whatever reason, had taken Lou Anne’s offer to use her computer as permission to use it at her house, rather than take it to the rental. He was on his way to do that now, assuming it was OK with her. He had a little trouble finding the right road, because he hadn’t been paying that much attention when Lou Anne had taken him to her house. Eventually he saw familiar things, though, and found her place. It was almost dark, and the lights inside were on. He parked behind her car and went to the door.

She was surprised when she opened it, and looked past him, at the car in the driveway.

"Somebody loaned me a car," he said.

"Really?" Her voice was high.

"A guy named Butch."

"Butch Flannery?" Her voice went up another notch.

"Yes, a minister was with him. He called you an angel of mercy."

Lou Anne giggled and looked at him with question in her eyes.

"I was wondering if I could use the computer," he said. "I started writing, but using a pencil is slow and my hand isn’t used to it."

"Sure," she said and stood back. "It’s still set up. Ambrose has been trying to play games on it."

Chapter 11

What had taken him hours to pen by hand, practically flew onto the screen of the computer. He had not forgotten how to type and he was good at it. Lou Anne was moving back and forth, just going about her daily routine, and stopped several times to watch.

"I must agree that you’re an author," she said at one point. "Or a professional typist of some kind. You’re as fast as I am."

"Umm," was his only response. He was intent on the screen. He never looked at his fingers.

Then, quite suddenly, the tapping of keys stopped. Lou Anne was giving Ambrose his evening snack, just before bedtime. She had him sleep before taking him to the sitter’s, because that made it easier for him to go back to sleep when he got there. He was hard to wake up. She usually just dressed him in his flannel pajamas and put a coat on his sleepy form when she took him to Roslynn’s.

When, as she came out of Ambrose’s room, she still didn’t hear the keyboard, she went to investigate. She found Kris sitting, slumped over, staring at the screen.

"What’s wrong?" she asked.

"That’s all I can do," he said, sounding irritated.

"Why?"

"Because that’s all I remember," he said. "My whole life … or at least the parts I can remember … fits on five pages."

"Make it up from there," suggested Lou Anne.

"No. This has the potential to be very interesting, but it needs to be accurate. This isn’t the fictional account of some character. This is what actually happened to me and how it affected my life. I’ll just have to wait and add to it as things happen."

"Kind of like a journal," said Lou Anne.

"No, not a journal," he said, shaking his head. "The past and present will all be intertwined, eventually. I can feel it."

"OK, then," said Lou Anne. "Write something else that IS fiction."

"Like what?" he asked, helplessly.

"We talked about a romance novel," she said.

"I can’t write that kind of thing," said Kris.

"How do you know?"

"Because I can’t think of anything romantic," he sighed.

"I could help."

He turned and looked at her. He couldn’t get over how normal she sounded, and how normal she was in his mind when he thought about her, and how bizarre she looked in comparison to that.

"What turns you on?" she asked.

"You mean sexually?"

She giggled. "Well duh. What did you think I meant?"

He stared at her. "I can’t just tell you that kind of stuff."

"Why not?"

"Because I’d get all embarrassed. You’re a girl!"

"I’m a woman, big boy," she said, exaggerating the vampish voice she used. "I’m a woman who gets all wiggly when I read a good romance novel. Sometimes I have to rub, if it’s really good."

"I can’t believe you said that," he said weakly.

"We’re both adults here. Sex isn’t dirty." She stopped and tilted her head. "Well, SOME sex is a little dirty. Sometimes that’s my favorite kind."

He started to speak, but cut it off.

Lou Anne smiled. "You were about to ask me what kind of slightly dirty sex I like … weren’t you." She made it a statement, rather than a question. "See? Sex is interesting. And if you think about it like that, I’m sure you can write something … interesting." She tilted her head the other way and her hair moved, to expose bald scalp. "So … do you want to know what turns ME on?"

"I can’t ask that," he moaned.

"I thought we already discussed this," she said. "Come on. I’ll tell you something that gets me going, then you tell me something that gets you going."

He looked distinctly uncomfortable. His natural modesty was still holding him back.

"You’re sure you want to do this?" he asked.

She ignored the question.

"I like what I call nipple love," she said. "My nipples are very sensitive, and I love it when a man sucks on them and plays with them."

His eyes just naturally dropped to where her breasts pushed against the T shirt she was wearing. They widened as he saw her nipples push the cloth out. It was like magic. She talked about them … and they appeared. He jerked his eyes back up. She was watching him. She knew what he had just been looking at.

"Sorry," he said.

She smiled. "I was talking about them. I can’t blame you for looking. Now you."

"I can’t think of anything," he mumbled.

"Yes you can. Be right back. You think about it while I’m gone."

He watched her walk away and his eyes followed the rise and fall of her buttocks. She was barefoot, but her cheeks still lifted a couple of inches with each step she took. He realized she had a really nice ass.

The epiphany he had at that moment almost made him fall out of the chair. He looked down and saw the visual evidence of what he had felt. His dick was getting hard. Looking at her ass had made him start to get an erection. It had been just that easy to think of something that turned him on.

"I’m an ass man," he said, wonderingly, to himself.

"What?"

He looked up to see Lou Anne coming back into the room. He watched her breasts, which bounced just a little as she walked. She was carrying a magazine.

"I’m an ass man," he said again. It had just been an automatic response to her question and he wished he hadn’t said it instantly.

"Really?" She smiled. "I have a nice ass."

"Yes you do," he said. He almost put his hand over his mouth. Where had that come from? He didn’t talk to women that way … did he?

"Well thank you!" she said, her voice rising.

"Wait a minute," he said, holding his hand up. "That didn’t make you mad, did it?"

"Nope."

"Why not?" He frowned. "I don’t have any specific memories of it, but I know you’re not supposed to talk to women like that."

"Well, if it hadn’t been the right man, I might have gotten irritated," she admitted.

"Why am I the right man?"

"'Cause I like you."

"Why? All I’ve been is a pain in the ass to you."

"I don’t know." She shrugged her shoulders. "I suppose you have been a bit of a bother. But at the same time you really broke up the routine … the monotony. You’re a nice guy. You’re certainly not pushy. Why wouldn’t I like you?"

"I thought you were afraid I was a gangster."

"Not anymore. I’ve spent some time with you now. I can tell you’re no criminal."

His mind went back to hitting that man and then driving off. He wished, suddenly, that he knew whether or not he’d been punished for doing that. If he had been … fine. It was over and he couldn’t remember the punishment. If not, though … he felt bad. It then occurred to him that if he WAS a criminal type … he probably wouldn’t feel bad. He looked at her again. She was just standing there, like she was waiting for him to say something.

"OK. I’m not a criminal. And I get to say I like your ass … right?"

"Under the right circumstances," she said.

"What does THAT mean?" he moaned. "I think I need some kind of rules here."

She put a finger to her lips. In a flash that made him sway, Kris remembered other lips … lips that he’d kissed. The name "Lola" popped into his mind, but nothing else. No face … no body … only Lola’s lips. Then, just as quickly, that image vanished from his mind and he was staring at Lou Anne’s lips again. They were full and looked very kissable.

"Well, for instance, I wouldn’t want you to comment on my ass in front of Ambrose," she said.

"Of course not!" He sounded horrified.

"But you could write about it … in your book."

"You want me to write about your ass in a romance novel."

The corners of his lips turned up. He was quite sure he’d never met a woman like this before. He couldn’t possibly forget a woman like this.

"Maaaaybe," she said in a singsong voice. "I mean, I don’t want you to call the character Lou Anne Rowan, but she can have my ass."

"Rowan," he sighed. "Your last name is Rowan."

"You didn’t know?" She giggled.

"I don’t know anything," he said. He squinted his eyes and took a chance. "Can I also give her your nipples?"

Lou Anne looked at him through hair that was falling across her face. She took a deep breath and his eyes flicked to the points pushing through her shirt. He jerked his eyes back up to find a smile on her lips.

"Yes," she said.

She had exhibited no signs of angst or displeasure at his intimate question, but he felt like he had pushed the envelope. So he turned to the computer and, without looking at her, engaged her in coming up with a plot for a romance novel.

They decided upon a gentleman pirate, named Sir Roger Quigley. His knighthood had been revoked, based upon the shenanigans of his enemies, and he had been forced to flee his lands. His grandfather and father had made their fortunes in the shipping business, so he’d posed as a common seaman and disappeared into the merchant fleet.

It was there that he saw the oppression of the crown and the deceit and corruption of the officials who oversaw shipping and the ports. Bribery was rife and theft, poorly disguised as impoundment, was common. The big ship owners paid officials to prey on the little man, so that he could never get ahead or compete.

For that reason, he befriended a scalawag captain and, together, they set about righting the wrongs that they both perceived. He was sort of a Robin Hood on the sea, taking from the rich and distributing the spoils to those less fortunate. There was a price on his head, but he had more friends than enemies, because there were vastly more common people than nobles and officials.

Where the romance came in … or the sex at least … was that in capturing a vessel, he sometimes captured female passengers as well. They might be matrons traveling with their husbands. They might have daughters … young, nubile daughters.

It wasn’t necessarily historically correct, but then it was fiction.

And, of course, he was duty bound to ensure the women’s safety. While he might put the men to sea in a dory, with food, water and oars to get them to land, he could not, of course, inflict such danger on the women. As such, the women were his captives until they happened to reach land, which sometimes took months.

He was a dashing figure, and handsome. He worked at sword practice un-shirted, on the deck, where the women might be taking their ease. He checked on each woman at night … only to ensure that she was well and comfortable … as comfortable as could be expected. He checked on them to make sure no one was molesting them.

No one but him, anyway.

"Mmmmm, I love it already," sighed Lou Anne, when the final paragraph of the outline was completed. "It makes me want to rub and you haven’t even written it yet."

He looked at her. His prick was stiff in his pants. The images she had suggested, and the scenes in his mind, appealed to him in a way that seemed strange and erotic. He thought he SHOULD feel ashamed at the visions of sixteen and seventeen year old virgins, straining up against Sir Quigley as he taught them the joys of sex.

But he didn’t. He just got horny.

He looked at Lou Anne. She was apparently horny too. Her face was flushed and her lips were even more full. Her nipples stuck out even more than before and he felt the strong urge to reach out and touch one. He knew he couldn’t.

"I’ll give Duchess Clayworth your ass," he said, impulsively.

"The twenty-one year old?" asked Lou Anne. "The one married to the fat old merchant with the smelly breath?"

"The very one," he said. "She’ll have your ass, and your nipples, and your cheekbones, and your skin. I’ll even make her twenty-four, instead of twenty-one. She will be you." His eyebrows rose and fell. "Except for the hair … and the tattoos. She can’t have tattoos." He looked hopeful. "But she’ll be the rest of you."

"Mmm goody," said Lou Anne, her voice breathy. "Are you going to ravish me most thoroughly?"

"Me?" He looked surprised. "Ravish you?"

"Of course you. You’re Quigley. That’s obvious. And if I’m Duchess Clayworth, then you’ll be ravishing me."

"In the book." He seemed dazed.

"Of course in the book, silly. That’s what we’re doing here!"

"Yes!" he said, putting his hand over the lump in his lap. "That’s what I meant."

"Oooo I just know I’m going to love this book," sighed Lou Anne. "Now. Start writing. I have to go get ready for work."

"Right!" he said.

She started away and he couldn’t help but watch her ass again. He was doing that when she stopped and turned. She didn’t seem at all surprised that he was looking at her.

"Did women shave their pussies back then?" she asked.

He blinked. "I have no idea," he said.

"Well we need to find out, because if Duchess Clayworth is going to be me, she has to have a shaved pussy."

She smiled brilliantly, as if she’d only said something routine, like, "See you in a few," and left the room.

Kris sat, staring at where she’d disappeared. He was rock hard. He felt the urge to just stand up, unzip, and beat off like a crazed monkey.

Instead, he turned back to the computer and used that passion inside him to start writing.

Lou Anne stood under the shower head and rubbed her body clean. She was a little amazed that she’d been so playful. She instinctively liked this man. That she felt completely comfortable with him sitting out there, while she was naked in the shower, was something she just accepted in herself. She trusted her instincts. She’d ignored them before and had learned the hard way.

She had no idea where this … if there even WAS a "this" … was going to go, but she wasn’t all that worried about it. If he turned out to be a friend, that was fine. If he turned out to be something more … well … it had been a long time since there had been that kind of man in her life.

Chapter 12

Kris didn’t know what he’d done in the past, as far as gainful employment, but he wasn’t especially happy with the jobs available in a small semi-resort town during the off season. There was a need for a bag boy at the local grocery store. The single fast food burger joint in town had a help wanted sign in the window that was held there with yellowed, crispy tape that, five or six years ago, hadn’t been either yellow or crispy at all. He knew, somehow, that making thousands per week stuffing envelopes in your own home was a crock. The daily newspaper that serviced Pembroke was a regional paper, really, and a lot of the ads were for jobs in other towns. He began to eye his pantry skeptically, thinking of ways to cut down on meals and stretch what had seemed like so much, only days ago.

Over the next two days he got visits from two more men that, as far as he knew, he’d never seen before. Both had been in the diner the night Lulu took him home, but he didn’t know that.

One was a man named Tim Clark, who shyly extended a winter hat, quilted in a faded blue plaid on the outside, with fake fur on the inside that had once been white. It had ear flaps that would have tied up on top of the head or under the chin, if the strings were still there.

"Preacher said you was needing warm things," said the man. "It ain’t much, but I’m getting a new one for Christmas from my kids. They don’t know I know, so don’t tell 'em, OK?"

The other was Gerald Witherspoon who handed over a tall pair of elk skin mukluks with a fur lining. They were beautiful and Kris was astonished.

"I seen you a couple of times," said the man. "You were wearing sneakers both times. Man can lose toes in this weather. I know. Lost two myself one time to frostbite. You take these and wear them. My Emma makes them." He stood there, looking uneasy.

"Thanks!" said Kris. "I’ll pay you for them, when I find a job."

"No need," said Witherspoon, almost gruffly. "Lulu’s kind of special to us here," he said.

Kris blinked at the sudden change of subject, but tried to keep up.

"She’s a special person," he agreed.

"I mean we care about her," said Gerald.

"I’ll tell her you said that."

"No!" yelped the man. "Fer pity’s sake, don’t tell her that. Just you remember we think a lot of her."

Kris suddenly realized what the man was dancing all around. People in town must know he was spending a lot of time with Lou Anne. They were worried about her, because he was an unknown … a stranger.

"She saved my life," said Kris. "I think a lot of her too. I understand why she’s important to this town. She’s a good woman."

Witherspoon blinked a few times and then nodded. "Better be going."

"Thanks again for the boots," said Kris.

"Mukluks," said Gerald.

"Pardon?"

"They’re called mukluks," said Gerald. "Came from Indians." He turned abruptly and stomped down the snow-covered walk to his car, where a woman was watching them from the passenger’s seat.

Kris raised the mukluks in a salute to the woman, who he hoped was Mrs. Witherspoon, and smiled. She looked away.

Other than the relative outpouring of concern by the members of Reverend Hoskins' church, the only thing that seemed to be going well for Kris was the writing. He was pretty sure that was because he did almost all of it at Lulu’s house, where her mere presence provided the hormonal atmosphere that seemed to feed the pap in his romance novel. That it was pap he had no doubt.

The scenes and the dialogue were all too predictable. It took very little imagination to come up with the flow of words that supported the ridiculous plot. The handsome, manly pirate had no trouble at all seducing the women he came into contact with. The women were drawn to him like bees to honey. What was laughable, as far as Kris was concerned, was that his crew of good natured ne’er-do-wells didn’t seem to mind at all that only Sir Quigley got to bed the women, while they gathered outside the door to his cabin, to drink rum and wink and nudge each other as the cries of feminine delight came through the sturdy oak.

There had been a problem, at first. All the women seemed to resemble Lou Anne, when he first started. He solved that problem by picking women on the street and using their descriptions as the story developed. Another problem was that the story was getting more and more graphic, sexually speaking. He was beginning to have questions about the publishability of it, but the scenes that popped into his mind couldn’t be denied. More than once he thought it was beginning to sound like porn.

On his fourth day after leaving the hospital another man knocked on his door.

"Hello," said the man, smiling. "I’m Greg Schaffer. I’m the general manager of WKDD radio, here in Pembroke. I heard you might be looking for a job."

Kris blinked. This was like some fairy tale he was caught in. He had a sudden thought.

"You don’t, by chance, attend Reverend Hoskins church, do you?"

The man looked a little pained, but nodded. "He suggested that you seemed to be a bright young man, who could solve a little problem I’ve had for some time. We run taped programming at night, but someone has to go in and change the tapes, and there’s no one there to keep an eye on things. I can’t pay you a lot, but it should help out, a bit."

"I don’t think I have any experience in that area," said Kris.

"I can teach you everything you need to know," said Shaffer. "My wife would be most appreciative if I didn’t have to get up twice a night and run down to the station. I understand you’re an author. We have the most up to date computers at the station, and I would understand completely if you were to pursue that vocation while you weren’t busy with station business."

It seemed too good to be true, but Kris didn’t feel like he could look this particular gift horse in the mouth. If things didn’t work out, he could always quit.

"I’ll give it a shot," he said.

"Excellent," said Shaffer, beaming. "Be at the station tonight at eleven. That’s when we do our last live newscast, or at least when we’ve BEEN doing our last newscast. I may have you give news updates during the night, or at least weather updates, between tapes. If we can get somebody to sponsor them, I can pay you more."

He decided not to tell Lou Anne about it, in case it didn’t work out. He usually left her house around eleven anyway, and that night he simply drove to the station instead of going home.

His new job was so simple it seemed surreal somehow. All he had to do was keep an eye on the equipment, which involved reading dials and looking at lights. The programming was all on tapes. He had to stop the tape at prescribed times, to give news and weather updates, but that was it. The night programming was a syndicated show, that had its own announcer already on the tape.

It had a lot of advantages. First off, as Shaffer had said, there was a computer there, so he could write while the programming played out. It also put him on the same basic schedule as Lulu, for which he was very happy. He’d gotten used to having her review his writing. Her comments were remarkably insightful, and more than once she’d pointed out … and then solved … a problem he hadn’t noticed at all.

It was easier to adjust his schedule than he’d thought it might be. He wondered if he’d had a night job in the past that he couldn’t remember. He went to work before Lulu, and got off before she did, too. He almost always ended up at The Early Girl for breakfast. He didn’t "fit in" there, yet. He was still an outsider. But that was OK, because sitting alone in a booth let him read over the printout of his night’s work, while it was still fresh in his mind. Scribbled notes to himself between the lines would be processed later that evening, at Lulu’s quite often, and that would have it fresh in his mind for continuing the story at work after that. Plus, her flirty behavior always had him primed to write "the good parts," when he was alone and his boner wouldn’t embarrass him.

Things were working out much better than he’d thought they would.

Life went on for Mitch Connel, too. He still thought about Kris fairly frequently. He’d sat with him at breakfast a time or two, while the man looked over sheets of print that were from his book. He was obviously able to create pages and pages of text, assuming he didn’t just use the same ones every day for show. Kris wouldn’t let anyone but Lulu look at them. She’d come by, pick up a page, her eyes scanning rapidly down it. She might point to something and make a comment that was always cryptic, to Mitch, but which usually had Kris hitting his forehead with one palm and saying, "Of course! Thanks, Lulu."

Mitch was still certain that Kris was hiding something. He just had no idea what it was. He was also sure it was something that didn’t have anything to do with the car that was still under the ice. It was obvious no one else had been involved in that accident. The insurance company was still stalling on getting the car out of the river, even though they now had Farmingham’s social security number.

It was no big deal, really. There were no incidents or unsolved crimes in the region that seemed to be tied to the stranger. At least nothing Mitch could identify.

Detective Harper plugged the ear buds into his ears and tried to act like he was doing something completely normal. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to have the tape he was putting in the portable tape player. The original was FBI property-evidence, technically, though it would never be used in court. It was rare for a recorded interview to be played for a judge or jury. The constitution … and the defense attorney … demanded that the actual witness be questioned.

Defense attorney’s hated the recordings intuitively. They were usually made when the investigation was still fresh and the witness, or suspect, in this case, was still high on the emotions created by the incident. That emotion was clearly audible on the tapes, if they were done right. Listening to a victim’s sobs could tear your heart out, if you weren’t used to hearing that kind of thing. And the casual lies of a suspect, later proved to be lies, often made them sound like soulless, uncaring bastards … which most of them were. Defense attorneys didn’t want a jury to hear either kind of damaging evidence. They much preferred making the victim tell the story so many times that they just sounded dead and uninterested when the jury was listening. If done right, the crime would sound like it was no big deal, even to the victim. And the suspect had to be coached … trained to speak … or you didn’t put him on the stand at all.

But Harper had made the tape in the first place, and he always made a copy before putting recordings into the evidence locker. The fact that the feds had seized the original didn’t mean he couldn’t listen to the copy. Not as far as he was concerned.

Harper hit the play button and listened to the voice of Curly Higginbotham, somewhat drowsy from the pain medication he had been given in the hospital, where the initial interview had taken place and the tape had been made. There wasn’t much before he invoked his right to have a lawyer present during questioning, but what there was made Harper’s ears prick up.

The tape started with Harper saying his name, Curly’s name, and the date, as well as what the investigation was about. Harper, like most people, didn’t think the voice on the tape sounded like him.

"You got yourself into some trouble this time, Curly," he’d said.

"It wasn’t supposed to happen this way," came Curly’s whining voice. He sounded sincere, which was odd, since all three of the men had rap sheets pages long.

"From what I can tell it was a pretty good plan," said Harper. If he could get Curly to brag about the plan, it was almost as good as a confession.

"It was a good plan!" said Curly. "Better than…" He stopped talking.

"What was supposed to happen, Curly?" came Harper’s voice.

"We didn’t do nothing," Curly said. The tone changed there. It was a routine lie and it was delivered in a routine voice.

"Whose idea was it, Curly?"

"I ain’t saying no more until I got a lawyer!" The hiss of the tape cut off there.

He replayed it five more times, listening only to Curly’s comments before he invoked. There was something about the incomplete sentence: "Better than…" that made Jim’s hackles stand up. Better than what? Better than the last time?

He looked at their rap sheet. The last time Curly had been busted was for an incident where he tried to shortchange a blind man selling magazines, oddly enough. His brothers were with him, but had not been charged, because it was Curly who had handed the man a one dollar bill, claiming it was a twenty. They’d claimed it was all an honest mistake-there had actually been a twenty in Curly’s billfold-when the beat cop who saw the whole incident arrested him. He’d gotten probation.

He couldn’t have been talking about that incident. Nobody would compare a kidnapping plan to what had probably just been a spur of the moment attempt to rip off a blind guy.

Everybody seemed to think that the planning these three had done on this caper was beyond them … that somebody else had to be involved … somebody smarter.

But what if they’d tried something like this before? What if they’d learned things from other attempts?

With what he knew was a pure hunch, Harper decided to look at any cold kidnapping cases there might be in the files.

He trusted his hunches.

"I can’t believe I let you con me into this," said Lou Anne.

"What are you talking about?" asked Jessica, trying to sound hurt. "You get a free gift for doing it."

"The last thing I need is some kinky sex toy for Ambrose to find and ask about," said Lou Anne.

"It isn’t just sex toys!" said Jessica heatedly. "This is a passion party, and this is classy stuff, Lulu. And you know my apartment is way too small to have a party like this in."

"Well, it’s a pain in the ass, if you ask me," said Lou Anne. "I hope you’re not planning on any of us prancing around in next to nothing. Kris is here, you know."

"What?! What’s HE doing here?"

"He’s taking care of Ambrose for me so I can host your stupid party! THAT’s what he’s doing here."

"But of COURSE we’re going to want to try things on," moaned Jessica. "What fun is it to look at something on a hanger?" She frowned. "Did you tell him what kind of party it is? I don’t want him peeking. I had to work hard to get some of these women to come."

"I only told him we wanted privacy. He agreed to keep Ambrose in his room. He’ll probably read to him or tell him stories or whatever."

"He sure spends a lot of time over here," said Jessica suggestively.

"I’m just his editor, kind of," said Lou Anne. "Besides, I think he’s lonely."

"I don’t see how he could be lonely, as much as he’s over here," said Jessica. "And he comes to the diner in the mornings too."

"So do you."

"I’m your best friend."

"Look," said Lou Anne, facing her friend. "Nothing’s going on, OK? He just writes when he’s here. We flirt a little bit and it helps him with his story, OK? That DOESN’T mean anything’s going on."

"Well, maybe we can change that tonight," purred Jessica, her eyes bright. "I’ve seen some of the stuff Brenda sells and it’s hot! You wear one of her outfits around him and you’ll get laid for sure!"

"And who said I want to get laid?" Lou Anne asked archly.

"I do," said Jessica firmly. "You NEED to get laid. If he’s spending all this time around you and you haven’t gotten him going then you’re losing your touch. You need some practice."

"You’re AWFUL!" squealed Lou Anne. "I’m doing just fine, thank you. The last thing I need is some man to turn everything upside down again."

"That I don’t need a man crap won’t work with me, Lulu," laughed Jessica. "You’re as hot blooded as I am, and I’m about to go nuts from lack-a-nookie. You obviously like him or you wouldn’t let him come around. And you flirt with him! You said it yourself!"

"He thinks I have a hot ass," said Lou Anne. "That’s all."

"And how do we know this?" asked Jessica.

"He said so. THAT’s how we know," groused Lou Anne.

"Let me get this straight," said Jessica. "He said you have a hot ass, and he’s still walking around upright? Girl, you got it bad for this guy. Don’t even try to lie to me."

"I do NOT have it bad for him!" hissed Lou Anne. "He’s just a sweet man who had something horrible happen to him and he’s trying to do his best to get his life back. So he paid me a compliment. Big deal. I DO have a hot ass."

"And when was the last time that ass got a workout?" asked Jessica slyly.

"I believe your saleswoman will be here any minute," said Lou Anne, ignoring her friend’s jibe. "If you’re so concerned about this going well, shouldn’t you be paying more attention to the preparations?"

"Everything is ready to go," said Jessica, not put off a bit. "I’m much more interested in hearing about Kris and how he thinks your butt is to die for." She giggled.

"It IS to die for," came a bass voice. Both women jumped and whirled to see Kris standing in the doorway to the kitchen. "So is yours, Jessica."

Jessica’s face darkened, but that wasn’t what told everyone in the room she was embarrassed. It was her hysterical giggle that explained how unprepared she had been for him to say that.

Kris folded his arms. "And I’m not the only one who thinks so, by the way. Officer Connel seems to be fascinated with your ass too."

"What?!" Jessica squealed.

"Oh good grief," moaned Lou Anne. "Please tell me he didn’t say something to you."

"He didn’t have to," said Kris. "Every time I see him and Jess in the same room, he spends most of his time staring at her."

"When have you seen us in the same room?" said Jessica, her voice argumentative.

"Twice this week at The Early Girl," said Kris.

"I just stopped in to tell Lulu something!" squeaked Jessica.

"And his eyes were glued to your ass both times," said Kris. "Maybe he was just admiring your belt, though. It’s hard to tell sometimes."

"I don’t wear a belt," said Jessica, looking confused.

"Well, there you go," said Kris, grinning.

"I think your romance novel is bleeding over into real life," said Lou Anne. "Mitch has a girlfriend. Sure, he flirts with us, but that doesn’t mean anything."

"Well, I haven’t seen Mitch’s girlfriend," said Kris. "But I’ll bet Jess has a better ass than she does."

The doorbell sounded then, breaking up the conversation.

"Jess, you get the door," said Lou Anne. "And you," she said, turning to Kris. "You’re not supposed to be out here. Where’s Ambrose?"

"I just needed to get some water for us, before the festivities begin," he said. "You don’t want us to die of thirst in there while you and your friends talk about your deep dark secrets, now do you?"

Lou Anne got two bottles of water and thrust them at him.

"It’s just one of those home marketing parties," she said. "Now go on. Nobody’s supposed to know you’re here."

"All this secrecy over Tupperware?" He smiled. "I could probably use some, too, you know."

"Go on!" yipped Lou Anne, as she heard two female voices. One of the guests must have arrived early. "Or I won’t tell you about the dream I had!"

"Dream? What dream?" Kris looked interested.

"Never mind. I just had a stupid dream and you were in it, OK? If you want to know then behave yourself. Go on, before they hear you!"

"Yes ma’am," he said, throwing up a mock salute. "Give one of these to Jessica for me, OK?"

He stepped toward her, moving to one side, and his hand flashed to land with a smack on her left buttock. Then, laughing, he ran, as if he expected her to chase him, darting out the doorway and toward Ambrose’s room.

She would have chased him, had the circumstances been different. She would have chased him and made him pay. Talking about her ass was one thing-that made her feel good-but touching it was something else. Never mind that the sting she still felt was making her feel slightly giddy. He wasn’t allowed to do anything like that until she LET him. She was distracted from thinking about that by Jessica, who stuck her head into the room, looking around, and hissed, "Come on! They’re here!"

Chapter 13

Lou Anne had no real idea what a passion party would be like. She had an image of Frederick’s of Hollywood opening a branch in her living room, and wondered if she’d be able to sit on her couch when it was all over. She expected it to be a little seedy somehow.

In fact, she was pleasantly surprised by the stimulating nature of Brenda’s presentation and the way the women responded to it.

Brenda, who’d gladly accepted assistance in bringing in three big cases from the back of her SUV, had also brought a folding screen that, when set up, provided a surprisingly large three-walled dressing area. It was up to the women whether or not they let anyone else see what they tried on, but Brenda had also brought wine. No doubt it was a tax deduction, but its main value was that it loosened the inhibitions of the women enough to make them a little bolder than usual.

Women like Brenda count on the complicated dynamics that occur when women who know each other are gathered together. It goes without saying that most "sexy" lingerie is not intended for most women. Most women don’t have the body for it. But friends wouldn’t dream of saying something like, "Oh, please … you can’t be serious," when a woman has the courage to step out from behind a screen wearing something slinky. Brenda counted on the opposite, in fact. She counted on a woman’s friends talking her into buying something she really didn’t need anyway.

At the same time, lingerie has changed in the past decade or two. Savvy designers and new materials have created unmentionables that can actually help a woman overcome her natural deficits. We’re not just talking about padded bras here, either. A good body stocking, which is a politically correct euphemism for what used to be called a girdle, can help a girl look slimmer than she is and control some jiggles that she doesn’t want jiggling. As such, a woman like Brenda, who knows her products well, can provide a real service to the average woman. At a profit, of course.

Over the next hour and a half, the well lubricated women in the room, most of whom were nurses or worked in some other capacity at the hospital, gazed longingly at what seemed like an unending supply of lingerie that, before this party, they would never have thought about actually wearing for the men in their lives. They also got an education on HOW to wear that kind of thing, which made all the difference.

Melinda Flannery, for example, was pear shaped. Brenda got her to put on a long babydoll outfit that accentuated her bosom and hid her hips with a handkerchief hem. She then turned to Alice Zucker, who was basically round like an apple.

"You, my dear," said Brenda smoothly, " want something daringly short, filmy where you don’t want things to show, and which displays your legs, which are one of your best qualities." She smiled. "Add to that some really daring panties and your man will be slack-jawed when he sees you."

If a woman wanted something more opaque, Brenda brought out a satin chemise that dipped low, but still cupped the breasts, and fell loosely from there, to cover a bit of belly fat. Using critical eyes, Brenda might suggest a satin basque for a woman who was busty but had love handles. The corset built into the beautiful garment took inches off and pushed the breasts up. If a woman was challenged from the waist up, but her legs were good, garter belts and hosiery were used to enhance those assets. If her breasts were good, but her hips and thighs a bit fleshy, Brenda recommended a combination of a short chemise and what she called magic knickers, which was actually a girdle that looked like fancy panties.

And, if a woman had all the right curves, but they were a little out of control, she’d be given a body stocking to try on, which covered breasts, belly and loins, compacting all of them and giving a slimming look.

One of the things Brenda did not allow was a mirror. She wanted the women to feel good, without looking at the result. There would be time enough for that after the sale was made and the garment was taken home. A lot of women might quail, when they first looked in a mirror, but if her friends said she looked good, and she believed them, and felt good at the party, that would go a long way to giving her the courage to actually wear something for her husband … even after seeing herself in the mirror at home.

Brenda started, quite subtly, with the older women, who had more to cover and less interest in showing it. She knew that if the younger, more fit women tried things on first, the older ones would balk completely, not wanting to be compared to their more curvaceous younger comrades. Then, when the more mature women were taken care of, Brenda brought out the hot stuff.

The first things she showed the younger women were also corsets and basques. That was intentional too, because it reinforced in the older women’s minds that ALL women could wear a corset or body stocking. Of course those Brenda showed the younger, more fit women were much more daring, showing a lot more skin. She also described them as something to actually wear out on the town, under a woman’s clothing, and not just in the bedroom.

"Get dressed where he can’t see you," she said. "Flirt with him while you’re out. Then go for the kill, undressing for him and showing him what he’s been out with all night and didn’t even know it. It drives them wild," she cooed.

She showed them both g-strings and thongs, and the newest fashion rage, called boy briefs, which were basically the kind of thing a man might wear, sans the opening in the front. They were shorter on the legs too, and came lower on the hips.

"You can wear all of this around the house, just to lounge in," said Brenda. "It’s not just underwear. But I have some other things you might like for doing that, too."

She showed them camisole tops that were, for all intents and purposes, glorified slips and body stockings that slimmed, kept a woman warm, and provided freedom of movement all at the same time. Then there was an array of babydolls and teddies, some of which looked almost like swimwear, while others drifted around the body, concealing and giving glimpses all at the same time. The teddy had the same look as the body stocking, sometimes, but didn’t have the controlling pressure. Instead, it might just cling to what was already under control.

There was a teddy that had holes where there should have been cups for breasts, that caused a chorus of squeals. There was a shelf bra that Lou Anne actually tried on, but wouldn’t let anyone see. It supported her breasts, pushing them up, while leaving the areolas and nipples completely uncovered. It had matching panties, that consisted of embroidered flowers, that barely covered her mons, kept on by thin strings that went up over her hips and around her waist to meet in the middle of her back, before plunging between her butt cheeks. Or they would have, if Lou Anne hadn’t been wearing her own panties. The rule was that bras could be fitted to bare breasts, but panties had to be tried on over other cloth.

"This is NOT lounge wear," said Lou Anne firmly.

The other women had seen the items while Brenda was displaying them and could imagine what they looked like.

"I bet it looks delicious," said Brenda, from the other side of the screen.

"Like I have a use for something like this," said Lou Anne.

"Any man would salivate for you if he saw you in that," said the saleswoman.

"You have to have a man first," said Lou Anne. "And I have a little boy. I couldn’t wear this around the house. Besides, butt floss isn’t my thing. It feels like I’m getting a permanent wedgie."

Brenda solved that problem by having her take off those items and giving her a satin night dress to try on instead. It had a neckline that plunged below her breasts and was a deep rich red color Brenda called black cherry. The hem came to just below a pair of satin boy briefs that Lou Anne liked much better than the g-string.

"This is more like it," sighed Lou Anne. She came from behind the screen and showed it to the rest of the women, turning in a circle. She realized she’d be able to slide a hand into the neckline and play with her nipples easily, something she liked to do frequently. "I could get interested in this."

The women loved it too. It was loose and airy, and rubbed the skin sensuously when one moved. Brenda sold four of those that night, in varying patterns and colors. She also sold six caftans, which all the women loved, because they were so colorful and comfortable.

"Now, there’s something I want to show all of you," said Brenda. She pulled out a filmy, lacy bra and passed it around.

"This is a nursing bra!" exclaimed Donna Whipple.

"It is," said Brenda.

"It’s gorgeous," said Hilda Rogers.

"Nursing bras aren’t just for nursing mothers anymore," said Brenda calmly.

"You’re joking!" said Donna.

"No I’m not," said Brenda. "Just imagine getting undressed for your man, and popping the flaps down."

"Butch would go crazy," sighed Melinda. There were murmurs from the other married women.

"Think outside the box," said Brenda. "You can be feminine and exciting at the same time. I have several customers who buy these and just remove the flaps. They wear them on special occasions, and their husbands know it. They’re more comfortable for some women than a specialized bra that does the same thing."

Brenda was about to move on to the other portion of her presentation, which involved adult toys, lotions and oils. For that she needed a more liberal atmosphere. They’d been dancing around the edges of sex … getting ready for it, so to speak. Now she wanted to ratchet things up a notch.

She went behind the screen with Jessica, and the rest heard giggles for a few minutes. Jessica came out wearing what Brenda called the "Naughty Nurse Teddy." It was a translucent bra, with red crosses covering each nipple. The panty looked like a very short skirt that had a red cross on the front. There was a nurse’s hat to go with it and a white garter belt that held up thigh high white stockings. White high heels completed the outfit.

The uproar was so loud that it brought Kris from Ambrose’s room, staring around wild eyed, looking for whatever had obviously scared the roomful of women so much.

It fell silent in an instant, as nine sets of female eyes turned to see the man who had suddenly appeared … and who seven of the women had not known was in the house. Kris stared at Jessica, whose bulging breasts were barely contained in the naughty nurse bra.

Then there was bedlam, until Lou Anne shouted herself hoarse explaining that Kris was not an intruder and was, in fact, her babysitter for the evening. Kris had already retreated by then and was holed up with Ambrose, who was very curious about all the commotion.

When order was finally restored, there was a "break" in the presentation while the women, most of whom had heard of Kris, demanded that Lou Anne retell his story. She finished up by making what she thought was an innocuous comment that she was helping him write a romance novel.

That gave Brenda an opportunity to get things back on track and she seized it.

"Mmmmm," she purred. "We all love to read them. Just imagine getting to help write one. That’s what we all do with our men, in a way. We imagine a setting, and set the stage, and then try to make the plot come to life."

Then she began demonstrating how, once dressed for the event, certain oils and lotions, combined with aromatic candles, could help create a setting in which a man’s interest might be pulled away from his normal routine. The women put dabs of various things on their wrists, or arms, or neck and soon the room was full of a delicious kind of electric anticipation.

Then she brought the sex toys out.

"I thought we were interested in the real thing," sighed one woman.

"We are," said Brenda, not missing a beat. "But we also all know that sometimes things don’t work out like we planned. And, it’s possible to use all of these toys WITH your man, to enhance the experience … break out of the routine."

"Like how?" asked one woman cautiously. She was staring at a pink, lifelike, soft rubber penis that dwarfed her husband’s real one.

"Imagine that you’re dressed to kill, smelling good, and in the mood. You’re on the bed, maybe, when your man comes home. Or maybe he’s been home for a while and you’re ready to get him to turn off the TV. Imagine laying this next to your hip."

She held up the dildo and it wobbled in her hand. Two women licked their lips, staring at the moving object as if they were being hypnotized.

"Your fingertips are barely touching it," said Brenda softly. "You call to him, telling him you need him. He comes and sees you there. You tell him how you’re feeling and suggest you’d much rather have HIM than the thing you’re touching. What would he do?"

"My husband would have a coronary and drop dead on the spot," sighed Melinda.

"Maybe not," suggested Brenda, twisting her writs to make the dildo sway back and forth. "Maybe he’d decide he didn’t want you pleasuring yourself with this and take care of it himself."

"What if he didn’t?" asked Alice, who looked a little dazed as her eyes followed the swaying phallus.

"Then this will do the trick very nicely," said Brenda brightly. "Trust me, girls, when there’s no man around, the George Clooney Special here will rock your world."

"That’s … his?" gasped Felicia Torres, a thirtyish dark skinned woman who worked in the patient administration office of the hospital.

"So they say," said Brenda, grinning. "And it comes in a vibrating model too, with a reservoir that holds two ounces of the warm liquid of your choice."

"Oh my goodness," sighed Hilda, who was seven years into her marriage and feeling somewhat neglected.

"I know I love mine," said Lou Anne, just to see what the reaction would be. All eyes in the room turned on her. Most of them were wide with shock.

"You HAVE one of those?" gasped Hilda.

"Well, not that exact model," said Lou Anne. "And don’t look so shocked. Remember, you all have a man. I don’t."

"It sure looked like you had a man a few minutes ago," said Donna.

"He’s not my man," said Lou Anne.

"Well he could be," said Jessica.

"All I’m saying is that it doesn’t hurt to have something around that will scratch your itch if the real thing isn’t available," said Lou Anne. "That’s all. It’s only weird if you let yourself think about it as being weird."

Jess, of course, was the last to leave. Brenda was happy. She’d sold more than enough items to make the trip worth it. She presented Lou Anne with the black cherry nightgown she’d admired so much as her gift for hosting the party. Jess and Lou Anne helped repack Brenda’s SUV and waved as she drove off.

"That was fun," said Jessica.

"I can’t believe you bought the naughty nurse outfit," said Lou Anne, poking her friend in the arm.

"I might never get to wear it," sighed Jessica. "But you never know. Do you think Kris liked it?"

"I thought you were all gung ho on him being my man," said Lou Anne.

"I am!" objected Jessica. "But he’s a man and he saw me in it. At least ask him what he thought."

"I’m not going to ask that man if he got turned on by seeing YOU in a slutty outfit," snorted Lou Anne.

"If he did, I might let you borrow it," said Jess, smiling.

Lou Anne closed the door and sighed. The party had been interesting if nothing else. She wasn’t sure it had been worth spending her night off for, but it had been interesting. She picked up her gift and, on impulse, took her clothes off and put on the nightie. It felt wonderful against her breasts. She pulled up the matching boy briefs and picked up her clothes. After she dropped them in the hamper, she went to look in on Kris and Ambrose.

She was somewhat startled to find them sleeping, until she looked at her watch and saw it was after ten. Ambrose was lying on his back, on top of Kris. There was an open book resting on the little boy’s chest. It was clear they’d been reading when one or the other had fallen asleep. She suspected Ambrose had fallen asleep first and Kris had just left him there, probably so as not to disturb him. Then he’d dozed off, too.

Ambrose was still dressed, so she went to him and spoke quietly, waking him up and telling him it was bedtime. Kris rubbed at his eyes and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He got up and stood aside, as Ambrose took his clothes off, while Lou Anne got the bed ready for him. The boy crawled in and went limp almost immediately, closing his eyes while she kissed his cheek. She turned to find Kris staring at her and realized that, in her bent-over position, she had quite likely showed him her new boy briefs. His eyes went to the dip in the front of the shirt.

"Do you like it?" she asked softly. "It was my gift for hosting the party."

"Oh, I like it," sighed Kris. "You’re insane to wear it in front of me, but I like it."

"Are you dangerous?" she asked, cocking her head.

"I feel pretty dangerous right now," he said.

"I’m not worried," she said, tossing her hair to one side. "I’ve decided you’re just a big softy."

"Not right now," he said. Then he blushed.

"Oh really?" Lou Anne felt her own cheeks get warm.

"Never mind," he said hastily. "I didn’t mean to say that. I should go."

"Why?" asked Lou Anne. "I thought you were going to write tonight."

"I don’t know," he said, his voice nervous. "It’s just that…" His hands went to hover in front of his groin.

"You hungry?" asked Lou Anne. "Why don’t I fix us a bite. And I have to tell you about my dream."

Chapter 14

Harper’s review of cold case files found six cases in which there was either an attempted or actual kidnapping. Four of them contained DNA evidence. His next move was to ask the FBI to provide DNA samples from the Higginbotham brothers.

"What are you up to now?" asked Agent Jefferson, who was frustrated by chasing what he now believed was a wild goose, concerning the "mastermind" of the Custer case.

"I’ve got four cold kidnapping cases," said Harper, simply.

"You want to stack the charges," suggested Jefferson.

"No, I want to solve old cases," countered Harper.

"Why do you think these three might have been involved?"

"I don’t. I’m just running down leads … possibilities … doing my job, Agent Jefferson."

"Why muddy the waters?" asked the federal agent. "We’ve got them cold on this one. They’re going away forever, if I can ever get the fucking civilians to let me close the case."

"You married?" asked Harper.

"Yeah."

"If somebody kidnapped her, and never got caught, wouldn’t you want to know who did it?"

"You’re a crusader!" chuckled Jefferson.

"I’m a cop. It’s what we do. Now, are you going to help me or do I have to go through official channels?"

"You don’t have to threaten me," said the FBI agent. "And it wouldn’t do you any good anyway. This one is too high profile." He frowned. "What’s my probable cause for getting the samples?"

"You’ve got blood at the scene, don’t you?" asked Harper. "Have you positively confirmed whose it is?"

"No need," said Jefferson. "Only the perpetrators were injured."

"I’m sure the defense will see it that way too," said Jim.

Jefferson snorted. "OK, I’ll get you your samples. But you report anything you find to me … got it?"

"I work for the city of New York," said Harper. "If I short circuit my boss, he’ll have my ass."

"Your boss IS an ass," said Jefferson.

"You’ll know something just before he does. That’s the best I can do. I have to live here."

"You’re on." The man smiled. "You really think there might be something here or are you just going through the motions?"

"Going through the motions is what solves crimes," said Harper shrugging.

"Ok, so tell me about this dream," said Kris. "You said I was in it?"

She looked a little uncomfortable.

"It was a strange dream. You know how dreams can be strange and not mean what they appear to mean … right?"

He grinned. "You mean we were naked?"

She blushed. "No … not really. Oh, never mind! It was just a stupid dream."

"Come on. You can’t get away with that," he said firmly. "You brought it up, now you have to tell me about it."

She looked uncomfortable again.

"OK, but just remember it doesn’t mean anything."

He waited, forcing her to speak.

"OK. We were … um … living together…" He grinned, but didn’t say anything. "And I was on some kind of spring cleaning frenzy."

She stopped long enough that he felt like he could say something.

"So what about the naked part?"

"Hush!" she snapped. "I’m getting there." She looked away. "I was wearing a frilly white apron, with cherries all over it."

"So I was the naked one," he said, his smile wide.

"Will you shut up and let me tell this!?" she yelled.

"OK, OK." He turned an imaginary key in his closed lips and then tossed it over his shoulder.

Lulu stared at him, took a deep breath, and went on.

"The apron was ALL I was wearing, and I had to climb up on ladders to get at the cob webs and dust the ceiling fixtures, and you were following me around, taking advantage of the fact that all I had on was the apron."

"Sounds pretty normal to me," he said. "If you were cleaning things almost naked I WOULD follow you around trying to peek."

"That’s not all you were doing," she said, sounding a little miffed.

"I see," he said. "Was I being naughty?"

"You were being VERY naughty!" she said emphatically.

"So this dream means you want to get it on with me." He grinned.

"If you’ll REMEMBER," she snapped, "I reminded you that dreams don’t always mean what they APPEAR to mean. So just don’t even think about it, buster."

"Hey, it was your dream," he said, holding up his hands. He shrugged. "My dreams aren’t so complicated. In my dreams, we’re just in bed doing it like minks." He grinned.

"This is weird," said Lou Anne. "We’ve only known each other for a few weeks and we’re having strange dreams." She frowned. "Maybe it has something to do with this book you’re writing. I keep thinking about the book, and things that could happen in it, and then you write something that gets me going.

"It’s the whole karma thing," said Kris smoothly. "When you saved my life, our souls were intertwined. It will just take a while to get them untangled. Anyway, I kind of like your dream. It has all the elements of something that might be fun in real life. Except for the cleaning part, maybe."

She startled him slightly when she said, "It was the most fun I ever had cleaning." Then she fixed her eyes on him. "OK, enough of dreams and all that. You need to write!"

"I will, just as soon as I finish my snack," he said calmly.

Lou Anne looked across the table at Kris, through the hair that had drifted down over her eyes. He was just eating. Both of them were, so there wasn’t much talking going on. She stopped chewing and intentionally examined the atmosphere in the room. She decided it was comfortable. Even after talking about that silly dream, she still didn’t feel uncomfortable. She had when she’d started, but his reaction to it had reassured her. She saw his eyes go from the sandwich he was taking a bite out of to the front of her night shirt. That felt comfortable somehow, too. She thought about that slap on the ass he’d given her, earlier in the evening. He liked her ass. He found her attractive. That much was obvious. She didn’t know if he’d been kidding about HIS dream, but she found that it didn’t bother her to think that he HAD dreamed about her.

"So," she said, after swallowing. "How’d you like the outfit Jess was wearing when you almost destroyed our party?"

He blinked and seemed to take longer to chew and swallow than was necessary.

"It was OK," he said.

"Just OK?"

"It sounded like somebody was being murdered," he said. "You can’t fault me for coming to make sure you were all right."

"I didn’t say I was upset about it," she said. "I just asked you how you liked Jess’s outfit."

Again, there was a long pause before he answered.

"Why are you asking me this?"

"What’s the big deal?" she asked.

"The big deal is that there’s something in the tone of your voice that makes me edgy. It’s like looking into the dark and not knowing whether, if you step forward, you’ll just take a step or walk off a cliff."

"My goodness!" said Lou Anne in mock astonishment. "I had no idea I was so scary."

"Are we having an argument?" he asked.

"Why would we be having an argument?"

"I don’t know, but it sure feels like we’re having one, and I don’t want to argue with you."

"Why not?"

"Because I like coming here, OK? I don’t want you to get pissed off at me for some reason I don’t understand and tell me to stop coming here."

"I’m not pissed off."

"Good."

"So what did you think of the outfit?"

He looked up at her and put the sandwich down. He looked a little frustrated.

"When one woman asks a man what another woman looks like, there’s something going on there. What do you want me to say? That she looked hot? That she was gorgeous? That I hoped the thing would fall off of her?"

"I just wanted to know what you thought," said Lou Anne a little stiffly.

"Well what I think is that you’d look better in it. But I’m not supposed to say things like that, because we hardly know each other."

"You felt like you knew me well enough to slap me on the ass," she said, her voice still tight.

"OK, I screwed up. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I won’t do it again."

"I didn’t say you couldn’t do it again."

"What do you want from me?" he moaned.

"I’m not sure yet," she answered. "But I’ll let you know when I figure it out."

"Am I in trouble here?" He sounded younger than he was.

"Nope."

"Nope? That’s it? All that and you just decided everything was OK?" He looked a little pale.

"You answered the question correctly," she said. "Why would you be in trouble?"

"I did?"

"Yes," she said, getting up to take her plate to the sink. "You said it would look better on me."

"Why don’t you have him slap her on the ass, like you did to me?" asked Lou Anne.

Kris looked at the screen. There were words there, and he knew he’d typed them, but he couldn’t remember what they said.

Lulu had suggested he write something, after whatever had happened in the kitchen. He still didn’t understand what that had been about. But she was her normal self, so he moved to the computer and pulled up the file. She stood behind him, which normally wouldn’t have bothered him, except that she smelled delicious. And if he looked over his shoulder at her, that amazing cleavage was right there.

It wasn’t cleavage in the classical sense. It was really just her bare chest, with the insides of her breasts showing. But when she leaned forward, that dark red satin fell almost far enough to show him what was under it.

Almost.

She’d picked a paragraph from the outline and watched over his shoulder as he began fleshing it out. She was very distracting, but he tried to concentrate. She’d stood behind him before, watching him work, but never for this long. In the past, it had seemed like she just drifted by, once in a while, and glanced over whatever was on the screen. Sometimes she’d make a comment, and sometimes not.

But having her stand there, smelling so good, in that beautiful soft looking whatever it was, with that fabulous butt cupped in those short shorts underneath the gown … It was just very distracting.

"I have to go to work soon," he said, checking his watch.

"Ohhhh," she pouted.

"I’ll work on it there. You can look it over tomorrow."

"Okay," she continued pouting.

He turned around to look at her and stared at her chest.

"You apparently feel like you know me well enough to ogle my breasts, too," she said.

He looked up, blushing and she was almost smiling. Her eyes were smiling anyway.

"You apparently feel like you know me well enough to wear something like that around me," he tried.

"I DO!" she said, her voice bright.

He suddenly felt like everything was all right after all. Her questions before … they had felt dangerous, somehow. That was silly. She’d saved his life, but that didn’t mean there was anything between them. Not that he’d mind, but she was a free spirit. That much was clear. And he’d meant it when he said he wanted to keep coming over here to work. He liked being around her. Ambrose had him wondering if he’d missed out, along the way … not getting serious with anyone … not having a son.

He pushed those thoughts away, reminding himself not to rock the boat, and stood up. He reached for the flash drive that had the file on it.

"Did you back it up on the hard drive?" she asked, leaning past him.

He couldn’t resist. He looked down. There it was. A perfect breast, smooth and round, with a bright red nipple on the tip.

"Kris?" She leaned back and the breast disappeared.

"Uh … I guess not," he said.

"Well back it up!" she ordered him. "I can read what you’ve done so far while you’re at work."

He plugged the flash drive back in and copied the file to her hard drive. He made a special effort not to look at her. The tingle in his groin suggested that would be a bad idea right now.

She walked him to the door, still smelling wonderful.

"Thanks," he said.

"For what?"

"For letting me hang out here … for helping me … for everything."

"You’re welcome," she said, smiling widely.

He opened the door and stopped. He felt the icy cold coming through the glass in the storm door and couldn’t help looking at the front of the gown. Two little bumps appeared, as if by magic. She hugged herself.

"Did you mean what you said?" he asked.

"About what?"

"That you didn’t say I couldn’t slap you on the ass again," he said. His eyebrows went up as he realized that might not have made any sense.

"Maybe," she said, pushing him out the door.

Lola Henderson, bitch extraordinaire, was still a very unhappy woman. She hadn’t heard from her boyfriend for three whole weeks. It was as if he’d disappeared off the face of the Earth. She’d been to his apartment a dozen times, but her insistent knocks brought no response. Calls to his phone only got her the same information over and over, that the subscriber’s phone was off. She’d left half a dozen messages.

She was at his apartment door again, trying to figure out some way to defeat the lock. She’d seen people fiddle with locks on TV and it looked easy, but nothing she did made any difference.

She remembered his car suddenly, and took the elevator to the parking garage. She went to his assigned space. The car still wasn’t there. She checked the other spaces to see if he’d parked somewhere else, but it wasn’t in the garage at all.

She was trying to believe she hadn’t been dumped. At the same time, she was angry that she HAD been dumped. Why else wouldn’t he call? She’d been THAT close to getting a key to his place. She’d already planned on what she’d bring first, moving in little by little, and staying the night until she just stopped going back to her own apartment altogether and could give up the lease on it. She’d already planned on how she’d get him to write the book that would make him rich … make them both rich. It would be about her, of course, and after it hit the best seller list she’d go on camera with him during interviews. Producers would see her. She’d be offered roles in movies. She’d become a star.

But not if her asshole boyfriend wouldn’t call her or answer his fucking door!

She went back up to his door and beat on it until heads started poking out of the other doors along the hallway. Some told her to knock it off. One mentioned calling the police.

The police!

Of course!

She’d forgotten all about making a missing person’s report. She’d go do that and the police would find him for her. THEN she’d grab him by the balls and never let go.

The desk sergeant eyed Lola appreciatively. She was a brassy blond, tall and leggy. She had tits that would make a great pillow for falling asleep on after he fucked her blind.

"I want to report a missing person," she said.

"How long has this person been missing?" he asked politely.

"About three weeks," she said.

"About?"

"I don’t know exactly," she said. "He hasn’t called me in three weeks."

The desk sergeant pulled out a form and clicked his pen, ready to write.

"Name?"

"Lola Henderson," she said.

"Not yours … his."

"Oh. Kris Farmingham."

"Relationship?"

"Of course we’re in a relationship," she said.

The desk sergeant wanted to groan. He’d have to fuck her mute too. He decided she was a natural blonde.

"What relationship is he to you?"

"He’s my boyfriend," she said.

The desk sergeant clicked his pen again and put it back in his pocket.

"Your boyfriend hasn’t called you in three weeks … and you think he’s missing."

"Well of course he’s missing," said Lola, beginning to get upset. "He wouldn’t go that long without talking to me."

"Did the two of you have a little spat, maybe?" suggested the desk sergeant, hoping she would answer in the affirmative, so he could offer to give her a shoulder to cry on.

"Of course not," she said. "We’re in love!"

"I’m sure you are," said the desk sergeant, beginning to lose interest. "Have you talked to his employer?"

Lola blinked. "Well no. I never thought of that."

"Why don’t you go talk to his boss first," said the desk sergeant. "I’m sure he’s just been too busy to call you. Maybe he’s been working overtime, to get money to buy you flowers and candy."

Chapter 15

Kris was thinking while he ate breakfast at The Early Girl. That he could think at all was interesting, because the place was packed and noisy.

The temperatures outside were still sub-zero, which brought about an interesting phenomenon. Most folks just wanted to stay in bed, where it was warm and cozy, on mornings like this. If they had to get up for some reason, a lot of them opted to just get dressed and then go to a warm, good-smelling place, where the food was prepared for them. It might have seemed odd to Kris that so many people would rather brave the cold, than fix something at home in weather like this, except that wasn’t what he was thinking about.

What he was thinking about was what he’d written while he’d been the "midnight DJ" the night before. It was easy to think about, both because it was fresh in his mind and because the woman who seemed to be responsible for all the steamy scenes in the book he was writing was within thirty feet of him. Lou Anne was waiting tables, and ignoring him. She was involved in an intricate dance that carried her all over the diner, balancing plates on her arms, with only one hand free because the other held a coffee pot.

One of the scenes he’d written was directly related to Lou Anne. Sir Roger Quigley, while seated in a chair on the deck of "The Ugly Mermaid," had casually slapped the ass of a passing matron, one of his current bevy of captured women. The women were all put to work, scrubbing the decks or doing other "household chores" on the ship. The matron had turned on him in a rage, driven beyond her fear of the pirates who had captured her, and had attacked him. The scene had degenerated, in his opinion, into a situation where, while he’d subdued her, Sir Quigley had exposed her breasts. Holding her down, he had attacked her nipples with his lips, while she struggled and screamed and the interested crew looked on. Quigley hadn’t done anything else but suck at her breasts, until she wore herself out, resisting. Then he had tried to kiss her lips, while she turned her head this way and that, avoiding him. In the end, though, she had fallen prey to his charms and ended up kissing him back. He had then let her up and she had meekly accompanied him to his cabin, where he thoroughly ravished her, to her eventual delight.

Kris had thought the whole thing was patently ridiculous as he wrote it. It seemed so laughable that he’d stopped writing at least four or five times, trying to figure out how in the world to add a little realism to the scene. The impossible scenario was supposed to encourage the woman’s daughter, who’d watched her mother’s forced submission, to seek Sir Quigley out voluntarily, lest she be embarrassed in public as well. Each time he had added to the goofy scene, it had seemed less believable. Especially because the crew of "The Ugly Mermaid" seemed more like that of the Pirates of Penzance than real pirates. It confused him that he could remember the musical, but not where or when he’d seen it.

He was still thinking about it as someone sat down across from him in his booth. He looked up from his plate to see Mitch Connel settling into the seat.

"Morning," he said, automatically.

"No place else to sit," commented Mitch.

Kris wondered if that meant the lawman didn’t want to sit with a suspect, or if it was merely an apology for forcing his presence on a lone diner. He decided to take the middle road.

"You’re welcome any time," he said.

"Well thanks," said Mitch, his eyebrows rising. "A lot of people don’t have that kind of attitude toward me."

"Don’t know why," said Kris. "You’re just doing the job they hired you to do."

"Yeah, well, they all seem to want me to enforce the law on everybody else … but not them." He grinned. "So, how have things been going? I hear you got a job."

"I did," said Kris. The fact that the man knew about that probably meant he knew what that job was too, so he didn’t bother to elaborate. "It gives me time to write, in between duties."

"So, what are you writing?" asked Mitch.

"Be right with you," said Lou Anne as she breezed by. Mitch just waved at her.

"It’s a romance novel … sort of," said Kris.

"Sort of?"

"It’s ridiculous and stupid and completely impossible," said Kris. "But it’s what I’m writing."

"So write something else," suggested Mitch.

"I wish I could remember what I usually write about," sighed Kris.

"What if you usually write romance novels with completely impossible plots?"

"That can’t be," said Kris. "If I had been doing this for a living, I would have put myself out of my misery long ago."

"It can’t be that bad," said Mitch.

So Kris told him about the plot of the book and the latest scene in it. By the time he was finished, Mitch was smiling widely.

"Hell, I’ll buy a copy of that one myself!" he exclaimed.

"You’ve got to be kidding," said Kris.

"Sounds kind of titillating to me," said Mitch, shrugging his shoulders. "It’s every man’s dream, to have access to all those women and to be able to control them and get whatever he wants, whenever he wants it."

"That’s what makes it so stupid," said Kris. "Nothing like this could happen in real life."

"That’s why they call it fiction," said Mitch, grinning again.

They were interrupted briefly by Lou Anne, who set down a coffee cup, filled it, and took Mitch’s order before moving on. She didn’t write anything down, only repeating it to Mitch, who nodded his head. She yelled something to Hank that was obviously some kind of code for what Mitch had ordered and got a grunt in reply.

"I don’t know how the ladies will feel about your book, though," said Mitch, sipping his coffee. "I can’t think of any women I know who would be into being subdued, in public, and then being led to slaughter like a lamb."

"I guess I’ll find out tonight," said Kris. "Lou Anne will tell me if I’m off base with it."

"Lulu?" Mitch looked surprised. "You let her read this stuff?"

"She’s kind of my self-appointed editor," said Kris. "Not that I mind. She’s actually pretty good at it. I don’t know how I can tell that, but I know she is."

"I’d think that could be very dangerous," said Mitch. "She’s a very opinionated woman and her response to things she finds objectionable is legend in this town."

"She’s the one who came up with the plot idea," said Kris. "A lot of what’s happening in the book is because of her suggestions."

"You have GOT to be kidding me," said Mitch, his jaw dropping. "Our Lulu?"

"She’s a very passionate woman," said Kris.

Mitch sat back in the booth, staring at Kris. "Brother, I have just GOT to learn more about you. You show up out of the blue, mostly dead, with a gunshot wound. You can’t remember anything and yet, within a space of weeks, you have one of the most formidable women in town eating out of your hand, and are writing what sounds like an interesting book."

"She’s not eating out of my hand," objected Kris. "She just has some ideas. We work well together, that’s all."

"Have you kissed her yet?" asked Mitch, looking interested.

"Of course not!" exclaimed Kris. "What kind of man do you think I am?"

"I don’t know," said Mitch candidly. "That’s one of the things that makes you so interesting." He grinned. "Besides, kissing a woman isn’t anything close to what you described in your book. I pity the man who tries something like that with Lulu. The man who slaps HER on the ass will likely lose his whole arm, but a guy might be able to get away with a little kiss."

"She’s not like that at all!" objected Kris.

"You don’t know her like I know her," said Mitch.

"I’ve been spending most evenings at her place," said Kris. "She lets me use her old computer to write on. She doesn’t have an unkind bone in her body. And I slapped her on the butt and still have my arm." He held out his right arm, before he realized what he’d just said. He jerked it back and looked around, as if to see who might have overheard him. Then he looked back at Mitch, who had an odd look on his face. "I shouldn’t have said that," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "It just kind of happened while I was caught up in writing. You can’t tell anybody I told you that."

"What did she do?" asked Mitch, looking interested and leaning forward. "When you did that, I mean."

"I shouldn’t have said anything," insisted Kris.

"I hear deep dark secrets every day," said Mitch, who might actually hear a deep dark secret once every other month or so, but didn’t feel at all bad about massaging the truth in this case. "You could write a whole book, based on the secrets I know and have never told."

"If I did that they wouldn’t be secrets anymore," said Kris, trying to change the subject.

"Come on," wheedled Mitch. "I won’t tell anybody. And I’m not going to give you the information for that book either. It was just my way of telling you I can keep my mouth shut. I’m just interested, that’s all. Lulu is a fascinating woman."

"I thought you had a girlfriend," said Kris, still trying to avoid answering the question.

"I do. We’re in more of a habit than a relationship, though. She wants to get married and have babies and all that. I’m not quite there yet. We’ve broken up four or five times. I still don’t understand why we get back together each time." He smiled. "There. I told you one of my secrets. Come on, I’m just curious, that’s all. I’ve known Lulu since she got here and in all that time I’ve never seen her display any interest in a man at all. Sometimes I wonder how she got pregnant with Ambrose in the first place."

"That’s a horrible thing to say!" complained Kris.

"Just my observations, that’s all," said Mitch. "Come on. What did she do? Did she throw something at you?"

"She didn’t assault me, if that’s what you’re thinking," said Kris. "Don’t think I’m going to tell you something that would get her arrested, because that’s not going to happen."

"I didn’t mean it like that," insisted Mitch. "My curiosity is purely personal."

"You thinking about switching girlfriends?" asked Kris. Mitch’s description of his "relationship" suggested it wasn’t purely monogamous.

"Not for Lulu," said Mitch, leaning back. "I don’t think I’m man enough for that one." He grinned. "Though I AM trained in self defense, as you obviously must be if you’re still walking around upright after slapping her on the ass."

"It wasn’t like that at all," said Kris. "She just told me I shouldn’t have done it."

"That’s it?! She just TOLD you … with only her voice?"

"It was very civil," said Kris.

Mitch was silent for a moment. It was obvious he was thinking hard.

"Well, brother, you’d better strike fast while the iron is hot, because if all she did was talk to you, she’s interested."

"I don’t think so," said Kris. "She was probably just being polite to a slightly deranged man."

"Lulu isn’t polite to anybody who pisses her off," said Mitch.

They were interrupted in their discussion by the object of it, who delivered Mitch’s pancakes, eggs and sausage by sliding it from the end of the table with a shove as she walked by. She had two other plates in her arms and the ubiquitous coffee pot in her other hand. The plate came to a stop dead in front of Mitch, who was staring at her. She looked over her shoulder at him as she went on to another booth and relieved herself of the other two plates. On the way back, she stopped, looking at Mitch, who was still staring at her.

"What?" she asked.

"Me?" Mitch looked nervous suddenly. "Nothing."

"You were staring at me," said Lou Anne. "What’s wrong? That’s what you ordered."

"It is," said Mitch, looking down at his plate and then back up at her. His face changed. "Why wouldn’t I stare at you? You’re easy on the eyes, Lulu."

"Save it for Carla, Mitch," snorted Lou Anne. Her eyes moved to Kris. "You need anything else?"

"I’m fine," said Kris. "Thanks."

"You’re welcome," she said and was off again.

Kris looked back at Mitch, who was now staring at him now, instead of the waitress.

"Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle," said Mitch. "She LIKES you!"

"She was just being polite," said Kris, feeling uncomfortable.

"Lulu never says, You’re welcome," said Mitch. "Not like that."

"You’re reading things into her actions," said Kris.

They were interrupted again as Jessica appeared at their table.

"Move over, Mitch," she said. "Lulu said I could sit here. She says you’re misbehaving again and I should keep an eye on you."

"Me?" said Mitch, sounding wounded. "All I did was say she was easy on the eyes."

"You’re an incorrigible flirt," said Jessica. "I don’t know why Carla puts up with you."

"That makes two of us," said Mitch, happily. "Please, do sit down."

He moved over and Jessica slid into the booth. She looked over at Kris. She fixed her eyes on him.

"I’m glad I got this chance to see you," she said. "I wanted to make sure you were perfectly clear about not saying anything about what you saw the other night."

"Of course," said Kris, feeling his face get hot.

"What?" asked Mitch, looking from one to the other. "What did he see?"

"Nothing," said Jessica firmly. "Isn’t that right, Kris?"

"Absolutely," said Kris.

She turned back to Mitch. "See? He didn’t see anything."

"That’s what they all say," said Mitch, looking thoughtfully at Kris.

Chapter 16

Lola Henderson may have been blond and ditzy, but she wasn’t completely stupid. And sometimes her personal idiosyncrasies, while annoying to others, worked in her favor. For example, there had been a night when she’d wanted to go out and Kris had told her he had to work.

"I have to turn in an article at Miffen and Combs in the morning, and it’s not quite finished yet," he’d said.

Being the insecure woman she was, Lola had looked up Miffen and Combs in the phone book, to make sure it actually existed. Now, after her abortive attempt to get the police to find Kris, she’d taken the desk sergeant’s advice. She stood, looking up at a steel and glass structure that seemed pretty fancy to be in the business of publishing obscure journals. It was also in a pretty ritzy part of town.

She felt better when, by consulting a six foot tall directory on a granite wall, she found out that Miffen and Combs only took up one floor of the building. She took the elevator, examining a chip in one of her French tips on the way up.

The elevator doors opened into a small waiting vestibule, with a half circle desk, a slim well-dressed brunette seated behind it.

"How may I help you?" she asked, looking up from the keyboard she’d been typing on.

Lola hated brunettes. They all thought they were superior to blondes.

"I’m looking for my boyfriend," she said stiffly.

"That’s nice," said the brunette. She reached up and touched the earpiece that all but covered her right ear. "Miffen and Combs, how may I direct your call?" There was a short pause and she said, "I’ll connect you now." She reached for something on the desk that Lola couldn’t see and punched buttons, before looking back at Lola.

"Now, about your boyfriend. I have no idea who that might be."

"His name is Kris," said Lola.

"There’s no one working here by that name," said the receptionist.

"He’s an author," said Lola tightly.

"We serve hundreds of authors," said the woman sweetly. Too sweetly for Lola’s taste. "Could you be more specific?"

"Kris Farmingham," said Lola, trying to control her temper.

The woman smiled. "He’s not here."

"How do you know?" asked Lola, her voice cracking.

"Because right now, there are exactly two authors in the office and neither of them is named Kris Farmingham."

"Well where is he?" Lola’s voice rose.

"How should I know?" asked the brunette coolly. "He’s YOUR boyfriend."

"I want to talk to his publisher!" snapped Lola.

The receptionist sighed. "One moment, please," she said, with a blinding smile.

She turned to her computer and started typing. She looked back at Lola, who saw what appeared to be a triumphant look on her face.

"No Farmingham in our files," she said.

"But he said you published one of his articles!" yipped Lola.

"We publish books, not articles," said the woman.

"He just finished something for you a month ago!" insisted Lola. "He couldn’t take me out one night because he had to get it finished!"

"Did you actually see him write something?" asked the brunette. Her voice sounded snide to Lola.

"As a matter of fact I DID, you cow!"

What was about to turn into a cat fight was broken up by a harried man who came out of an office nearby and approached the desk.

"Melissa!" he barked, interrupting the building hostilities. "Did you find anything on Stevens yet?"

"Only that he doesn’t seem to exist," said the brunette.

"It’s my ass if we don’t find him, Melissa!" barked the man. "I gave him a huge advance. He was supposed to check in a week ago. I need you to find him, Melissa."

"Mister Templeton, I am a receptionist, not a detective. I am not responsible for you losing one of your authors and I don’t think you should be asking me to do all this extra work without any extra compensation."

"Don’t do this to me, Melissa," the man moaned. "I have to have something for Breckenridge or that advance is coming out of my pay. I don’t HAVE that much, Melissa."

"Well this … woman…" Melissa shot a frowning glance at Lola. "This woman can’t find her boyfriend and she claims he’s one of our authors. Maybe you two are looking for the same man."

"What’s his name?" asked Lola, looking at the man.

"Ron Stevens," said the man eagerly.

"Oh," said Lola, obviously disappointed. "He’s not the one I’m looking for."

"He’s not?" moaned the man. "Short, light brown hair? About this tall?" He held his hand at his own height.

"Kris has short, light brown hair," said Lola uncertainly. "And I guess he’s about that tall."

The man went on, trying to remember more detail, until Melissa finally held up her hand.

"Do you, by chance, have a picture of your boyfriend?" she asked Lola.

Lola lit up and began digging into her purse immediately.

"Yes!" she said excitedly. "We used one of those photo booths down in Chinatown while we were shopping one day!"

She pulled out a strip of paper an inch wide and five inches long that contained four small photographs in a column. She was smiling brightly in three of them, and kissing the man in the photographs in the last one. She held them out.

"That’s HIM!" shouted the man.

Mr. Templeton took Lola to an office and went behind a huge desk, waving at a chair in one corner of the room. He didn’t meet her expectations, as far as being a publisher. He was mostly bald, for one thing, with wild tufts of hair sprouting from the sides of his head above large ears. He was short and fat, too. The desk was piled high with books, stacks of paper, empty coffee cups and various office supplies. The chair he waved her to was the only thing in the office that wasn’t covered with reading material.

"So his real name is Kris?" he asked.

"Kris Farmingham," said Lola, nervously. "You don’t even know his name?"

"He’s very private. Authors are strange ducks, Miss…"

"Lola."

"Authors are strange ducks, Miss Lola," said the man. "He’s done very well for us, but he’s very secretive. His last book sold so well that I gave him too much for the next one, and now he’s overdue for a progress report."

"Book?" Lola sounded confused. "He wrote a book?"

"Three of them," said the man. "Two of them hit the best seller list, which is what clouded my judgment."

"He never said anything about books," complained Lola. "He said he wrote stuff for journals."

"Well he writes books for us," said the man, who still hadn’t introduced himself. "Now, where is he?"

"I don’t know," complained Lola. "That’s why I’m here. I was hoping YOU could tell ME where he is."

The man’s face crumpled. "You don’t know?" he moaned.

"I haven’t seen him in weeks," said Lola.

"He must have gone into seclusion to write his next book," sighed the man. "Some authors do that. He didn’t say he was going anywhere. He just promised to update me every month. He hasn’t done that. He must have gone away somewhere."

"He went away?" Lola’s voice rose. "He didn’t tell me he was going away!"

"I can’t help that," said the man. "Are you sure you don’t know where he is?"

"Of COURSE I’M SURE!" screeched Lola. She abruptly went silent. "How big an advance?" she asked.

"What?"

"I asked how big the advance you gave Kris was?" she asked.

"I can’t tell you that!" said the man. "That’s privileged … AWP!"

He gasped and tried to roll the chair back as Lola Henderson climbed OVER his desk, scattering books and papers everywhere. Her pointed nails reached for his throat, and her suddenly savage face was right in front of his.

"HOW MUCH?!" she screamed.

"Sixty thousand dollars," he whispered.

"Sixty … THOUSAND?" gasped the blonde woman into his face. "For ONE stinking book?"

"He’ll get much more when it’s done," whined the publisher, who completely misunderstood why Lola Henderson was so upset.

Lola fumed for a few seconds. She’d been had. She knew that now. Kris was ALREADY rich and he hadn’t told her that. He was ALREADY a famous author. He had to be, if someone was willing to give him sixty gees for a book he hadn’t even written yet. And he’d gone off somewhere to write that book, without telling her.

Without TAKING her!

The DNA results were taking time, like they always did when the examination had a low priority. And Harper had had to give his request a low priority, because he was only acting on a hunch. The ballistics exam, on the other hand, gave results in stages, and those results could be used as they were produced.

The first thing the lab tech did was take the bullets recovered from the kidnapping scene - two, in this case - and examine the marks left by the lands and grooves in the barrel of the weapon that had fired them. By counting the number of grooves and measuring the distance between them, he could narrow down what make and sometimes what model of weapon had fired them. He confirmed that that bullets had been fired from a Dan Wesson semi-automatic pistol, which matched the gun that had been seized at the scene. That one was a PM3-P Minor Series, which, in its current condition, might bring a hundred dollars on the open market.

Next, he test fired the weapon that had been taken from Moe’s hand and compared the bullet microscopically to the two bullets recovered from the scene. One of the bullets had been found embedded in a car parked on the street. It was too badly damaged to match. The other one, dug from a tree next to the car, was in better shape. It was a match, enabling him to say that it had been fired from that particular Dan Wesson pistol.

Harper checked the date of the earliest arrest record of the Higginbothams and used that as an anchor date for his searches, since it was likely they had procured the gun after that point. What he was interested in was if that gun had been used in any previous crimes. He knew it hadn’t been seized before, because it would have been destroyed, if that were the case. So the first thing he looked at were unsolved homicides where there was an indication that a Dan Wesson .45 automatic had been used.

It wasn’t fool proof, but it did let him narrow his search. He decided to examine a time frame of six months before the Higginbothams came to the attention of law enforcement, the first time, up to the date of their attempted kidnapping. That was a five year span, and the results looked daunting at first. There were hundreds of cases. Half of them had no firearms evidence in them, though, and could be discarded. Three quarters of the remaining cases had weapons other than a Dan Wesson, or calibers other than .45 involved, which let him dump them. In the end, there were fifteen unsolved homicides in which evidence suggested a Dan Wesson had been used. When he got that far, it was relatively easy to determine that only five of those involved the same model pistol as had been taken from Moe’s hand when he’d been arrested.

Harper explained what he was doing to the lab supervisor and asked that the evidence from those five cases be compared to the evidence in the Higginbotham case. He fudged a little, saying he was doing this as a favor to the FBI, which got his priority bumped up.

Twenty four hours later, Jim Harper stared at a report that had just been delivered to him. The pistol seized from Moe had been matched to a bullet that had killed a money courier eight months ago. There were no leads in the case. The money stolen had been old bills and there had been no way to trace it.

Quite suddenly, though, Jim Harper had identified the murder weapon and the case was thus reopened.

"What the fuck are you up to now?" asked the scowling FBI agent who was facing Detective Harper.

"I’m bringing you a little present … that’s all," said Harper. "Moe’s gun was used to murder a money courier eight months ago. Now you got him for murder."

"I don’t NEED him for murder," groused Jefferson. "I don’t need this crapping case at all! All I’m getting is pressure to find the mastermind, who I am now quite sure is a figment of somebody’s imagination!"

"OK," said Harper. "So use this to deal with." He shrugged. "Offer him a deal for the murder rap, in exchange for a full and complete confession to the kidnapping. You’ve got what could be two capital crimes. Surely the U.S. Attorney will be willing to deal one of those death sentences away to get a slam dunk on the other."

Jefferson frowned and appeared to think. "You might have something there. Except that the U.S. Attorney isn’t going to care about the murder. The murder is a New York City issue, not a federal one."

"Moe won’t know that," said Harper. "Neither will his lawyer. Spin it as a federal banking issue. Bring charges and use them for an excuse to get him into the interview room again. His lawyer will have to let it go at least far enough to find out what you’ve got on him. Cut a deal, then drop the murder charges."

Jefferson stared at the detective. "So you and your prosecutor can charge him with that crime, instead of us?"

"You’re a lot smarter than I gave you credit for," said Harper, grinning.

The FBI agent ran a hand through his hair.

"I suppose you want to be there when I do this," he said.

"The thought had crossed my mind," admitted Jim.

"I’ll just bet it did," said Jefferson and smiled.

The interrogation of Moe Higginbotham, concerning the murder of one Rodney J. Spruill, a money courier for a well known auction house in New York City, resulted in information that would create shockwaves throughout both the FBI and the New York City Police Department, though none of them knew it at the time.

Harper had been right. Moe’s lawyer took the bait and allowed his client, who swore on his mother’s grave that he hadn’t killed any courier, to be interviewed. What convinced his lawyer he was telling the truth was a simple question Moe asked him.

"If I’d robbed that money courier and got all that money, wouldn’t I be living better than I am?"

The young public defender, who in later years would learn never to believe anything a client said, bought it.

Which was why, when he was questioned, Moe insisted that he’d bought the gun AFTER the money courier had been killed, and that he’d bought it cheap from a guy who was missing his trigger finger. He swore that was all he knew. Harper got a description of the man with the missing finger, and where the deal had taken place, but could get nothing further.

When Harper and Jefferson both reviewed the homicide case, it was apparent that whoever had pulled that job had planned it down to the slightest detail, catching the courier at the single weak point in his route. When he’d been found dead in his car, shot in the back of the head, the detectives had found a half eaten sandwich on the seat beside him. It had been traced by the wrapper back to a hot dog stand, which, according to his employer, he had not been authorized to stop at. The statement of the hot dog vendor, however, said that the man was a regular and parked in a no parking zone while he got his Polish with kraut and mustard, every day. It was the hypothesis of the detective that someone had entered the car while the courier was getting his meal and hid until the courier left.

Both men agreed that none of the Higginbothams had the intelligence to plan a caper like that. And Moe’s lawyer had pointed out that there was no evidence that the Higginbothams had lived beyond their usual means or style in the weeks after the killing.

"It’s a wash," said Jefferson. "It was a good idea, though. Looks like it’s your case after all." He smiled. "All you have to do is find a guy who’s missing his trigger finger." He laughed. "That should be a piece of cake for a hard charger like you, Harper. Just line up everybody in New York City and look at their hands."

"Yeah, all eight million of them," said Harper, unamused.

"Only half that," laughed Jefferson. "You don’t have to look at the women."

Mitch Connel had had no opportunity to question Kris further that morning in the diner. He reviewed what he had learned. Lulu seemed to be interested in the man, and Kris had seen something interesting involving Jessica Dauphine that she didn’t want anyone else to know about. By the time Jessica’s breakfast had been brought to the booth, Kris had finished and gotten up to leave. Mitch had watched as Kris went to the cash register and waited for Lulu to come take his money. The smile she gave him cemented in Mitch’s mind that Kris had somehow found a chink in her armor.

So, being a curious man by nature and being paid to be suspicious, Mitch simply made it his business to see where Kris went in his daily routine. It didn’t take long to learn that he almost always ate at The Early Girl when his shift at the radio station was over. He also had a habit of going to Lulu’s house three or four hours before they both went to work. He had a burning curiosity about what went on in that little house, but he didn’t succumb to the temptation to do a little spying. Part of that was because there was snow on the ground and his footprints would be left there for all the world to see. Another problem was that he didn’t want to park his car along the street while he snooped. His surveillance was being done on his own time, since he was currently working days. It was a small town and people knew what his car looked like. They’d just naturally ask questions if it was seen parked somewhere in that neighborhood.

As a result, he decided to eat breakfast at The Early Girl each morning as well, at least until he got a handle on what was going on. His curiosity was mixed. Kris was still a big question mark, officially, and Mitch liked Lulu. While he had no real reason to believe that Kris was dangerous, it was easy to rationalize his curiosity by telling himself he was looking out for her welfare.

It was the fourth time he sat down across from Kris in a booth at the diner that Kris put down his fork and stared at the policeman.

"Are you following me or something?"

"Why would you ask that?" Mitch responded innocently.

"Because I’m not buying that you just like my company," said Kris.

"And why wouldn’t I? You’re a fresh face. You’ve been around, even if you can’t remember it. Maybe I’m just trying to help you get your memory back."

"What are you doing here again?" asked Lou Anne as she came up to the table. She put a coffee cup down in front of Mitch and filled it.

"I have to have some special reason to eat in your fine establishment?" Mitch used his overly innocent voice again. "Just bring me my usual, please and thank you."

"And why do you always sit with Kris?" she asked, standing there. "I thought you closed his case or whatever you call it."

"He’s an interesting guy," said Mitch. "New faces are hard to come by in this town."

"Don’t harass him, Mitch," warned Lou Anne. "He’s writing a book and it’s going to be a good one. He needs to concentrate on that, not be all nervous because Barney Fife won’t leave him alone."

"So I hear," said Mitch, responding to the first part of her comment and ignoring the last part. "I’m interested in this book, too. I’ve never met an author or heard how one goes about writing a book. It’s really quite fascinating."

Lou Anne stared at him for a few seconds longer. "You’re up to something, Mitch Connel. I know you are. I’ve got my eye on you, buster."

"Isn’t that supposed to be MY line?" asked Mitch, sounding injured. "Isn’t it possible I just want to be his friend?"

"No, it’s not," said Lou Anne firmly. "And don’t pretend you are. I know you and I know you don’t cozy up to anybody without a reason."

"Not even Carla?" Mitch grinned.

"I know why you cozy up to Carla," said Lou Anne, her voice tight. "And she does too. Why she puts up with you is beyond me."

"'Cause I’m a prince of a fellow," said Mitch, grinning. "And a good lover, too. If you weren’t so picky…"

Mitch closed his mouth suddenly. It might have had to do with the look that was coming onto Lou Anne’s face.

"What would happen if I weren’t so picky, Mitch?" she asked, her voice sweet and syrupy.

"Nothing," said Mitch, his voice businesslike. "Nothing at all, Lulu. I’m just here for breakfast."

"You just keep it that way," said the waitress. "You said your usual, right?"

"Yes Ma’am," said Mitch, folding his hands in his lap.

Chapter 17

"What was that all about?" asked Kris, when Lou Anne had left.

"What was what all about?" asked Mitch, looking over his shoulder at Lou Anne.

"One minute you’re all balls and testosterone and the next minute you’re as meek as a lamb."

"I know how she can get when she’s pissed off," said Mitch. "You should have figured that out by now, too, as much time as you’re spending around her."

"And how much time is that?" asked Kris. "You ARE following me … aren’t you."

"I’m paid to keep an eye on things," said Mitch, a bit uncomfortably. "Don’t worry about it. It’s so boring in this town that I have to come up with little exercises to keep myself sharp. I bear you no ill will. You have my word on that."

"Until you find some reason to think I’m a crook," said Kris.

"Well, of course," said Mitch, tossing a hand toward the ceiling. "Even then, though, I won’t wish you ill. Lots of people make mistakes and get into trouble. Not all of them are a danger to society."

"What about that being my friend crap?" asked Kris.

"Who says it’s crap?" asked Mitch. "Is there any reason we can’t be friends?"

"Friends don’t arrest friends," said Kris.

"That’s a crock," said Mitch, reaching for the sugar. "I’ve had to arrest some of my friends before. Just because I arrest them doesn’t mean we can’t be friends."

"Sounds complicated to me," said Kris.

"Well it’s not. You screw up, you pay the piper. That doesn’t mean I have to hate you. You ARE an interesting guy and I hope you DO get your memory back. If there’s a problem in your past, then we’ll both just have to deal with that. Until then, why can’t we be civil to each other?"

"And keeping an eye on me is being civil," snorted Kris.

"I’m here … right across from you," said Mitch. "You can ask me any questions you want to. If I can answer them I will."

"In exchange for what?" asked Kris, his voice guarded.

"Like I said. You’re interesting. You’ve been around. Who knows what you’ll remember, but I bet most of it will be interesting. You know I’m not the only person keeping an eye on you, don’t you?"

"You’re not?" Kris looked puzzled.

"The preacher and about half his flock," said Mitch. "Anywhere you are, other than work, one of them is likely to be, doing this or that. I think they’re getting bored, though. They don’t find you half as interesting as I do."

"You’re kidding," said Kris, looking around. The first person he saw was Butch Flannery, who had loaned him the car. He was sitting with two other men who looked familiar. Butch nodded to him and smiled, as if it were a chance meeting. He looked back at Mitch. "You’re not kidding," he said, his voice hushed.

"Like I said, they were a lot more interested in you a couple of weeks ago than they are now. If you’d had some odd visitors, or gone off to do strange and mysterious things, they might have gotten fired up. But the truth of the matter is, Kris, that you just act like any normal guy. You got a job. You’re working on a book, which people expect an author to do. You shop here in town. You haven’t gotten any deliveries from Fed Ex or any of those boys. You, my friend, are just Joe Average."

"Damn, you know a lot about me," said Kris. "Have you found out anything from my past?"

"If I do, I’ll ask you about it," said Mitch. "And, just so you don’t feel like you’re under a microscope, I don’t know all that because I’ve had you under surveillance. I know all the guys whose delivery schedules bring them here and I know most of your neighbors. They like you, by the way."

"Why?" asked Kris. He hadn’t talked to any of his neighbors yet.

"You’re quiet," said Mitch. "People like things quiet around here."

There was a pause in the conversation as Lou Anne served Mitch and refilled Kris' coffee cup. She didn’t say a word to either man. It gave Kris time to take a few more bites and think, while Mitch dug into his breakfast. He hadn’t been around long and he had nothing to go on, but he trusted Lulu’s instincts. If she was suspicious of Mitch Connel, then she probably had reason to be. He looked up at the man.

"What do you want to know?" he asked.

"Pardon?"

"I think Lulu’s right. You’re cozying up to me for some reason. OK. Fine. I’ve got nothing to hide. What do you want to know?"

"We can’t just be friends?" asked Mitch, around a mouthful of eggs.

"Maybe," said Kris. "After I’ve answered your questions, I figure I’ll find out. You may just lose interest in me once I’ve told you everything I know."

"I am wounded," said Mitch, somewhat theatrically. "But I understand. I might feel the same way if I were in your shoes. So, just to satisfy you, I’ll ask you all kinds of questions and then maybe we can get on with the budding friendship. How’s that?"

"You’re a slick one, Officer Connel," said Kris, squinting his eyes. "You’re pretty good at your job … aren’t you."

"They haven’t fired me yet," said Mitch, smiling.

Kris sat for a while longer. "OK, shoot," he said.

Without pause for thought, Mitch asked the first question. "You’re hiding something from me. I’d like to know what that is."

Kris lost his appetite. He put his fork down. How did the man know? Was he really THAT good at his job? At the same time, he was tired of worrying about that single memory of the man, the crunch of metal, and the scream he’d heard. Still, there was obvious danger in talking about that, as much as he wished he knew the rest of what had happened.

"If I tell you that, I might be in trouble," he finally said. "Something happened and I remember part of it, but not all of it. I don’t know when it happened or where it happened, but it’s the kind of thing the law frowns on."

Mitch heard in Kris' voice what he’d heard in countless other voices. The average person, who uses bad judgment or succumbs to temptation, or is just in the wrong place at the wrong time and gets into trouble because of it, usually wants things to come out into the open. Their conscience bothers them. They’re not criminals, at least not in the classic sense. And, more often than not, they aren’t a danger to society. They feel remorse and that is the best defense against a repetition of the behavior, whatever it is. Sometimes it was better to have the information than it was to prosecute the offense.

"You might notice that I haven’t advised you of your legal rights," said Mitch.

"We had this discussion, already," said Kris.

"How about you trust me to tell you when you’re getting in too deep," suggested Mitch.

"I’d be insane to do that," said Kris. "You’re a cop!"

"I’m an honest cop," said Mitch. "That’s the difference." He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. "All I can say is that I’ll try not to put you in a bind."

Kris thought about that. Could he trust this man? It would be good to get that memory off his chest.

"I’ll think about it," he said. "That’s all I can say for now."

"Sounds fair," said Mitch. "Now, let me ask you about something else."

"What?" asked Kris.

"What is it that Jessica doesn’t want you to talk about?"

"Jessica?"

"The other day. She wanted to make sure you wouldn’t tell anybody what you saw."

"Oh, that," said Kris. "I told her I wouldn’t tell anyone. You were there. You should remember that."

"Of course I remember it," said Mitch. "But I want to know anyway."

"I can’t tell you that," said Kris. "I promised."

"She didn’t break the law or anything … did she?"

"Of course not. It was just a stupid party." Kris was suddenly disgusted with himself for divulging that little fact.

"A party…" Mitch leaned forward. "A party you were invited to?"

"No, I was just watching Ambrose, while they had this party," said Kris. "Why do you want me to break a promise?"

"I don’t want you to break a promise," said Mitch. "I’m just naturally curious, that’s all. And now you don’t have to break your promise. I know exactly what party you’re talking about."

"Oh you do, do you?" said Kris, sounding skeptical.

"Yup. It has to be the one Alice Zucker was at over at Lou Anne’s place."

"How do you know that?" asked Kris. "Not that I’m saying she was there. I don’t know anyone named Alice Zucker."

"Of course not, but I heard Phil, her husband, talking about something she bought at that party. He said it was the best fifty bucks he ever spent. I got the impression she got something slinky to wear in the bedroom."

"Do you spy on everybody?" Kris' voice rose.

"Not so much," said Mitch, grinning. "I just listen. People talk and you can pick up a lot of information if they talk loud enough." He took another bite and spoke again after swallowing. "So it was a lingerie party?"

"You already know it was," said Kris.

"And how is it that you ended up getting to see something?"

"You don’t give up, do you?" suggested Kris.

"As long as you don’t tell me whatever it is that Jessica is so worked up about, you haven’t broken your promise, now have you? But that doesn’t mean you can’t talk about the rest of it."

"Damn I hope you never come after me for real," sighed Kris. "You’re like a bulldog."

"Arf, arf," said Mitch. "What was it? G-strings and bras with holes in them, maybe?"

"Of course not," said Kris. "It covered everything." He slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Well then why is she so determined to keep it a secret?" asked Mitch.

"I’m not saying another word," said Kris, uncovering his mouth. "I remembered some other things about Australia. You want to hear about that?"

"Sure," said Mitch easily. He leaned back. "Australia sounds interesting."

If Kris thought that Lou Anne hadn’t noticed Mitch grilling him, he was mistaken. When he got to her house that night, she met him dressed in a black T shirt with a grinning white skull on the front. He almost choked as he realized that the burning balls that represented the eyes were positioned precisely over her obviously braless nipples, which made those burning balls jut out from the grisly face. Black vinyl pants covered her legs and she was wearing Doc Martins that had a leopard print on them. She looked thoroughly dangerous.

"Hi," she said, her voice so cheerful that he couldn’t rationalize it as coming from a woman who looked like she was some biker’s mol. "So, what was Mitch trying to get out of you this morning?"

"Why does everybody have to ask me questions I don’t want to answer?" he moaned.

"I’m not just anybody," she said archly. "I’m the woman who saved your life. You owe me."

"Just shoot me and get it over with, then," he sighed. "It would be easier than trying to juggle all these questions.

"What’s to juggle?" she said brightly. "We have no secrets. You just tell me what he wanted to know and I’ll tell you how much trouble he’s in."

"Why would he be in trouble?" asked Kris.

"Because I told him to leave you alone," said Lou Anne.

"He has to do his job," said Kris.

"He looked MUCH too interested in what you were talking about for it to be anything to do with his job," said Lou Anne. "Was he asking questions about me?"

"Why would he do that?" asked Kris weakly.

"Was he?" There was a hint of danger in her voice now.

"In a roundabout way, I suppose," said Kris. "He heard about the party the other night and he wanted to know about it."

"That?" She sounded surprised. "Why would he care about that?"

"Because Jessica reminded me not to tell anybody what I saw. She did it right there in front of him," Kris sighed.

"She is SO witless sometimes," said Lou Anne. "So, did you tell him?" Now there was something in her voice that he couldn’t quite identify, but it didn’t sound friendly.

"Of course not," he said. "I promised Jess that I wouldn’t."

"Good boy," she said, reaching out to stroke his chin with two fingers. "There’s hope for you yet."

"He says you like me." It just came out. It might have had something to do with those fingers stroking his chin.

"Oh really?" Now she sounded … interested. Kris took a few seconds to catalog those differing sounds in her voice. They’d make for good dialog comments in his book.

"Um … yeah. He said something like that you must like me, because you haven’t beaten me up … or something like that."

She laughed, which he wasn’t prepared for. She looked happy about that, for some reason.

"Let’s just say I haven’t found any reason not to like you," she said. "Now, where’s the story? I want to catch up. Ambrose is asleep, you can check on him while I read."

He handed her the flash drive. It didn’t take long to look in on the little boy, who was sleeping soundly, and she had just found where the new work started when he returned to the living room. The TV was on, so he sat down to watch it.

He was distracted by the noises she made while she read. Some of them sounded like bits of some melody, from some song he couldn’t identify. There was one that was composed of five notes. She repeated them at odd moments, for no apparent reason. Then there were sighs and high pitched single notes that, in a novel, he would have called "squeaks," though only because he couldn’t think of any other way to characterize them. She ignored him completely while she read. Then she leaned back.

"I like what you’ve done with Lady Tinsley," she said.

"I was afraid you’d think that was too forceful," he responded.

"He didn’t rape her," said Lou Anne. "He just overcame her resistance. I can understand that. If the right man sucked on my nipples long enough, I’d give up too. And she kissed him back, which suggests her resistance was gone. And he didn’t have to drag her to his cabin. I think it’s very well done. It makes me wiggly."

"Really!" He sounded astonished.

She turned to look at him. "Sometimes a woman likes a forceful man," she said. "If it’s the right man," she added.

"Really!" He sounded like he still didn’t believe her.

She looked at him through the hair that fell over one eye. "Why do you think I didn’t beat you up when you smacked my ass?"

"Really!" he gasped, clearly shocked.

"Every woman wants a little caveman in her life sometimes. It has to be the right time and the right caveman, but yes … really."

"Wow."

"Now, write some more. Are you really going to have him despoil Lady Tinsley’s daughter? He should be a good guy part of the time, you know."

"Well, that was the idea of making her submit in front of the crew. Her daughter was watching and he knows that. I kind of figured the daughter might … um … be interested in some caveman action too."

"Not if it’s not the right man," said Lou Anne. "You know, you could complete Lady Tinsley’s submission by having her offer herself to him, if he’ll spare her daughter."

"He already ravished her," pointed out Kris.

"Yes and with just a little rewriting you can have her respond so vigorously that it excites him, too. He can want a woman more than once, can’t he?"

"Of course. He ALWAYS wants a woman more than once. Remember, he’s trying to return them to safety all pregnant and stuff."

"And that’s another thing," said Lou Anne. "Why does he have to get EVERY woman pregnant? Why can’t he be more like a regular man and only go after one or two of them?"

"You don’t know much about regular men, do you," said Kris, grinning.

"What do you mean?"

"All regular men want to fertilize as many women as possible. It’s in our genes."

"No it’s not!" she objected.

"Darwin thought so," he said. "So did Freud. They’re both pretty smart men."

"The operative word there is men," she snorted. "A pretty smart man is still likely to be on the stupid side."

"OK, I get it. You don’t want him to be quite such an alley cat."

"Well, let’s just say that when he gets to the woman you model after me, he’s going to have to work for it," said Lou Anne.

"After you?"

"Sure, you said you were going to make one of these women like me."

The flashback was so vivid that Kris staggered. His right shoulder hit the wall, which kept him from falling down completely. There was Lola - he saw her now, knew what she looked like. She was telling him how the woman in his book would be modeled on her, and that it would be a best seller. That much was crystal clear, as were her surroundings in the vision. But he still didn’t know where she was or what her last name was. She was blonde, in a strident overdone kind of way that suggested the color of her hair came from a bottle rather than nature. He sensed she was his girlfriend, even though he didn’t FEEL like she was his girlfriend.

"Kris!"

Lou Anne’s voice banished the vision and his eyes cleared to see her face close to his.

"I’m OK," he said. "I just remembered something."

"You look like you saw a ghost! I was afraid you were having a stroke or something!"

"No, I’m OK. I have a girlfriend."

"You do?" Somehow, she didn’t sound happy about that and, somehow, that made him feel good.

"Well, I saw this woman in my mind. Her name is Lola. I know I’ve kissed her. She wanted to be in my book, too. But that’s all I remember. She was … acting … like my girlfriend."

"Wow," said Lou Anne. "What was she doing in the memory?"

"She was saying something about how the woman in my book would be modeled on her, and that it would be a best seller. It was kind of like what you were saying. I think that’s what brought the memory back."

"You remembered that you kissed her?"

"That was another time. I didn’t tell you about that. All I remembered then were her lips and I sensed her name, but that was all."

"What were you doing when you remembered that?" she asked.

"I was looking at your lips," he said, before he could mediate the comment.

"Really!" She sounded pleased. "But you didn’t kiss me."

"That’s funny," said Kris. "That’s one of the things Mitch wanted to know." She raised an eyebrow. "If I had kissed you, I mean."

"Mitch Connel asked you if you’d ever kissed me?" Her voice went up an octave. She didn’t sound at all happy now.

"Um … yes," he said weakly. "He wanted to know what the book was about, so I told him, and I said you were kind of helping me write it … that you were kind of my muse, you know? And he said you liked me and wanted to know if I’d kissed you yet."

"And what did you tell him?" Her voice was low, almost inaudible.

"Um … I told him no, of course."

"You silly man!" she barked. "Don’t you know men are supposed to lie about things like that?"

"Um … no," he said, feeling helpless.

"Don’t men brag about their conquests and lie about how far they got with a woman and stuff?"

"Not after high school," said Kris. "At least I don’t THINK so." He looked confused. "Are you saying I should have lied?"

"Of COURSE you should have lied!" she yipped. "He was being nosey. You should have filled his head with all kinds of bullshit, so he’d go off on a tangent."

"I should?" His voice sounded strained. "Wouldn’t you have gotten mad if you found out?"

"I would have acted mad for a while, but I would have been flattered," she said, as if it was the most reasonable response in the world.

"You want me to kiss you?" His voice sounded whiney.

"I’m not sure about that yet," she said. "I want you to WANT to kiss me." Again she acted as if it was a completely reasonable response.

"None of this seems familiar at all," moaned Kris. "Are you a normal woman?" He felt his face flush. "I mean do all women want that kind of thing?"

"I don’t know about other women," she said simply. "I feel normal."

"Well I DID tell him I slapped your ass," Kris offered. He knew immediately that he’d made a terrible mistake, when she turned on him, anger plainly on her face. "Wait a minute!" he yelped. "I thought I was SUPPOSED to say things like that!"

"That part was true, you simpleton!" she snapped. "You’re not supposed to share REAL intimate details."

"Oh," he said. "I guess I didn’t realize it was that intimate."

"Well it was," said the unfathomable woman standing in front of him. "Now, sit down and write. I have to think about how I’m going to do damage control. Why nature inflicted men on women, I’ll never know."

She didn’t speak to him again, or come read over his shoulder, until she appeared in her waitress uniform ready to go. She had Ambrose bundled up and ready to go as well.

"You have to leave now," she said, her voice neutral.

"OK," he said. "Let me finish this last paragraph while it’s fresh in my mind. It won’t take but twenty seconds."

"Lock the door on your way out," she said.

Her car was running when he went outside, but she was standing beside it. He could see Ambrose in his car seat in the back, through the window. She was obviously waiting on him, but he thought it was just to make sure he left the house. He was wrong about that.

"Kris," she said.

He went to stand in front of her. He had no idea what she was going to say.

"I want to try something," she said.

"OK," he agreed, instinctively.

The kiss surprised him. Her hands came up to grasp his face on each side and she leaned up as she pulled his face down. Her actions, unannounced like they were, were the surprise. What staggered him was the KIND of kiss she gave him. Her lips were warm and soft, and there was a hungry quality to the kiss, as she opened her lips and used them to nip at his. His automatic response was to open his own lips, even as he was overwhelmed by the passion she was communicating to him. Her tongue flicked out once, very briefly, to touch his inside his mouth. Then it was over as quickly as it had begun.

"See what that makes you remember," she said softly.

He was still standing there, feeling weak in the knees, as she drove away down the street.

Chapter 18

Kris wrote three more chapters at work that night. He took Lulu’s idea about Lady Tinsley and had her offer to do anything Sir Quigley liked, if he would leave her daughter alone and ensure that no one else molested her either.

"She’s of marriageable age," snorted Sir Quigley.

"And it is of great importance to me that she BE marriageable, upon our return," pled the matron.

"You would debase yourself on her account?" asked the gentleman pirate.

"I would do … anything … if only she remains pure."

"An admirable quality in a mother, I must admit," said Sir Quigley. He bowed. "I accede to your request, Madame Tinsley. If you please me, I will attempt to make your trials bearable."

Then he filled page after page describing how Judith Tinsley used imagination she wasn’t aware she’d had up to that point, and found great, if secret, joy in attempting to please the pirate, as she insisted upon being ravished over and over again.

What she didn’t know was that her daughter was in the locker nearby, bound and gagged, but able to see what was going on through the slats in the door. From Quigley’s perspective, it was only fair that she be able to see what her mother was willing to suffer for her sake.

When he went off shift, he wasn’t sure whether it was wise to go to The Early Girl again for breakfast or not. The kiss had done wonders for the steaminess of his writing … but he hadn’t remembered anything. That kiss convinced him, however, that she wasn’t really angry with him, so he went.

"So," she greeted him, looking at him through lowered lashes. "Did you remember anything?"

"Um … not exactly," he said.

"Not exactly," she said as she showed him to "his" booth.

"I wrote some things … and they kind of came out of the blue, so I sort of figure I must have done some of them sometime in my past."

"I see," she said. "I’ll be back," she said, looking through the window into the parking lot.

He watched as she went to the door and met Jessica. They put their heads together for what seemed like a long discussion. Then Jessica came straight to his booth and sat down across from him.

"You can tell Mitch about what you saw at the party," she said, without prelude.

"I can?"

"Yes, but you can’t tell him I gave you permission," she said. "That part has to stay a secret."

"OK," he said, uncertainly. "I don’t understand."

"You don’t need to understand," she said. "You can tell him, but he has to think you’re breaking your promise to me. Can you do that?"

"I don’t WANT to break my promise to you," he said.

"You won’t be," she smiled. "I gave you permission."

"But Mitch will think I’m breaking my promise," Kris pointed out.

"That’s fine," said Jessica, as if that made sense. "And don’t tell him what you told Lulu."

"What’s that?" asked Kris.

"That you thought it would look better on her."

"Oh," he said, flushing.

"It’s OK," said Jessica. "You’re not supposed to lust after me."

"I wish I understood what was going on," moaned Kris.

"You will someday. Just remember what I said. You can do it. I have faith in you."

Then she got up and left.

Harper got out of the car and went into the apartment building. It was a strange time of day for a burglary in progress to have been reported, but the responding patrol said it was obviously a break-in and they had a perp in custody. He decided to talk to the witness first. She’d been identified by the 911 operator, but hadn’t been interviewed yet.

Half an hour later, Harper once more thanked the powers that be for nosy neighbors. Janet Grimsley, a seventy-two year old woman, had a son, who had worried about her being alone back home in Oklahoma, where there were tornados and thunderstorms and all manner of dangerous natural situations. So he’d brought her to New York City, where there were muggers and rapists and all manner of dangerous human situations. He was an investment banker, so Harper figured he wasn’t expected to have a lot of common sense.

She’d brought her sensibilities with her, though, and with nothing else to do all day, she sat and watched people through the window. It was while she was doing that that she saw the cat burglar, as she called him, climb up a fire escape, break a window, and enter one of the apartments across the alley from her son’s building. She called 911 and the rest was history. Or would be once he interrogated the subject, collected the evidence, filed a report and the courts decided what, if anything, to do. Mrs. Grimsley had even served him tea and cookies, which, even after twenty years on the force, was a first for Jim Harper.

He went across the wide alley and up to the crime scene. The responding patrol had already put up yellow crime scene tape and he had to duck to get into the room. His eyes went to the broken window in one wall and the shards of glass on the floor. He surveyed the room, ignoring the cop standing behind a huddled captive, who was sitting on the floor. They must have gotten there quickly indeed, because he could see no evidence that things had been rifled through.

There wasn’t much visible that was of obvious value, though there was a collection of art and art objects that might be worth something. It was hard to tell, these days. People would pay thousands of dollars for art that was created by a monkey or even an elephant. They looked like kid’s drawings to Jim, but were sometimes worth more than a month of his pay.

"I’m NOT a thief!" exclaimed the burglar loudly.

Jim looked down and was surprised to see it was a woman. She was blonde and good looking in a slightly trashy kind of way. She was dressed all in black and there was a black stocking mask on the floor, where the patrolman had dropped it, probably after he wrestled the subject into cuffs and removed it. Harper couldn’t keep a smile off his face. He already knew this was going to be an interesting case, if he was dealing with a burglar who wore that kind of outfit in daylight hours and then proclaimed loudly she wasn’t a burglar.

"No," he said calmly. "You’re not a thief. You’re an ATTEMPTED thief."

"NO!" shouted the woman. "This is all a mistake!"

"So you mistakenly broke the window and climbed into an apartment you don’t rent," he said, still smiling. "I can’t wait to see the judge’s face when you tell him that."

"No, you don’t understand!" wailed the burglar. "I tried to tell this stupid flat foot, but he wouldn’t listen. This is my boyfriend’s apartment. I have every right to be here!"

"Is that a fact?" said Harper drolly. "Well, now, I suppose your boyfriend will have to be the one to verify your claim. Where might I find him Miss… ?"

"Henderson," she said. "Lola Henderson. And I don’t know where you can find him. That’s the problem. That’s why I came here."

Harper looked at the beat cop, who was standing placidly, not really interested in anything but making sure his captive didn’t get away.

"Did you clear the apartment?"

The cop looked pained and nodded. "Of course. There’s nobody else here."

Harper looked back at the woman. "I’d like to hear what you have to say, but I need to get the scene processed first. We’ll talk later, Lola. OK?" He looked back at the patrolman. "Take her downtown and book her in for B&E. Advise her of her rights on the way."

"Noooooooooooo," wailed Lola. "You can’t arrest meeeeee. I can’t go to jail! I’ll be raped!"

Jim looked down at her. Tears were rolling down her face. Her makeup wasn’t waterproof and she was starting to look like a zombie already.

"We’ll put you in with only women, Lola."

"That w-w-won’t mat-t-t-er," sobbed the woman. "Women g-g-go for me, t-t-too," she moaned.

"We’ll tell them all to behave themselves," said Harper, trying not to laugh. "Just keep your legs closed. You’ll be fine."

She cried and moaned all the way out of the apartment, but didn’t give the patrolman any real trouble. It was pretty obvious she’d never been involved in anything like this before. Her appearance and her reaction to being arrested suggested that everything she knew about crime and justice had been learned from TV.

Processing the scene took almost no time. Whoever lived in this apartment kept things tidy. The only thing that appeared to have been disturbed was the desk. The computer had been turned on and all the drawers were open. Papers were scattered all over the desktop.

He took a few minutes to play with the computer, but it was securely passworded and the few tricks he knew didn’t get him in. All the mail he found was addressed to Kristoff Farmingham. The postmarks on all of it were at least a month old, which seemed odd. He looked around for a phone, but didn’t find one. It was getting rare to find an actual landline these days. Maybe Lola, if she actually knew Farmingham, would know his phone number, too. Jim would tell her that could be mitigating evidence, showing that she really did know the man. He wouldn’t tell her that it would also establish probable cause that she knew whose apartment she was breaking into, which meant she knew it wasn’t her own, which was one of the elements of proof for the offense of breaking and entering.

The crime scene tech arrived and Jim told him to collect the glass fragments, and process the desk for prints. He told him to collect all the papers that the subject might have touched, so they could be processed for prints as well, should it be needed. Jim didn’t think that would have to happen. When they’re caught red-handed, there’s almost always a plea deal.

Jim sat, looking calmly at Lola Henderson, who was still a mess. He didn’t care about that. All he cared about was what she’d said. He’d gotten a full and complete confession to the B&E. That she hadn’t intended to steal anything, he actually believed. She was just another example of a scorned woman, who couldn’t accept the fact that her boyfriend got tired of her and stopped contacting her. What he wasn’t so sure about was her wild tale that Farmingham was an author who had disappeared off into the ozone while he wrote another book. Her tale there was disjointed enough that it sounded like she believed it. That didn’t make it true, of course. The landlord had confirmed that the rent had been paid six months in advance, but that didn’t prove anything either. Maybe Farmingham went to visit his mother, figuring to stay long enough that his girlfriend would get the message and move on. Who knew? At any rate, she seemed to believe he was gone, writing a book, and that supported her claim that she’d only been trying to figure out WHERE he’d gone by searching his desk and computer.

He’d had her go over it three times. There was a singular lack of changes to her story, which usually meant he was getting the truth, or at least what the interviewee believed was the truth. It was sad, in a way. He’d already run her through the system and she’d never gotten so much as a jaywalking ticket. She was obviously not a pro. Love … or what passed for love … had gotten her into trouble and now she was going to suffer for it. He was quite sure she’d just get probation and have to pay for the repairs to the window. The landlord was already loudly demanding compensation.

He stood up. Lola looked up at him tearfully. It was sad, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

He turned and left the interview room.

Mitch settled into the booth across from Kris.

"Morning," he said.

"This is getting to be a regular thing," said Kris.

"Not much else to do this time of the day," said Mitch airily. "You’re here every morning. Why can’t I be?"

"I’m not complaining," said Kris. "I was just making an observation, that’s all."

Mitch shrugged. "Nobody believes they can be friends with a cop. It’s really sad. I mean we’re just like anybody else. The only difference is that I put on a badge and gun, while you boot up a computer and pound the keyboard. We’re both just making a living, but for some reason people always think a cop is trying to get something on them. They can’t believe he could just be a plain old friend."

"Well," said Kris. "You said yourself that you were going to watch me. What else am I supposed to think?"

"I have been watching you," said Mitch, shrugging. "You’re interesting, but you don’t set off any of my cop alarms. I still want to know who shot you, and why, and how you ended up running off the road in my jurisdiction, but I no longer think you’re a danger to society. I could be wrong."

"Thanks for that," said Kris, dryly.

"And anyway, Lulu likes you. I respect her judgment a lot."

"I told her you said that," said Kris.

Mitch looked wary. He turned to look for Lulu, but she was busy at the other end of the diner. She’d acknowledged his arrival, but that was all.

"How’d she react?" he asked.

"She kissed me," said Kris.

Mitch grinned. "Can I call 'em or what?"

"She said you were being nosey."

"No law against being nosey," said Mitch, still grinning.

"You still want to know what Jessica was wearing at the party?"

Mitch looked wary, again. "I thought you were sworn to secrecy."

"I am," said Kris. "But you got me kissed. I feel like I owe you something."

"You’re willing to chance the wrath of Jessica and Lulu, just to pay me back?"

"Well, I was kind of thinking that, since I’m an author and all, but since I also can’t remember BEING an author … maybe I could give you an example of how I might describe something … say a woman wearing some lingerie, for example … and get your reaction to whether it’s a good description or not."

"I see," said Mitch, grinning again. "I like the way you think. I’m all ears. I’ve done some reading, and I know what I liked and didn’t like."

Kris leaned forward and lowered his voice.

"I didn’t know anyone would be there when I walked into the room. She obviously wasn’t expecting me, based on the way she was dressed. I don’t know who she was expecting … but it wasn’t me. She was a tall woman, with the milk chocolate skin that announces a mixture of races. Even if she’d been dressed normally, her figure would have shouted to be appreciated."

Mitch closed his eyes and rested his chin on the heels of both hands, his elbows on the table in front of him.

"It was what she was wearing that screamed at me, just then. It could only be called the naughty nurse outfit. It was all white, except for red crosses in places a man would look anyway, but which drew the gaze. White high heels held stocking clad feet. The stockings went to her thighs, where the white gave way to that chocolate skin. The thin straps of a garter belt connected the stockings to her waist, but did nothing to conceal the lacy, translucent white panties she wore. Just a triangle of filmy white with a red cross on the front, they seemed to be held on by thread, that went up and over her hips. I expected to see black through the panties … the bulge made by fluffy hair, but instead I saw only that thin cloth, drawn up between two puffy bumps between her legs."

Mitch groaned.

"My eyes flicked up to find her big, brown ones staring at me. Her mouth was open, forming a small O of surprise. My brain told me I’d missed something and my gaze dropped to the bikini bra that was tenderly cupping swollen breasts that made my mouth water. That bra was translucent too, even the red crosses that covered the tips. There were two dark spots showing through that I knew were her stiff nipples, jutting out towards me, begging for attention.

Mitch groaned again and sagged back against the back of the seat, his eyes still closed.

"Her hat completed the outfit, a white nurse’s cap with a red cross on it, and I suddenly knew that if I were ever injured, I wanted THIS nurse to take care of me."

It was quiet for fifteen seconds before Mitch opened his eyes.

"So … what do you think?" asked Kris.

"I am firmly convinced that you are, in fact, an author," said Mitch. "That I can’t find evidence of that only leads me to believe that you write books of the kind found in adult book stores, which are not often advertised to the general public." He leaned forward again. "How much of that was … um … made up for your … book?"

"Well," said Kris softly. "I suppose that a real outfit like that might not be quite as see-through as I made it. And, in the real world, if a man found himself in that situation, he might not get quite as good a look at things as I described. But this is for a fictional account, so I decided I could take a little license."

"Man!" sighed Mitch. "You can take license any time you want, as far as I’m concerned. Is that how you’re writing this pirate book of yours?"

"Pretty much," said Kris. "Except, of course, there aren’t any naughty nurses in it."

"What about naughty nurses?" came a voice from the end of the table that made both men jump. They looked up to see Lou Anne standing there, coffee pot in hand.

"Oh, nothing," said Kris, blushing. "I was just tossing something around with Mitch that I was thinking about putting into a book I’m thinking about writing."

"You’re already writing a book," said Lou Anne sweetly.

"I’ll have to write another one after that, won’t I?" asked Kris.

"I suppose so," she said. "I’ll get you boys something to eat. The usual?"

"Surprise me," said Kris.

"Anything," said Mitch. He was fidgeting in his seat.

"OK," she said brightly.

She moved to her right, which put her behind Mitch. She looked over her shoulder at Kris. Her eyes flicked past him, then right and left, before coming back to his. She winked and pursed her lips in what was obviously a kiss, then went on to the end of the counter and behind it, to tell Hank what to cook them. Kris turned around to look behind him. There were a couple of customers there, but none were paying attention to him.

"Did you see anything else?" asked Mitch, leaning forward again. "In this fictional account you’re thinking about, I mean?"

"A little reality crept in at that point," said Kris smiling. "Seeing as how I wasn’t supposed to be there … in the plot, I mean … I left."

"Too bad," sighed Mitch.

"Oh, I almost forgot," said Kris. "I remembered something."

"What?"

"It’s not much, but I had a girlfriend named Lola. I mean I HAVE a girlfriend named Lola, I guess. She’s blonde."

"Last name?" asked Mitch.

Kris shook his head. "Didn’t get that. It was funny … I knew she was my girlfriend, but it was like I wanted to break up with her. She didn’t FEEL like a girlfriend in my mind, you know?"

"Oddly enough, I do understand," said Mitch. Carla and I have been on an off half a dozen times. I think we stay together just because we’re both too lazy to go out and find somebody else."

"Is that why you flirt so much?" asked Kris.

"I do not flirt, sir!" said Mitch. "I merely pay attention to people, women included. I may make the odd observation about the beauty of a woman on occasion, but it’s purely platonic."

"I bet you’re going to flirt with Jess the next time you see her," said Kris, smiling.

"I’m going to have to wear two jockstraps from now on, just in case I bump into her, thanks to you," sighed Mitch.

Chapter 19

Jim Harper faced the district attorney, who happened to be a short heavy woman with the temperament of a short heavy woman. That was to say she was surly. Whether that had to do with the lack of male interest in her as a woman, or the case Harper had just briefed her on, was a thing for supposition.

"I can’t do anything without a victim," said the DA.

"He’s off writing a novel somewhere," said Harper. "Paid his rent in advance and didn’t tell anybody where he was going. I have no idea where he is."

"I’m not taking her before a judge without a victim there to say she had no right to enter that apartment," said the woman. "The judge would toss me out on my ear. Besides, if it turns out she DOES have permission to go into his apartment, the only crime there will be is destruction of private property. You think the judge is going to look kindly on me for bringing him a case with a total value of maybe fifty bucks? I’m not crazy, Harper. Find me a victim."

Harper wanted to curse. He had enough on his plate already, he didn’t need this wild goose chase. But he knew she was right. He turned to leave.

"And Harper!" she barked. He turned back. "You have ninety days before the speedy trial rule kicks in and I have to drop the charges."

"Can’t you get a continuance?"

"Even her pimply faced public defender knows about speedy trial," said the DA. "He says he’s ready to go to trial tomorrow, and that all she was doing was trying to recover some of her own property that she left there before her boyfriend up and vanished. I’m not even going to file until I know we have a victim. Got it?"

"Yes, ma’am."

It was Kris' night off and it happened to coincide with Lou Anne’s night off. There was another part time waitress at The Early Girl and, because neither of them wanted to work the same days all the time and both wanted to have every day of the week off, occasionally, they agreed to shift the schedule around sometimes. Hank didn’t care, as long as somebody was there to take care of the customers.

It was just habit by now for Kris to go and write at her place. He valued Lulu’s opinions on what was already written and it went better when they were both there while she did her editing. If she found a problem, they could talk about it and Kris could make the needed changes right then and there. And, since he had a habit of skipping around in the outline, writing whatever scene or chapter seemed to be calling to him, she was aware of where he was working within the manuscript and could keep up.

The cold had broken, finally, and it was a whopping thirty-one degrees outside. It almost felt like spring, as far as Kris was concerned. When Lulu answered the door, she looked dressed for spring, too. On this night she had on a white tank top, with leopard print straps and matching piping around the neckline. Again she wasn’t wearing a bra, but he didn’t know that just because her nipples spiked when the cool air hit them. He could see the dark circles of her areolas through the shirt, too. It was almost see-through and she had to know that. Below that she wore dark blue hip hugger jeans and big fluffy house slippers made to look like twin baby leopards. Kris just stood there, running his eyes up and down her body.

"I see we’re feeling a little cat-like tonight," he said.

"It’s not polite to stare," she said. He noticed that her chest arched forward … just a little … as she stood back to give him room to enter.

"When a woman answers the door like that, she expects to be stared at," Kris countered.

"What happened to that shy little boy who came to visit me just last week?" she asked sweetly.

"Oh, he’s around somewhere," said Kris, stepping in. "He’s been hiding ever since the girl next door kissed him."

She laughed. "I’m anything BUT the girl next door."

"Only because the house next door wasn’t for rent when I was looking," he said, smiling.

"Well aren’t you sweet," she said. "Have you remembered anything else?"

"Nothing," he said, his shoulders slumping. "I’m beginning to think I never will."

"Would that be so bad?" she asked. "I mean you’ve sort of started over here. You have a job and you’re writing a wonderful book. Is this life so miserable that you can’t think of anything other than going back to your other one?"

"This life is fine," he said. He realized he really meant that. It was a nice town, full of nice, if slightly suspicious people. He WAS writing here, even if it wasn’t what he usually wrote, whatever that was. And, if he could sell what he was writing, and find a place to live that wasn’t quite as expensive as the rental he was in…

And, of course, there was Lou Anne. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he liked her a lot. He decided it was more than that. She captivated him. His thoughts flickered to the sirens of yore, sitting on their island, luring seamen to their destruction. He didn’t feel like he was being destroyed. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"Good," she said, unaware of his thoughts and their complexity. "What did you get written last night?"

"I did the scene with Duchess Clayworth," he said. "Where he takes her the first time."

Lulu tilted her head. "This is the Henrietta woman, right? She’s the one who inherited her lands and the shipping business when her father died."

"Yes, she’s the Duchess of Fellborough, she’s the one who sets the hounds on him when she’s released," said Kris.

"And she’s not married, right?" asked Lulu.

"Nope. She’s an old maid at twenty-four and a firebrand. All the men who work for her are scared pantless of her."

"Well, I’m twenty-four, and if I were a duchess, and single, I’d want all the men around me to be pantless." She grinned.

"You’re a hussy," said Kris. "The Duchess of Fellborough isn’t. She’s pure as the driven snow."

"Until Quigley gets a hold of her," said Lulu, who actually managed to look like she was leering.

Kris laughed. "She’s going to be a tough nut to crack." He tipped his head. "Somebody told me I had to make her that way."

Lulu put on a Betty Boop look, both on her face and with her body. "But he’ll bust a nut anyway … right?" She fanned her face with one hand.

"I can NOT believe you said that," said Kris. "That’s just WAY below your noble breeding."

"First I’m the girl next door and now I’m a noblewoman?" Lou Anne laughed. "I’m beginning to think you’re having fantasies about me."

"Only all the time," he said. He hadn’t meant to say it quite like that. "I mean when I’m not writing." He frowned. "No, that isn’t right. You’re always in my mind when I’m writing."

She looked at him in that way that let her hair fall to cover one eye. The other had a lowered lash.

"Why Kris, have you been pretending that you’re Quigley and I’m … all those women?"

More comfortable with her flirty banter by now, Kris was able to join in.

"Well, you told me I’d have to ravish you. And you have the most fascinating multiple personality disorder," he said. "You seem to be all women, wrapped up into one delightful bundle."

"Would you like a snack?" she said, changing the subject suddenly.

Thinking that what he’d like to snack on was packed into those dark blue jeans, Kris nodded. She turned and he followed her to the kitchen. Two places were already set, as if she’d been expecting him. There was a napkin beside one plate. The other had gotten blown off the table, perhaps by the wind of her passing, and was on the floor. She bent over to pick it up.

Kris saw that gorgeous bubble butt in those tight jeans and just couldn’t resist. He reached and slapped her right cheek as she grasped the napkin. She froze and her head slowly turned to look up, over her shoulder.

"Ow," she said softly.

There was a smoky look in her eyes. He could see both of them now, because her hair had fallen away from her face. The bare left side of her scalp gleamed. He had no idea why, but it looked erotic as hell. When she didn’t stand up immediately, instinct made him slap her tight butt again.

"Ow," she said again. Then she stood up and turned to face him. "You’re very bold."

"I’m the most feared pirate on the Spanish Main," he said hopefully.

She didn’t bite. Instead she held out the napkin she had just picked up and dropped it.

"Oops," she said.

When he saw her drop it, he expected her to bend over to pick it up again. He was primed to slap her ass again, too, and he could suddenly feel his prick getting hard.

"Would you be kind enough to get that?" she asked.

His thought process swerved and jerked as she did something he wasn’t prepared for, and which seemed totally out of character for her, at the moment.

He bent over automatically.

He felt her hand hit his butt hard, on the right side, copying where he’d smacked her. It stung. She’d hit him a LOT harder than he’d hit her. He staggered forward and came up without the napkin, his face flushed. He was half angry … and half titillated.

Quite suddenly he remembered something. It wasn’t from his past … at least not from before the accident. He remembered writing the scene in which Quigley had picked up a squealing captive, over his shoulder, and carried her to his cabin. Before he thought things through, he moved towards Lulu, bending over. His right shoulder impacted her stomach as her hands tried to ward him off but missed and slid along his back. Effortlessly he straightened. She wasn’t as heavy as her solid frame looked.

She squealed most satisfactorily.

"Put me down!" she yipped, with what little breath was left in her lungs.

He carried her toward the living room.

"Kris!" she gasped. "Put me down!"

His right hand came up and fell on her rounded buttocks, pulling, to keep her from falling off his shoulder. He squeezed her butt and she started kicking wildly.

"KRIS!" she laughed.

"Quiet," he growled. "You’ll wake up Ambrose."

"What are you DOING?" She wiggled on his shoulder as he groped her butt.

"You’re about to find out how bold I really am," he warned.

By then he was at the couch. Displaying more strength than his appearance suggested he had, he rolled her off his shoulder and down his front, controlling her so that as he plopped down on the couch, she was lying across his lap. She tried to get up immediately, and he put a hand on the middle of her back to hold her down.

"Don’t you dare!" she laughed.

It took four hard smacks before she stopped fighting. He gave her one on the right, which he already knew might be a little sore, then switched to the left. Then he repeated that.

"OK, OK," she moaned. "I give up."

"Do you?" he asked, stroking her jeans-clad butt.

She rolled away from him suddenly, falling to the floor at his feet, laughing.

"Of course not, you twit!" she giggled. Her giggle turned to an "EEEP," as he leaned forward and covered her with his body, ending up sitting on her thighs while he took one of her wrists in each hand and pinned them to the floor.

"A lot of good THAT’s going to do you," she said. "You can’t let go of my wrists, or I’ll get you back. I fight dirty too, tough guy!"

"You do?" he asked with a rising voice. "That’s funny. Me too."

Pulling her arms in an arc to her sides, he scooted down. His weight pinned her lower legs to the carpet and his strength kept her wrists on the floor beside her hips. He lowered his head and nuzzled her belly until he got the hem of her shirt in his teeth. She wiggled and giggled, complaining that he was tickling her, until she felt the cloth pull away from her stomach.

"What are you doing, Kris?" she asked breathily.

"Yul phee" he said through clenched teeth.

He started working his way back up, dragging the shirt with his teeth, exposing her belly.

"You can’t DO this!" she said. She wasn’t laughing anymore.

He let go of the shirt and stared at the silver curved barbell, with a ball on the top and a sun on the bottom, that pierced her belly button.

"I like that," he said, kissing the ornament.

"Thank you," she said. "What are you going to do?"

"I’m going to see something I’ve wanted to see for a while now," he said calmly, looking into her eyes.

"And what makes you think I’ll let you?" she asked, still firmly in his control.

"I think you’ll let me because I think you want me to see them, too."

It was a pivotal moment. Up to this point, it had been sexual play. No rules or limits had been discussed and this was, after all, a fairly sudden escalation of things.

"If you think I’m just going to show you my tits, buster, you’d better keep thinking," she said.

"Let me see," he said. He paused to lean down and tongue her belly button. The barbell felt cool against his tongue. He heard her make a tiny noise, deep in her throat. "If I was thinking about it and you say I should keep thinking about it … OK. I’m down with that."

He captured the hem of her shirt in his teeth again and pulled upward.

"Kris!" she whined. "You’re stretching my shirt!"

"If you’d cooperate I wouldn’t have to," he mumbled.

She rolled to one side and then back to the other, as if she were struggling, but he noticed that her movements allowed the shirt to ride up, instead of being caught under her back. He got it all the way to the bottom of her breasts before he couldn’t go any further. He stopped.

"This caveman stuff is a lot harder than it looks," he said, breathing deeply.

"Is that what this is all about?" she giggled. "You’re trying to be my caveman?"

"Don’t mock me, woman," he said sternly. "I’m a little out of practice, but after I get my second wind you’re in big trouble, Missy."

She laughed again.

"Let go of my arms for a minute," she said.

"And let you get away so some other caveman can have you? HA! Not likely!"

"Just let go for a minute," she said. "My shirt is all rolled up under me and it’s not comfortable."

"Oh, well of course, then. Paaardon meeeee," he said, shaking his head. "I might be trying to be a good caveman, but you have a long way to go as a cavewoman if a little rolled up shirt is going to bother you so much."

He sounded whiny, but he leaned back and released her hands. What he’d been trying to do hadn’t worked out anyway and the mood was lost.

She arched her back and reached behind her with astonishing flexibility, pulling the back of the shirt higher. Then she flexed her stomach muscles and pulled her upper torso four inches off the carpet, until she got the back of the shirt clear up to her shoulder blades. Then she lay back down and let her arms fall to the floor … right where they’d been when he let go of her.

"That’s better," she said. She stared into his eyes.

He broke eye contact to look at her chest. The shirt was now pulling up on the lower swells of her breasts. He could see where her breast flesh joined her chest.

Suddenly, the mood was back.

"Show them to me," he almost whispered.

"You have to work for it," she said softly. "I’m going to push you off of me in thirty seconds, so you’d better hurry."

He captured her wrists again. The cloth was pulled so tightly across the bottom of her breasts that he couldn’t get a bite, and he was reduced to pressing his face between her breasts to get the shirt in his teeth.

"Gently," she warned. "I like this shirt."

He pulled up and felt the tension on the cloth suddenly change. He let go with his teeth and … there they were.

She was very pink. Her areolas were a darker pink and smooth, about two inches in diameter. Proudly straining outward from the middle of each one was a nipple the same color as the surrounding flesh. The nipples were hard … obviously hard … and were thicker than he’d expected, being about the diameter of her pinky fingertip. They stood up at least half an inch. The luscious looking nipples and their backgrounds perched on breasts that might require a bra in the thirty-four range … if she ever wore one. He felt drool about to escape his mouth and sucked it back in and swallowed.

He didn’t ask. He was afraid to, really. But he let her wrists go as he leaned down to suck one of those delicious nipples between his lips. Her "mmmmmmm" told him everything he needed to know. He kept going as he felt her fingers slide over his close-cropped hair.

Sometime later, during which he tried to remember doing this to some other woman and couldn’t, something told him to stop and look up at her. He’d been alternating back and forth, completely happy to be making love to her nipples, and it had been a long time. He didn’t want to make her sore.

"Too much?" he asked.

"You’re very gentle for a caveman," she said, smiling. "More."

Twenty minutes later he pulled back. She lay there, a dreamy smile on her face, and he felt the thrill of knowing he’d made her happy.

Now was another crunch point, however. Their lovemaking had been unhurried, almost sedate, as he licked and sucked her nipples gently. It had been foreplay, but without the urgency of the usual kind of foreplay. He was stiff as a board in his pants, but wasn’t sure he should let her know that. He wasn’t sure about anything, except that he loved making her happy.

He looked at her belly button again. It was about three inches above the waistband of her jeans. The creamy, pink skin between it and those dark blue jeans looked smooth and soft. He didn’t see any stretch marks, though he wouldn’t have cared if they were there. He leaned down to kiss her belly where he’d been looking.

"Mmmmmm," came that somehow throaty sound from her lips. Her hips arched up off the floor.

Now he felt urgency. But he controlled it. Slow was a good thing right now. He sat back on his calves, which were thick enough that he didn’t put too much pressure on her shins. Very slowly, he reached for the button that fastened her jeans. He looked up to find her greenish blue eyes staring back at him. Her lips were parted and he noticed her breasts rise and fall as she breathed deeply.

As if in slow motion his fingertips gripped the cloth and stretched it, while his other fingers tipped the button through the open hole. The button snapped through, quickly, and the tab to her zipper was suddenly exposed. The first three or four teeth of the zipper were already apart. He looked back up at her face. Nothing had changed. She was just lying there, watching his face.

He knew, somehow, not to say anything. Words would only break the mood. Again, as if in slow motion, his right thumb and forefinger reached for the tab of her zipper and gripped it. He tugged gently and four more teeth came apart.

It took him fully thirty seconds to pull the zipper down and the whole time, her smoldering eyes stared into his. He finally looked down. Her panties were black and right in the middle of them was a red and white heart. The edges of the zipper had pulled apart and were sticking up, as if they were the mouth of the jeans, begging to be pulled down.

The tension was killing him, but he forced himself to keep moving slowly. He gripped the waistband and tugged gently. It was obvious he couldn’t do this without her assistance, and he almost gasped as he saw her belly muscles ripple and her hips came up off the floor. He tugged at the jeans like they were a too tight pair of gloves, pulling first here and then there, until they slid over the crown of her hips and suddenly were free. He scooted back and pulled impatiently until the jeans got caught on the baby leopard slippers.

She giggled as he let out a small frustrated sigh and removed the slippers. On impulse, he sucked the big toe of her left foot into his mouth, like it was a huge nipple.

She squealed and jerked, sitting up. But all she did was pull the shirt over her head and lie back down. When he got her jeans off, she was lying there in only the black panties. He could see now that there were three hearts on the front. They were bikini style, with thin straps that had lain under the hip-hugging waistband of her jeans before he’d taken them off. He licked his lips, staring at the expanse of skin exposed on her flanks.

When he looked back up at her face, it was just as before. She was just watching him, her eyes glittering now. He crawled forward again, feeling faintly foolish on his hands and knees, until he could sit back again, freeing his hands. They reached for those thin straps and tugged gently at them.

She did not raise her butt off the floor this time.

Somehow he knew he was expected to be more forceful. Sliding his right hand under her, he grappled for the back of the panties and pulled them down, while her whole weight lay on his hand. He pinched, and she made a sound in her throat and finally lifted. He looked at the front panel of the panties, which had slipped down to where hair should have been exposed … if there had been any hair there.

He felt his heart hammering in his chest as he reached one last time. Mustering control over his excited body, he tugged, as before, slowly uncovering the prize, until the tip of the split between her labia came into view. He stopped there and brushed one thumb across the top of the groove.

She tensed all over.

He pulled the panties down a little further, exposing more of her cleft. Her lips were full, but tightly closed, with her legs together.

She wiggled her legs under his butt … just a little. He rose and her knees rose with him. He had the panties off of her in seconds, half squatting on one knee. He stood up, just staring.

She pulled her knees up and then, as slowly as he’d removed her clothing, let them drift apart … wider and wider … so slowly that it seemed he was in a dream, until her knees fell the last three inches to hit the floor with a soft sound, leaving her fully exposed. Her labia weren’t closed anymore, but had pulled apart only a little, exposing a dark promise of sweet offering inside. Her hands came up from where they’d lain the entire time and she cupped her breasts, pinching and rolling her nipples.

The sound that came from her throat affected him like an electric shock. He lost two buttons on his shirt, getting it off. As slowly as he had stripped her, now he couldn’t move fast enough. He almost fell over as he hopped first on one foot, then on the other, trying to get his pants off. He stood, in socks and shorts, panting slightly, his shoulders hunched. He didn’t know it, but to Lulu he looked remarkably like a cave man, his hulking body standing over her.

She sat up suddenly and he almost moaned at the loss of the sight of her peach-like pussy. She said nothing, but rose gracefully into a posture that put both her knees to one side of her, allowing her to lean close to his shorts. Her fingers came up to the waistband. When he felt her fingertips touch his skin his stomach sucked in of its own accord, while his lungs inflated to maximum capacity.

She copied him, pulling down so slowly he thought he’d scream. His penis was already lying against his abdomen, having sought that position as it hardened. He looked down as she uncovered the tip. He was so hard that his foreskin had already pulled back, exposing a circle of darker, smoother flesh about an inch in diameter. As she dragged the shorts along the shaft, the foreskin slipped lower. His prick began to lean toward her as the shorts got lower, like a flower facing the sun. It was only two inches from her lips when she pulled his shorts off his balls and reached around to pull the back down. She shoved the cloth down then and, without warning, grasped him in her right hand.

"Jessica said you had a nice one," she whispered. It was the only thing either of them had said for fifteen minutes.

Then she took him in her mouth.

Chapter 20

As slowly as things had progressed to that point, once she touched him in an overtly sexual way, things just kind of went wild. Kris didn’t know what to do first. He wanted to stand there like this forever, with her hot mouth sucking at him. But he remembered those lush pussy lips and his tongue ached to taste them. At the same time, there was another hot, slick place his prick wanted to be. His balls wanted his prick to be there, too, rather than deliver their nectar to her throat.

Almost frantically, he gripped her head and transmitted through his fingers that he wanted her mouth off of him. She pulled back, sucking all the way, reluctant to give him up, but as soon as she saw what he intended, she rolled to her knees and let him lie down. Then, with practiced ease, she arched a knee over him and settled her pussy on his mouth, while she took him in hers again.

Kris feasted, loving her taste and loving the smooth feel of her freshly shaven pudendum. His hands gripped her buttocks, moving from place to place and leaving momentary white imprints of his fingers where her flesh was still dark from his spanking. He realized she wasn’t trying to get him to cum. She was just loving his penis with her mouth, sucking and nibbling and licking, playing with it, keeping it hard as stone. He realized the room was full of sound now, both her high pitched hums and squeaks and his own lower Campbell Soup kind of happy humming. He found her clit and lapped and pushed at it with his lips, wishing he could see it so he could suck at it properly.

The heat left his prick and he felt her hand stroking it slowly … too slowly to be trying to make him cum … just exploring it and feeling it.

Then, without warning again, she rolled off of him, to lay splayed open again like she had been before.

He rolled up onto his side. Her invitation was unmistakable.

How he got there he would never remember, but he suddenly found himself gripping his cock, the tip nosed securely between the lips he had just been kissing. His hips were tensed to lunge forward and his brain screamed at him to sheathe himself in her.

But another part of his brain reminded him that slow had been excruciatingly delightful so far. He pressed gently and she moaned. He lifted his eyes, to find her staring at him again, with something in her eyes that urged him on, but also showed appreciation for his gentleness.

It took him thirty seconds until he felt the skin at the base of his prick press wetly against her spread labia.

"Ohhhh yes," she whispered.

It felt so good to be in her that he simply left himself there, buried, and ground against her, trying to push even deeper. Her hands helped him, her nails digging deep into the flesh of his buttocks.

It was slow like that for maybe a minute and then, like magic, he was pulling and thrusting, as her hips found the opposite rhythm, falling away as he withdrew and leaping up to accept his thrust. He knew within another minute that he couldn’t keep this up. He was burning energy at a prodigious rate, pounding into her urgently now, all thought of gentleness gone. She dragged in a deep breath, the air rasping in her throat, and her hips quivered somehow as her throat began letting that air out in a whine that got higher and higher. He knew suddenly that she was cumming and, with a groan of relief, he buried himself in her and rubbed, as her hips bucked at him in rapid short thrusts that moved her pussy along his shaft - only an inch, perhaps - rubbing her clit at the same time.

The whine evolved into a high pitched groan that sounded like he was killing her, but he knew it was a good sound. As she reached the pinnacle of her groan and it transformed into gasping grunts that went in time with her hips, his own release was suddenly upon him. He didn’t have to do a thing. She was doing all the work now, even though she was pinned beneath him.

He couldn’t remember ejaculating into a woman either, but in the seconds it took for his prick to bulge and spit his seed into her, he knew it had never been like this. This couldn’t possibly be forgotten, no matter what the trauma. This was a thing he felt deep in his soul. He understood perfectly the concept of the flesh of two, becoming one.

He realized he was crying, gasping and sobbing at the same time with the joy he was feeling. Her hands left his buttocks and came to capture his face, pulling. As the final spurts of his essence left his body to enter hers and her hips jerked less frequently, their kiss was a sloppy, panting thing, more of a rubbing of lips over each other’s faces as they gasped for air. It was almost more intimate than what they’d just done, as if they were trying to give each other part of their lips, exchanging skin as they merged into one being.

Kris woke as the sun streamed through the window. He stretched, and while enjoying that, the memory of the previous night flooded his mind. He sat up, as if there were overstressed springs in his abdomen.

He was naked … and he was alone. He got up and found that his clothes had been picked up and draped over the back of a chair.

Getting dressed, he ventured out to find Lou Anne. He didn’t know what it meant that he’d awakened alone.

He found her in the kitchen, sitting and listening as Ambrose read to her from a storybook and tried to eat breakfast at the same time. She looked up at him as he stuck his head hesitantly in the doorway, blew him a quick kiss and then turned back to her son. He felt a wave of relief and was astonished at how important that quick little kiss had been to him.

Ambrose looked up too. "Hi Kris!" he said brightly. "You must have been really tired. You fell asleep at our house."

"He WAS very tired," said Lou Anne. "I had to put him to bed just like I have to put you to bed sometimes."

Ambrose looked amazed. "You CARRIED him?"

Lou Anne laughed and that sound was delightful to his ears. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman’s laugh had made him feel so complete.

"No, silly," she said. "But I had to make him go to sleep. He didn’t want to, just like YOU don’t want to go to sleep sometimes."

"Did you read him a story?" asked the little boy.

"Something like that," said Lou Anne, rising. "You keep reading while I get poor tired Kris something to eat, OK?"

"OK!" said the boy. He turned to Kris again. "You want to listen too?"

"I’d like nothing better," said Kris, sitting down.

Lulu/

Lou Anne clocked in and put on her apron. She saw that Jessica was already seated. She often came in before her hospital shift, for what was, to her, breakfast. She went to Jessica’s table first, with a fresh pot of coffee. Jessica watched her approach.

"What happened?" she asked, her eyebrows rising.

"What do you mean?" asked the waitress.

"You look different."

"I do?" Lou Anne looked down at her uniform, craning to look behind her.

"You look more relaxed or something," said Jess.

"Good day off, I guess," said Lou Anne, pouring a little fresh coffee into Jessica’s cup.

"No, it’s more than that. Come on … what happened?"

"Why do you insist something happened?" asked Lou Anne. "I had a day off. I spent some time with Ambrose. It was wonderful."

"Hey Lulu!" called out Hank. "Kris was in here earlier. He said to tell you he’s all motivated to write and he won’t be in after work because he’s going home to keep writing."

"OK," said Lou Anne, her voice light.

Jessica watched, though, as Lou Anne just stopped moving and her eyes took on that appearance that tells people one’s mind is far, far away.

In fact, Hank’s mention of Kris had brought back a flood of images and memories into Lou Anne’s mind. Kris had spent the whole day with Ambrose and her. He had acted like nothing had happened and it had driven her almost crazy. After Ambrose had read three stories, Kris had played catch with him in the living room, using a rolled up pair of socks. No one had ever done that before and Ambrose got frustrated that his hands didn’t seem to work well at catching the "ball." Kris told him he just needed practice and kept tossing the improvised ball back and forth, until Ambrose quite suddenly figured it out and started catching it more often than it thumped off of his chest.

Then they had all gone outside to build a snowman, which hadn’t worked out well, because the snow was too wet. The thermometer was hovering around thirty-nine degrees, and the first ball they made was so heavy that they had to leave it down by the street, instead of by the front porch where Ambrose wanted it. Kris made a big show of straining to lift the second ball on top of the first and fell on his back in the snow, groaning and panting after it was in place. He’d claimed he was too tired to keep going. Lou Anne had said he was worthless and helped Ambrose put the head on. The resulting snowman was misshapen and squat looking, leaning to one side.

The inevitable snowball fight had begun, when Kris said, "That’s what your mommy is going to look like when she’s old and gray."

That led to a retreat inside, as all of them were damp, and the preparation of hot chocolate. During that process, while Ambrose was drawing a picture of the snow "woman" they had just built, Kris walked by Lou Anne and ran his hand over her butt. It was the first thing he’d done that suggested he remembered the passion of the night before and it sent streaks of horny pleasure through the young mother.

"Nice ass," he said softly and left the room before she could respond.

It had gone on like that all day. He simply touched her … sometimes on the elbow, or the back, and three more times his hand smoothed across her butt. Once, he leaned over and breathed on her neck, but that was all.

She’d put Ambrose down for a nap and her mind had whirled at the speed with which things happened.

Kris had simply picked her up over his shoulder and taken her to her bedroom, while she "resisted" by grabbing for HIS butt and slapping at it. When he’d dumped her on the bed and immediately crushed her under him, preventing her from saying anything with repeated kisses, all doubts in her mind had fled like smoke before the wind.

They were naked within minutes and coupling seconds after the last of their clothing fell to the floor.

This time, there was a surreal familiarity to their actions, as if they’d done this dozens of times instead of just once before. No words were needed to communicate the yearning each had for the other. They had spent the whole hour and a half making frantic love, before she pushed him away to get dressed and wake her son.

The afternoon had been much the same. He touched her, apologizing, saying, "Sorry … I can’t seem to keep my hands off you." Her smoky looks had told him how foolish he was for suggesting he should be able to control himself.

When Ambrose was "down for the night" and her own "bedtime" came, he took her in his arms and she moaned.

"I have to get some sleep," she whined. "But I don’t want to."

"I know," he’d said. "Me too. We both have to go to work tonight."

"You have to leave," she’d moaned.

"I know," he’d said.

An hour later he’d left her limp and satisfied, his sperm soaking into her happy pussy as she’d complained that he was leaving her alone.

"Lulu?"

Lou Anne blinked and looked down to see Jessica staring at her. She realized she was rubbing her legs together, remembering the wet feel when she’d gotten up. She’d overslept and hadn’t had time to take a shower before work. She imagined she could still feel his slick spend between her thighs.

"You got laid!" said Jessica, her voice hushed and loud at the same time. Jess grinned. "That’s IT! You got LAID!"

"Shut UP!" growled Lou Anne. "They can hear you across the street!" She looked around. There were three other customers in the diner. None of them were looking at her. She peered at them, trying to figure out if they had heard Jess' exclamation. One was reading a paper, one was eating, and the other was staring out the window.

"Not fair!" said Jessica, folding her arms across her chest.

"Oh bullshit," said Lou Anne. "And who says I got laid?" she asked very softly. "You’re imagining things."

"Oh, you got laid, all right," said Jessica, sounding grumpy. "It’s obvious. And here I am, lonely and horny, with no prospects." She brightened. "Who was it? Come on, give! I’m your best friend."

"I’m not telling you anything until you quiet down!" snorted Lou Anne.

"Who was it?" whispered Jessica, so softly Lou Anne almost didn’t hear her. She had leaned forward, but now sat bolt upright. "It was KRIS!" she gasped.

"Would you PLEASE shut up?!" moaned Lou Anne. "You want the whole world to know?"

"Wow," said Jessica softly. "I didn’t see THAT one coming." She leaned back. "Sit down. I want to hear all about it!"

"I’m not going to give you the play by play, you horrible, nasty woman!" said Lou Anne.

"Oh yes you are!" snapped Jessica. "You owe me!"

"I don’t owe you anything," laughed Lou Anne.

"What is it you don’t owe her?" came a male voice. Both women jumped and looked to see Mitch Connel standing behind Lulu. Her body had hidden his arrival from Jessica’s view.

Jessica looked triumphant. "Lulu got … AWP! DAMN, LULU! THAT HURTS!" She looked down at the large brown stain on her nurse’s uniform, from coffee that had hit her plate and splashed all over her front.

"I’m SO sorry!" cooed Lulu. "Let me just get something to wipe that up. Mitch, let me get you a table that’s clean. How 'bout that one over in the corner, over there? Good? Fine, follow me."

It might have worked, if it hadn’t been about something so deliciously tantalizing to Jessica. But even though she’d now been on the receiving end of one of Lulu’s "messages," she knew she had the upper hand, if she played her cards right. She followed Lulu, who was pushing a puzzled Mitch toward a table in the far corner, and simply sat down across from him.

"You can bring me a new plate, since you ruined mine," she said archly. "I’ll just keep Mitch here company while you do that."

Lou Anne was still holding the pot of coffee and looked at it.

"Don’t you dare!" warned Jessica, sounding nervous.

"You just mind your words," said Lulu softly. "I’ll talk to YOU later."

"Fine!" said Jessica, smiling, as if nothing had happened.

"I can’t WAIT to find out what this is all about," said the policeman.

"Well you’re GOING to wait!" snapped Lulu.

Mitch looked at Jessica, his eyes sliding all over her front. For once Jessica seemed not to be bothered by the fact that he was ogling her.

"What she said," was her only comment.

Chapter 21

Kris sat looking at the tape machine that was playing the prerecorded set for the next four hour time slot at the radio station. Assuming the machine worked properly, he had nothing to do for an hour, until he’d break in and give a quick weather report.

He looked at what was on the screen in front of him. Quigley’s actions with the Duchess of Fellborough were remarkably like Kris' first tryst with Lulu in some ways. He now thought of her as Lulu, but it was because she was a "loo loo" in bed. In the scene he’d just written, Quigley had sat on the duchess, who resisted him vociferously, telling him she’d rather die than submit to what she called his evil intentions. But she’d only been able to resist so long before she was just plain physically exhausted.

Quigley had taken great delight in watching her resistance become less violent. He hadn’t really forced her to do anything, thus far. His hands had gone for the buttons of her bodice and she’d slapped them away. He’d squeezed her breasts in return, not viciously, but rather gently, and remarked on how soft, yet firm they were. He had kept doing that, just attempting to unbutton her dress and repeatedly stroking her breasts, until she now lay limply under him.

He lifted one knee and placed her hand under it, letting enough of his weight down to pin it to the Persian carpet on the deck of his cabin. That carpet was thick and lush, soft beyond imagining.

"No!" she whimpered.

He reached for her other hand and she winced as the hand already pinned took more of his weight.

"Sorry," he said softly, as he pinned her other hand.

"No you’re not, you beast," she moaned.

"I AM quite sorry that I’m causing you distress," he said, as his fingers went to the now undefended buttons of her dress. "I’m not at all sorry that I will at last be able to see the lovely orbs I know lie under this cloth."

"You’re an animal," she snapped, some life coming back into her voice.

"Well then, when I take you, I shall take you from behind, as befits an animal," he said, grinning.

"You wouldn’t!" she cried. "You mustn’t debase me like this!"

"I’m not debasing you," he argued, spreading her dress apart as much as the thick cloth would allow. Her undergarment, he saw with a smile, had ties down the front. He pulled at one pink bow and she moaned. "I’m simply going to introduce you to something you’ve missed for far too long. You’ll thank me later, I wager."

"Bastard!" she moaned as he undid another bow and spread the cloth of her chemise. The deep valley between her snow white breasts was revealed.

"To the contrary," said the buccaneer. "I know who both of my parents are and they are properly married."

"I am not!" she cried. "You will soil me. You have already soiled me!"

"Oh," said Quigley, leaning down to kiss the inside of one breast. "I haven’t begun to soil you, my dear."

Kris read the rest of it … the slow unveiling of the duchess' breasts, as she found energy to struggle again. Quigley had used this technique before, but Kris thought it would work again. Now, Quigley could use his hands on her wrists and continue baring her breasts with his teeth. When her surprisingly large … and surprisingly firm … nipples finally came into view, he used his lips and tongue on them until she sobbed with the frustration of finding that she could not resist enjoying what he was doing to her and lay unresisting again.

Kris decided that he would take the Duchess of Fellborough’s awakening just as slowly as it seemed things had gone with Lulu. It would be slower, actually, because Kris wanted to see in the Duchess' eyes the same eager acceptance of Quigley’s final attentions Kris had seen in Lulu’s eyes. He would never in all his life forget that look, as he saw permission to have what he had so suddenly and so desperately needed. He knew it had happened quickly, but it had still seemed to take ages. That was what he was trying to write now.

Thinking about how he had unveiled Lulu’s breasts just naturally made him think of what had happened after that, and the next day, and he found himself impossibly stiff.

He didn’t masturbate, though. Instead, he thought about the other woman in his memory.

Lola.

He could see her better in his mind’s eye now. He knew he had kissed her lips and could feel that they had been lovers, though he couldn’t remember that part yet. But even so, he knew already that he had never felt for Lola what he already felt for Lulu.

He smiled at the similarity between their names. That was the only similarity. He was absolutely sure of that. He couldn’t articulate it, but he felt nothing for Lola. He felt EVERYTHING for Lulu. Her acceptance of him was like stumbling upon a huge bag of gold or diamonds, something so eye-popping that the finder just couldn’t believe it. He still had a hard time accepting that it was real.

He thought about her response during the day that followed what could only be called a night of torrid lovemaking. Everything about it had been precious. She had welcomed him, bare, into her inner depths … had wailed her joy as he fountained in her. That alone was a precious gift for any woman to give her lover.

His reverie was broken as he suddenly wondered if she was protected. He hoped so. The last thing he needed to do was complicate her life with an unplanned pregnancy. It was only natural to take that thought further and look, interestedly, at his inner reactions to that possibility. He was almost shocked to find that he’d almost demand to marry her if that happened. He was shocked by that both because he somehow knew he had resisted the idea of marriage thus far in his life and because he somehow knew she would resist his proposal, should he make it.

"This is crazy," he said aloud. "I’ve only known her a couple of months!"

He felt foolish for talking to an empty room. He could not deny that he felt more strongly for this amazing woman than he’d ever felt for any woman in his life. Even though he couldn’t remember how he’d felt about any other woman, he knew it couldn’t have been like how he felt about Lulu. It would be impossible to forget something like that, that had its seat deep in his soul.

He looked back at the screen. Where to go from here?

Quigley suddenly stood, one foot on either side of the duchess, who lay panting on the thick carpet. Her nipples were now dark red, rather than pink, because he had sucked at them for half an hour. She had continued to plead for him to stop, but her chest had arched up more than once.

"You may go," he said, stepping aside. He did not help her up.

"What?" She looked at him askance.

"I have never raped a woman," he said. "Not really. Oh, they’ve complained at my attentions, but, in the end, they were women and I was a man, and we did what came naturally to both of us."

"You’re not going to ravish me?" She was obviously confused.

"I’ll ravish you," he said, smiling. "But not yet. Do not wear a chemise under your dress again."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because each time I call you here I’m going to expose those lovely breasts and do what I did today. I don’t want the chemise in the way."

She either shuddered or shivered, and seemed to realize the breasts under discussion were currently bare. She pulled her dress to cover them and sat up.

"You’re toying with me," she accused.

"Most assuredly," he said.

"What will you do now?" she asked, warily.

"Mistress Constance has watched her mother being a woman," he said. "She watched a number of times and has begun to show curiosity about how her mother has reacted during that activity."

"But you promised Lady Tinsley you’d leave her daughter alone!"

Quigley wasn’t surprised that the women talked together. It would have been only normal for them to confide in this woman.

"If the girl seeks me out … if she is in heat … why should I resist?" His lips made a very small smile. "Particularly when I have been inflamed by your considerable charms?" he added.

"You’d abuse a child because I resist you?" she asked, incredulous.

"She is no child, Duchess Clayworth. She is as much a woman as you are and her needs are the same as yours shall be someday soon."

"You mock me!" she yipped.

"I know women," he said simply. "You have no idea what the joys of the flesh are like. You have eschewed them these many years. There will come a time when you will regret that. It is simple truth."

"You mustn’t ruin her!" insisted the Duchess of Fellborough.

"My sword is long and hard and demands to be sheathed in flesh," he said, rubbing the bulge at the front of his pantaloons.

"Take her mother again, if you must rut like a beast!" insisted the duchess. "She is already dismayed and cannot be ruined more than you have already done."

Quigley looked at the woman still sitting on the carpet, who didn’t understand yet that Quigley planned on impregnating the Lady Tinsley before he returned her to civilization. Her daughter too, if possible. He put sorrow plainly on his face.

"You have no idea, do you?"

"What?" she asked.

"How you affect men," he explained. "Men, to you, are only laborers, business partners, or servants. You don’t see them as male. Let me assure you, they recognize your femininity. You have driven many a man mad, I think. I feel it myself. It is only that I refuse to force you that has kept your honor intact this day. I must be compensated for such restraint and a willing young virgin will suffice, I think."

"You attempt to blackmail me!" she protested. "You blame me for the ruination of a poor girl!"

"Bare your breasts for me, Henrietta," he said calmly. "Bare them voluntarily and let me kiss them without resisting, and I will leave her alone."

"How can I do that?" she moaned. "You know I loathe you … loathe your touch … loathe your very presence."

"Tis but a small sacrifice to preserve the honor of … that poor girl, as you name her."

Kris changed the tape, and reviewed what he’d written. The duchess had submitted … eventually … angrily. Quigley had refused to touch her and had continued to ruminate, out loud, about how delicious it would be to have a young virgin, until, in a state of total surrender, the woman in front of him had pulled her arms from the dress, leaving her entire upper torso bare. She had said a single word, softly, pleading: "Please."

She had been a shivering mass of almost hysteria when his lips finally left her turgid, over-stimulated nipples and drifted up her chest and across her chin. She had turned her head only once and then, with a sob, had not only let him kiss her, but had kissed him back. He had left it at only one long kiss as she trembled in his arms, her lips hungry against his, and had then made her redress, demanding that she straighten her clothing so no one could tell it had been awry.

She was obviously confused and distressed, as she was torn by relief that her ordeal was over, at least for the present, and the conflicting desire she felt to stay there and see what might happen next. She knew she would be called back to this room and that she would have to endure this again. She was appalled that something in her looked forward to that next meeting. As she left the cabin, rushing in a less than ladylike gait, she convinced herself that she was just proud she had saved Mistress Constance’s virginity. She was so flustered that, when his hand slapped her behind as she left, she didn’t even complain.

She might not have felt so good about it had she seen the feral smile on Quigley’s lips as he watched her go.

"Not bad," said Kris to the empty room. "Not half bad, if I do say so myself."

He wanted to masturbate now, but resisted. He would save it for Lulu. He already knew that if he went home after work and continued to write, that boner would fuel the sex in his story. He also knew he’d have to go see Lulu the next afternoon. He decided he’d go when it was about time for Ambrose’s nap.

"Hi!" Lulu’s smile was both wide and genuine. "I was hoping you’d come over this afternoon."

Today she had on a red T shirt, with a rainbow from one breast to the other, a little monkey on it. The first thing Kris thought of was that she was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and that he had monkeying around on his mind.

"I couldn’t have stayed away if I tried," he said, a little nervously. Things were going fast. It was too soon to think of words like "love," but he was thinking about them anyway.

"Did you write?" she asked, stepping back.

"I did," he said, interested that she would ask that question first. It must have showed, because she addressed what he was thinking.

"Hank gave me your message. Is any of it about me?"

She was like a kid in a candy store.

"It was all about you," he sighed. "I think I’m smitten with you."

"Good!" she said, clapping her hands.

His worries and fears fled. If they hadn’t then, they would have when she kissed him.

"I wanna see!" she said, as she pulled away and licked her lips. "If you did well, I have a treat for you."

He handed her the flash drive. He tried to remember if his prick had softened since he’d left work and was hard again, or if thinking about her had kept it hard the whole time. He decided it was hard again, because he remembered it being soft after he’d slept.

He loitered around, standing behind her while she pulled up the new material and started reading, until she turned and pushed him gently, right on the lump in the front of his pants.

"Go play with Ambrose or something. I get nervous when someone reads over my shoulder." She gave him a little squeeze and he bent over.

"You’re killing me, here," he moaned.

"I’ll bring you back to life later," she said. "Now, go on. I have work to do."

He found Ambrose watching Veggie Tales on TV and settled in to watch with him. What had taken him hours and hours to write, she read over in thirty minutes. He knew she was done when she came in and plopped down on his lap. She leaned to put her lips right by his ear.

"I need nipple love right now," she whispered. "And it’s all your fault."

"You’re amazing," he sighed, reaching to cup one end of the rainbow on her chest.

"You have to wait," she said, kissing him.

"Ewwwww, Mom!" came Ambrose’s plaintive cry. "You’re kissing Kris!"

"And I’m gonna kiss you, too, you little goober!" she yipped, pushing against Kris' chest and bouncing up.

Ambrose pretended to be terrified and got up to run, but she caught him and he giggled as she "ate" his neck and rained kisses all over his face and head. She tickled him, too, and jumped as Kris slapped her on the ass again.

"Leave the poor child alone!" he ordered.

"It’s OK," said Ambrose happily. "She acts like this a lot. I’m used to it." Lulu stood up and Ambrose cocked his head at her. "I never saw you kiss anybody else. Is Kris special? You always tell me I’m special when you kiss me."

"He IS special!" said Lulu.

"Good. I like him," said the little boy. Then, as if nothing at all had happened, he plopped back down on the floor to continue watching cartoons.

Lulu stood, her eyes on Kris. She was rubbing her butt where he’d spanked her.

"Ow," she said softly.

"You had it coming, terrorizing a poor little boy like that."

She turned around and bent over, backing up and wagging her butt at him.

"You hurt me. Kiss it better."

"Here?" He grinned, leaning down.

"No," she said.

She danced out of the room, looking over her shoulder at him. He followed and she went straight to her bedroom. By the time he got there he was astonished to see her on the bed, on her hands and knees, with her olive green cargo pants and red panties down around her knees. He could actually see the outline of his hand print on her right cheek and felt bad, just for an instant, that he’d spanked her that hard. Then she waved her naked butt at him.

"Hurry. We can’t leave him out there alone for long."

"You want me to kiss it." He said it with a flat voice.

"You hurt it. Kiss it better," she said, over her shoulder.

He couldn’t believe it was happening. She was so casual about her sexuality, even when there was the threat that they might be discovered. Just then she let her head down on the bedspread and let her belly sag so that her pudendum hung in plain sight. It inflamed him. He went to her and first kissed, then licked the handprint. It was inevitable that his tongue strayed from there and she moaned as his nose tried to press into her anus while his tongue flicked at her labia. She didn’t see him loosening his own pants and freeing his achingly hard penis from them.

She did feel the tip of that penis pressing for entry from behind, though, and her shoulders surged up as her head came around, a retort on her lips. It was replaced by a groan, though, as he slid into her slippery sex and reached around to feel for her breasts.

"You shouldn’t," she moaned, as her pussy muscles clamped down on his whole length.

"I know," he moaned back. "You drive me crazy."

"You have to hurry," she groaned.

"You first," he said, humping hard into her.

"No. Just cum in me. I want it to last later."

"I want to cum in you," he groaned. "I forgot to ask you earlier. Please tell me you’re on the pill."

"Can’t," she panted. "Cause I’m not."

"Ohhh fuck, Lulu!" he groaned. "I want to cum in you so bad."

"I want you to cum in me." Her voice was ragged with passion. "I love it when you cum in me. I love to feel you spurting deep in me." Her head popped up and hit his chin. "Ohhhh right there! You’re hitting my g-spot!"

He couldn’t feel the difference with his prick, but her body told him when the tip of his cock was in the right place. He put it there and then only moved in and out an inch.

"You’re being bad!" she moaned.

"Cum with me," he panted.

It had never been like this. He knew it, somehow. When he felt her begin to vibrate and her voice went from gasps to choking yips, he knew she was cumming. Just that knowledge set him off and he rammed hard, spurting what felt like a cup of sperm into her. Her pussy milked him for every drop and then she pushed so hard at him that he had to step back. She lunged forward and there was a slurping sound as his wet prick broke the vacuum in her pussy and pulled out. She rolled and kicked her legs up in the air, her hands going to her thighs. He watched in astonishment as she pulled her pants back up before her hips fell back to the bed. She bounced up off the bed and fastened them, looking at the door. Then she turned to him.

"Don’t just stand there with your junk hanging out," she scolded. "Put that thing away. What if Ambrose saw it?"

"Ambrose has his own," said Kris weakly. "He’s probably seen it a lot."

"You know what I mean," she said. "You were very naughty. You made me cum."

"Pardon me," he said, smiling gently. "I’ll try not to do that again."

"You squirted me nice, though," she said, tilting her head. "I might just forgive you because of that."

"Um … about that…"

"I have an implant … an IUD," she said carelessly. "You don’t have to worry."

"Oh," he said. Something in his voice made her peer at him.

"Oh no you don’t, buster. Don’t you go fantasizing about knocking me up. I have Ambrose. Been there. Done that. Have that T shirt. Once was enough for me."

"I wasn’t thinking about that," he said, trying to sound injured.

"Yes you were. All men do that." She looked at the door again. "If you’re a good boy you can pretend to do that again later. Now, I have to go check on Ambrose. He can get in the worst trouble in the shortest amount of time if I don’t keep an eye on him."

"I love you!" he blurted.

If he thought she’d be shocked, he was disappointed.

"I know," she said brightly. "That’s why I love you, too."

Then she was gone, leaving him with a dripping soft prick to stuff back into his pants.

Chapter 22

Harper stared at the sheet of paper the postal employee had handed him. It was like that sometimes. You tried one thing, then another, and just when you were sure it wasn’t going to pan out, you got the piece of information you were looking for. The forwarding address was for someplace called Pembroke, Connecticut.

The landlord hadn’t known where he’d gone. There had been an old credit card statement on Farmingham’s desk, which had his account number on it, but the credit card company hadn’t helped. They would tell him almost nothing without a warrant and he had nothing to get a warrant with. They had verified Farmingham was apparently still alive and using the card, but refused to say where it had been used. Jim thought it was passing odd that the man hadn’t told his own girlfriend where he was going.

He went back to his office, even though it was late. He’d make the call tonight. He didn’t want to wait. He needed to make sure.

Mitch happened to be on duty, and happened to be in the station, when the phone call came in. It was on the admin line, rather than the 911 link, but he wasn’t doing anything, so he answered, rather than let the machine pick it up.

"Pembroke Police, is this an emergency?"

He heard the static on the line that said it was a long distance call. Sound quality had gotten hugely better in the last ten years, but he could still tell when it was long distance.

"This is detective Harper, NYPD. I need a little assistance, if possible," came a deep bass voice on the phone.

"Mitch Connel. Be happy to help any way I can. What’s a big city detective need from a little town like us?" Mitch smiled, even though he knew the man on the other end of the phone couldn’t see it.

"I’m looking for a man," said Harper. "Does the name Kristoff Farmingham mean anything to you?"

Mitch was speechless. He’d known there was something about Kris that was odd … something he was hiding. But so much time had gone by that it had faded to a spark. Now suspicion flamed to life again.

"As a matter of fact it does," said Mitch. "What’s he wanted for?" His voice was hard.

"Well, his apartment was burglarized," said Harper. "We caught the burglar, but the DA won’t press charges unless we can get a statement of complaint from the victim. I’ve been playing hell finding him, so I’m really glad you’re familiar with him."

"Burglarized?" Mitch’s voice sounded hollow. "He’s a victim?"

"You sound surprised," said Harper. "Has this character caused you some trouble?"

"No. Well, not exactly. He showed up under very strange circumstances and claims to have memory loss. He’s actually living here under a different name."

"Different name? Now that’s interesting," said Harper. "The burglar turned out to be his girlfriend … or at least she claims to be his girlfriend, and she claims he didn’t tell her where he was going when he left town."

"Well I’ll be," said Mitch. If all this was just about trying to dump a girlfriend, Mitch was going to have a piece of his ass. It occurred to him that crashing one’s car into a river … on purpose … in the middle of a cold snap, when he didn’t know whether any help would come along or not, just didn’t seem like the kind of plan a man like Kris would come up with. Not just to dump a girl. Again he wondered whether or not Kris' memory loss was real. He was hiding something, but it just didn’t add up.

"Yeah, well, this guy is a Caucasian male, forty-seven, five-eleven, one eighty, light brown hair and brown eyes. Does that match the guy you’ve got? Oh yeah, he’s supposedly an author, too." Harper waited for an answer.

"Yeah," said Mitch. "That’s him all right. One of the local women found him frozen half to death on a road by the river, all banged up. I took a look at the spot and I think his car went into the river. It was killer cold, though, and the ice froze over. We haven’t recovered the car yet. He couldn’t remember who he was when he woke up in the hospital. Had one name on his driver’s license and another on a rental agreement in his pocket. Farmingham is the name on his license."

"Well, that would explain why he hasn’t gotten in touch with his girlfriend," said Harper. "I’m going to need to come up there and get a statement. How do I find you?"

Mitch gave him directions and they agreed on a time and date that Mitch would have Kris at the police station to give a statement.

It wasn’t until after they’d disconnected that Mitch realized he hadn’t told the detective about the gunshot wound.

And … he hadn’t gotten Harper’s number either.

Lulu rolled over and molded her body to Kris' side. Both were still breathing hard from a two hour bout of lovemaking. It was Lulu’s day off again and she had used it for what she thought of as catching up a little on what she’d been missing for years.

"Well, I know it turns you on when I wear slinky underwear," she sighed. She didn’t usually wear stuff like that, but, just this once, she had decided to try it. She’d borrowed a teddy from Jessica, along with a garter belt, and she’d bought a pair of dark thigh-high nylons. She was glad she had, because his reaction had been all she could have hoped for. He was always crazy to get her naked, but she took special glee in hearing him saying how sorry he was when he spurted within a minute of entering her. She didn’t care that she didn’t get to cum on those occasions. She knew he’d make it up to her later. She just loved it that she could drive a man that crazy.

"So … what else turns you on?" she asked, kissing his left peck.

"Anything you do," he sighed.

"Come on," she chided, trying to pinch the skin on his stomach. There wasn’t much to pinch.

"OK," he said, turning his face to her. "You already know I love a shaved pussy. I’ve always been an ass man and yours drives me nuts. I want to lick it and suck it, bite it, fuck it and spank it." He took a breath and the hand on the arm under her found her butt cheeks and squeezed.

"You want to fuck … my ass?" She sounded doubtful.

"Maybe," he said. "I don’t know if I’ve ever done that or not, but the idea of it sure is appealing."

"We’ll see," she said. "Go on."

"I’d like to get you naked and then paint with our bodies as we make love."

"What?" She laughed.

"You know, create art while we’re creating love. Get all covered in paint and then roll around on a big sheet of paper or something. I think that would be a blast."

"Mmmm, I like that idea," she purred. "Please, go on."

"I love it that you’re willing to try different things … like different positions and stuff," he said. "It turns me on that you’re intelligent too."

"Why thank you," she said, reaching for his prick. It was soft, so she just played with it.

"I get off when you tease me and I like to tease you too. Anticipation is something that really gets me going."

"Hard to believe that," she said, squeezing his penis. "Every time you come over here, you have me in bed within ten minutes. That’s not very much anticipation time." She grinned.

"It’s not always like that," he complained. "Sometimes Ambrose is awake."

"I know, silly," she said. "I was just teasing you."

"I love it when you tease me," he said promptly.

"Is there anything you love that we haven’t already done?"

"Dozens of things," he said. "I just haven’t thought of them yet."

"Well think of them," she said.

"I think I’m a bit of an exhibitionist," he said. "Either that or I like women who are. I know I like women who show lots of their body in public. It makes me want to fondle them."

"You’d better not!" she warned, gripping his balls.

"What I mean is that if you and I were in public, and you were showing off a little, I’d want to touch you … where people could maybe see it. You know, be a little naughty in public?"

"Hmmm," she said. "We’ll see about that too. What else?"

"I can’t think of anything else right now. I’ll let you know when something turns me on. Now, it’s my turn to ask questions."

He rolled sideways and, instead of letting him ask his questions, she kissed him for a long time. Their tongues dueled gently with each other and she pressed her breasts to his chest. Her hand was still on his penis, which she rubbed against her vulva. Finally she pulled back.

"Now you can ask me things."

"What’s your middle name?"

She blinked. It was obvious she hadn’t expected that kind of question.

"It’s Anne, you goob," she said. Her voice sounded careful, like she thought he might be playing a joke on her.

He frowned and then his face relaxed.

"Oh. I thought Lou Anne was one word."

"Nope. My father wanted a boy. His name was Louis and he wanted a junior. Then I came along and he couldn’t resist calling me Lou. My mother insisted on a feminine sounding middle name."

"Fascinating," he said. "Tell me about your tattoos."

"The one on my shoulder is the first one I got. I got it when I was fifteen. It was a Christmas present from my dad. He tried to psyche me out beforehand. He had tattoos and said it was going to hurt soooooooo much. I was so nervous I had to go to the bathroom when we got there because I thought I was going to throw up."

"So, did it hurt?"

"That one didn’t hurt at all. It’s based on some Brian Froud artwork. It’s a fairy that looks like a flaming girl, bent at the waist, holding a globe behind her back."

"She’s naked," said Kris. "I can’t believe your dad let you get a naked girl put on your arm when you were fifteen."

"I knew I’d be running into you some day," said Lulu seriously. "I knew you’d like me naked."

He grinned. "How about the one on your back?"

"That one hurt like blazes. It was supposed to be colored in, but it was almost as bad as giving birth, so I stopped with just the outline. It’s Mother Nature, and I got her when I was sixteen. That was another Christmas present from my dad."

"She’s naked too," he pointed out.

"Are you complaining?"

"Nope. No way. You’re right. I love naked."

"I got the one on my hip after I moved to Pembroke. It was the first one I paid for myself. The two kneeling girls represent Jess and me."

"Really?"

"We got identical tattoos in the same place. She’s the best friend I’ve ever had, and I like to think she feels the same way about me."

"I’d have to see hers to be sure it was identical to yours," he said.

She slapped his shoulder.

"Kidding!" he said, rubbing the spot.

She brought her right wrist up and kissed the Rolling Stones mouth and tongue that was tattooed there.

"This one is in honor of my dad. I got it after he died. My sister, my step-mom, and my dad’s best friend all got identical ones."

It was quiet for a moment as she thought about her father and he tried to remember his parents, wondering if they were still alive or not.

Kris found himself staring at her flat belly and thought about all the lovemaking they’d done lately. He hadn’t used any condoms and she hadn’t asked him to. He reached to slide his hand over the skin under which her womb was.

"And this IUD you have. How does that work?"

"It’s a five year model. I had it implanted right after Ambrose was born."

"So it’s nearing the end of its … what do you call it? Shelf life?" He grinned. "No, that can’t be right. Womb life?"

"I have no idea what they call it," she said, ignoring his attempt at humor. "All I know is that I love it. I haven’t had a period since it was implanted."

"So … how often have you … um … tested it?" he asked.

"You’re asking how many men I’ve slept with since I got it," she said, her voice calm.

"Not if you don’t want to tell me," he said.

"Well, let me think," she said. She looked up and started raising fingers one by one. "There was … and … and of course…" She looked back at him. "Maybe it would be easier just to multiply." She started waving her fingers in his face, like she was pointing at mental numbers. "Let’s see … uh huh … carry the three…" She stopped again. "No, it can’t be that many. That isn’t humanly possible. Math isn’t my strong suit."

His eyes had gotten wider and wider while she did all this. Then she giggled and pushed at him. "I’ve had one man since I got the implant. It was you. I don’t want to talk about the man I got the implant because of. But he never touched me after Ambrose was born."

"Sounds kind of sad," said Kris softly.

"It wasn’t any fun," she sighed. "I was stupid. I should have used protection, but I was kicking up my heels and didn’t think about that kind of thing."

"Are you sorry you had him?"

She looked shocked. "No! Never! He’s everything to me. I don’t know what I’d do without him."

"Mixed feelings, then, huh?"

"Why are you asking me all this?" She frowned.

"Well, you’re not married and I sort of wondered why."

"I’m not the marrying kind," she said.

"I bet there are about a zillion guys out there who would like to argue about that," he said.

"You’re not asking me to marry you," she said firmly. "You don’t even know who you are, really. And we’ve known each other for only a few months."

"All true," he said. "But you make me think about the concept of marriage. I don’t think I ever did that before. Not seriously, anyway. It feels too new in my head." He blinked. "At the same time, by your own admission, you don’t just tumble into bed with every guy you meet. This has to mean something to you."

"I love you," she said simply.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"Do you love me?" she asked, instead of answering his question.

"Yes," he said. "I don’t know how I know that, but I feel it."

"There’s your answer," she said. "I feel differently about you than other men. I love you, and I know I love you. That’s all that matters to me." She smiled. "Well, the fact that you love me too has something to do with that. And the fact that I own your life. Let’s not forget that."

"Oh yes," he said. "You saved it and now you own it."

"That’s right," she said. "And right now, what I want your life to have in it is me." She kissed him again. "And what my pussy wants to have in it is your wonderful stiff cock. Until I met you, my rabbit was my best friend."

"Rabbit?"

"Vibrator," she explained.

"It’s called a rabbit?"

"Yup. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s because when I first got it, it made me want to fuck like bunny … you know … all the time."

"And that’s changed?" He grinned.

"Not at all," she said with dignity. "I just have a new toy now, that’s all." She lowered her lashes and looked through them at him and squeezed his penis. "A BETTER toy! Mmmmm, my toy is ready to go again. GOODY!"

"You’re going to break your toy if you keep playing with it too much," he said, smiling.

"No I’m not," she argued, pushing him onto his back. She scrambled up on top of him, socketed the tip of his prick into her pussy and sat down hard.

"OOOF!" he said, overdramatically.

She squeezed him with her internal muscles. "Giddyap, horsey!"

Kris bucked his hips upwards and she started laughing as she raised one arm in the air and waved it back and forth, like she was riding a bucking bronco.

"Come on!" she taunted. "You can do better than that. This is an EASY eight second ride!"

She was prepared for him to buck harder. What she wasn’t prepared for was for him to sit up and throw his legs sideways off the bed. Suddenly he was standing, holding her onto him by grabbing her ass. She had to reach for his neck to keep from falling backwards. He whirled and she was the one who went "OOOF!" as he fell forward, pinning her to the bed with his feet on the floor. He began lunging into her, pounding her hard enough to make the bed scrape sideways across the floor.

"You got on a horse," he panted, "but ended up on a bull." He gave an extra hard punch into her.

"Ooooo," she said breathlessly. "Now I’m all scared and stuff. What a BIG horn you have mister bull! You’re goring me with it! Oh owww, oh help, help!" She couldn’t keep it up, though, and started laughing as she spread her legs and let him slam into her.

"HARDER!" she squealed. "I LOVE you!"

To her surprise he stopped, instead of being egged on. He pushed deep and started rubbing her clit with the base of his cock. He kissed her and kept kissing her as she couldn’t ignore the thrills he was causing. She whined into his mouth and writhed as she came hard, but he still didn’t let her rest. He kept rubbing and added his fingers between them, gripping her nipples and pulling at them. All his weight was on her pussy and he was holding his upper torso up by the strength of his back muscles alone as he extended her orgasm by almost a full minute.

"STOP!" she screamed. "I … can’t … breathe!"

"I thought you wanted a ride," he panted, teasing her.

"Pleeease!" she gasped. "I … really … can’t … breathe!"

"Will you be nice to me?" he insisted, still rubbing. He let go of her nipples and supported some of his weight with his hands on the bed beside her.

"Oh fuck," she moaned, dragging in huge breaths.

"I am," he said, leaning down to kiss her chin and then her nose. He licked her open mouth.

"CUM IN ME!" she wailed. "MAKE ME PREGNANT!"

Her words did it. His balls suddenly bunched. "Ohhhh Lulu," he moaned. Jets of hot semen drenched her pussy and he slowly came to a stop, still deep in her. His head hung and sweat dripped off his chin onto her upper chest.

"I thought you didn’t want any more babies," he panted.

"I don’t," she panted back. "It was the only way I could think of to get you to stop. I was going to fly into pieces if you didn’t stop. I knew if I said that, that you’d cum."

"You’re a horrible, ungrateful woman, Lou Anne Rowan," he panted. "There I was a horse, and then a bull, trying to compete with a rabbit, and you tricked me!"

"You won," she sighed. "I’ll take you over the rabbit any day. You just have to learn how to stop when you’re driving me crazy."

"I’m getting hard again," he said, grinning at her.

"Nooooooo," she moaned. "Too soon!"

"I’m not, actually," he said, his grin widening. "Getting hard again, I mean. I just played a trick on you. Now you know what it’s like."

She pushed at him hard, so hard that he thought he might have crossed a line and made her angry. He pulled out of her with a slurp and she stood up. But she wasn’t frowning. She pushed him onto the bed, on his back, and climbed on top of him to lie down.

"Love me forever, Kris," she sighed, laying her head on his chest.

"It would be my pleasure," he murmured into her hair.

"I’m leaking. You always make a mess," she said. "Maybe the rabbit is better after all." He stiffened and she lifted her head to look into his eyes. "No … it’s not. I shouldn’t tease you about that. I’ll throw it away if you love me forever. I won’t ever need it again."

"Keep it," he said, pulling her head back down to his chest. "I have a feeling there will be times when I’m down for the count. You’re the most sex-crazed woman I ever met."

"Oh? Tell me about the others I’m more sex-crazed than."

"I can’t. I can’t remember them."

"Then how do you know I’m the most sex-crazed?"

"Because if there were any who were more nymphomaniacal than you are, they’d be in the Guinness Book of World Records … and they’re not. I checked."

"Awwww, you say the sweetest things," she giggled.

Chapter 23

Kris looked up when he saw movement in his peripheral vision. He was at work. He’d never locked the front doors of the station while he worked. He’d never even thought about it. He saw Mitch wave, through the glass wall of the broadcast booth. He was writing while another of the endless supply of pre-recorded tapes wound through the pickups and sent music, like magic, through the air outside. He got up and opened the door.

"Surprised to see you here," he commented.

"Haven’t seen you around for a day or two," said Mitch.

Mitch had decided to deliver Harper’s request for interview in a slightly different way than he would have it if had involved a "normal" citizen of Pembroke. He wanted to use this opportunity to shake Kris' tree a little bit, just to see if anything fell out of it.

"I need you to come down to the station tomorrow, after lunch," he said.

"Oh?"

"A detective from New York City called me. He wants to talk to you."

He let it lie there, watching for any signs Kris might display. He was not disappointed. There was obvious angst, almost immediately.

"Why?"

"You don’t know?"

Kris opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally he said, "Is he going to arrest me?"

"Does he need to arrest you for something?"

Somehow, this wasn’t as much fun as Mitch had thought it would be. He wondered why that was, and realized that he liked this man. Then He wondered why he liked him.

"You’re still suspicious of me," said Kris. He frowned.

Mitch quit playing games. He wanted to keep probing, but, as far as he could tell, Kris was a decent sort of guy. Whatever was bothering him would come to light sooner or later. It always worked that way.

"Your apartment was broken into," Mitch said. "He needs to interview you."

"My apartment?" Kris looked obviously curious. "I have an apartment?"

"You live in New York City," said Connel. "Everybody there has an apartment."

"And he didn’t say I did anything … wrong?"

"Are you SURE you don’t want to talk to me about whatever it is that’s eating at you?" asked Mitch. It wasn’t his interrogator’s voice he was using. It was just one man asking another man if he wanted to get something off his chest.

"It’s complicated," said Kris. He thought about Lulu and how well things were going with her. "There are other people involved now. I don’t want to mess things up."

"You mean Lulu?"

"How’d you know?" asked Kris.

"Jessica is about to bust at the seams with a secret she knows that Lulu won’t let her talk about. It seemed to involve you. I see how you look at her and I see how she looks at you. I’m surprised the betting hasn’t started yet."

"Betting?"

"On whether you’ll come out of this with your whole skin or not. Nobody’s ever seen Lulu interested in a man before. Not like you. Some people think she’s a dyke. There’ve been bets made about that too."

"You’re shitting me," said Kris. "Does she know?"

"She knows they all talk about her and she knows about some of the bets they make in the diner," said Mitch. "I don’t think she knows about all the bets. If she did, there’d be a lot more spilled coffee around there than there has been. Lulu is not the most patient person in the world when it comes to someone impugning her reputation."

It was quiet for a few seconds.

"So, does this complexity you were talking about involve her?"

"Indirectly," said Kris. "I don’t want to hurt her. I’m almost happy that I can’t remember things. What if I started to remember things and it turned out I’m a bad person? That would fuck up everything."

"I don’t think you’re a bad person," said Mitch. "You might have made some kind of bad mistake, or gotten involved with the wrong people, maybe, but your personality isn’t that of a predator."

"How do you know?" asked Kris.

"I told you I was going to keep an eye on you," said Mitch carelessly. "I have."

"So … this guy from New York is coming here to talk to me."

"Yeah. He’s going to interview you as a victim, as far as I know."

"OK, I’ll be there. What time?"

"He should be here around noon."

"See you then," said Kris.

Kris didn’t really know what to expect, so he tried not to think about it. When he saw the man waiting to talk to him, though, he felt his stomach begin to roil. The man smiled, though, and his face looked more open than Kris had expected a New York City detective to look. Mitch stood off to one side, arms folded. He had apparently either asked if he could watch or just assumed it would be all right.

Introductions were made and Harper waved at a chair, across a table from him in the office. There was a tape recorder on the table, too, and he said the interview would be recorded, if that was all right with Kris. Kris had no problem with it. Harper turned it on and, for the record, stated his name and Kris', the date and the location of the interview, followed by a swearing in routine before he started asking questions.

Kris felt lost immediately. The detective asked him all kinds of questions to which he had no answers. As it turned out, he only had one answer, and that one didn’t seem to help that much.

Yes, he did have a girlfriend named Lola, but didn’t know if her last name was Henderson or not.

"You don’t seem to remember much," commented Harper, who was already frustrated.

"I was in an accident," said Kris. "I lost almost all of my memory. The only reason I know my name is Kristoff Farmingham is because my picture is on the driver’s license Officer Connel returned to me."

"Did you tell Lola Henderson she could break into your apartment if she needed to?" Jim waited.

"I don’t think so," said Kris.

"Don’t think so?"

"The few memories I have of her suggest I don’t actually like her very much," said Kris, feeling like he was kicking a dog. "I can’t imagine I’d tell ANYBODY they could break into my apartment. If I’d wanted her in there, don’t you think I would have just given her a key?"

"I don’t know, Mister Farmingham," said the detective. "I just know she was found in your apartment, having gained entrance through a window, which she broke, and that she claims she had your permission to be there."

"I’m sorry I can’t be of much help," said Kris.

Harper said the interview was at an end, stated the time and date, and turned the recorder off. He looked at Mitch, who shrugged his shoulders.

"Can I ask you a couple of questions … off the record?" asked Harper.

"Sure … I guess."

"How’d you get that bullet wound?" Harper’s eyes flicked to Kris' left temple, where there was a long red weal. It had been stitched, but there would still be a scar there for the rest of his life.

"I don’t know," said Kris. He glanced at Mitch. "They said I had it when they found me … after the accident."

"And what do you remember about the accident?"

"Nothing," said Kris. "Well, I remember breaking glass, but that’s all."

"You know, with what you gave me, there’s no way the DA will press charges against Miss Henderson."

"I swore to tell the truth," said Kris. "I don’t even know where my apartment IS. I can’t remember what’s in it. If somebody broke in and cleaned the place out, I couldn’t describe anything except the couch."

"The couch?" Jim’s eyes glittered.

"It’s brown. I had a sort of vision of it once, while I was in the hospital." His face darkened as blood rushed into it. "And the toilet. I remember what the toilet looks like, for some reason."

Harper opened the folder that had been lying on the table and flipped through it. He extracted a photograph and slid it across the table. Kris looked at what was obviously his living room. The couch he remembered was there. His eyes searched the photograph hungrily, looking at other furniture, the walls, hoping he might recognize something. There was something on a shelf that clicked in his memory.

"Right there," he pointed. "On that shelf. That’s a toad, or a frog or something, that’s been stuffed. It’s riding a little wooden motorcycle. I got that in Mexico."

Harper took the picture back and squinted at it. He couldn’t tell whether the thing in the photograph was what Farmingham had said it was or not. Then again, he couldn’t imagine the man lying about something like that.

"So you remember Mexico?" he asked.

"No. When I saw that in the picture, I just suddenly knew what it was and where I got it."

"Anything else?"

Kris took the picture back and stared at it for a long time. He leaned back, shaking his head.

"Can I ask you some questions now?" he asked.

Harper’s eyes flicked to Connel again and he nodded tightly.

"What part of town is this in?" He pointed to the photograph.

"It’s on Long Island," said Harper.

"Did you talk to anybody else that knows me? Friends? My publisher?"

"Who is your publisher?" asked Harper.

"I don’t know," moaned Kris. "You know more about me than I do. Did this Lola woman say anything about me writing a book? Did she say what the book is about?"

Now it was Harper’s turn to say he couldn’t really answer many of Kris' questions. He had some idea, during that process, of how frustrated Farmingham must be.

Kris' last question was "Is that it?"

It was obvious to both lawmen that the man expected something more. Harper looked at Connel again, who ran the blade of his hand across his throat and back, in the universal sign for "Cut it off." Harper thanked Kris for his cooperation and they watched him leave. Harper turned to Connel.

"What the fuck is going on?" he asked, almost angry that Connel hadn’t warned him about Farmingham’s condition beforehand.

"I wanted you to see him like I see him," said Mitch. "Did you catch the lie about the accident?"

"I saw something, but I didn’t know what it was. I was thinking about the gunshot. What about the accident? That happened here, right?"

"I think so," said Mitch.

"You THINK so?"

"The car went over a drop off into the river. It was below zero and snowing like crazy. The river froze over before I could find the location. A local woman found him lying in the middle of the road, almost dead, and managed to get him to the hospital. They have since developed what appears to be a romance."

"You never recovered the car?" Harper was incredulous.

"We don’t have the budget," said Mitch. "When the ice thaws, and I can go swimming without freezing my ass off, I hope to find it. If I can, we’ll put a cable on it and have a wrecker drag it out."

"Weird situation," said Harper. "Still, you could have warned me. I might have handled things differently."

"He’s hiding something," said Mitch. "I can see it and feel it. It all seems to be tied up with the accident. The funny thing is I really believe he has no memory at all of being shot."

"I’ve seen people winged like that before," said Harper. "Delivers a hell of a thump to the brain. He’s lucky, actually. Another half an inch and he’d be pushing up daisies."

"What do you think about the possibility that he got shot in New York and then drove here?" asked Mitch.

Harper looked skeptical. "I don’t know. Usually an injury like that puts you out for a while. You don’t think it happened here … during the accident?"

"We don’t have the kind of clientele you do," said Mitch wryly. "Around here, if somebody decides to shoot someone, they use a rifle and try to make it look like a hunting accident."

"Couldn’t he have gotten that from a rifle shot?" asked Jim.

Mitch shook his head. "I talked to the surgeon who cleaned the wound and sewed him up. He told me the bullet actually left a furrow in the bone. He showed me the x-rays. Based on the size of the gouge, it would have to have been an elephant gun. It for sure wasn’t something small caliber."

"Very curious," said Harper. Then he shook his head. "Your problem, though. I’ve got enough of my own. Looks like I made the trip for nothing. Miss Lola Henderson will be happy to learn that the charges will most likely be dropped, though she may not be so happy to find out her boyfriend isn’t much enamored with her."

"I just wanted to see what happened when another cop showed up," said Mitch. "I’d really like to figure this one out. I don’t suppose you could do a little asking around down there … you know, get me some more info on this guy? Maybe find his publisher or something. Anything could be helpful."

"You say there’s hunting in these parts?" asked Harper.

Mitch blinked and nodded.

"I’ll do some nosing around on my free time," said Harper. "In exchange, I’ll entertain an invitation from you to come up and go hunting."

"Deal," said Mitch, smiling.

Chapter 24

Kris was more worried now than he’d ever been since waking up in the Pembroke hospital. The interview with the detective hadn’t helped at all. He was almost ill that nothing in the photograph looked at all familiar. And he knew no more about the accident or hitting the man than he had before. Normally, he wouldn’t have worried, or at least thought he wouldn’t have worried.

But Lulu was involved now.

Oh, sure, she didn’t know anything - certainly nothing that could get her in any trouble - but he liked her. Just as important … he was in love with her. He loved her on a level that made him think about asking her crazy questions having to do with their future, even though she’d said she wasn’t the marring kind.

But he couldn’t do that. Not until that memory was dealt with. He needed to know if he was in trouble or if it was just some random memory from a misspent youth that he’d already paid the price for. He couldn’t move things any further along with Lulu until he knew if he’d be there later … to keep being there with her.

On impulse, he turned around and went back to the station. He was so intent on his destination that he completely missed seeing Jim Harper drive past him, heading in the other direction.

Mitch was sitting at the desk in the station house. There was another policeman there Kris had never seen.

"Can I talk to you … alone?" he asked a surprised Connel. He didn’t stay surprised for long. Confession WAS good for the soul, and it was just possible that Kris had stewed about whatever his secret was long enough for it to get to him. He asked Don Hemphill, the other patrolman on duty, to step into another office for a minute. The man did so without saying a word.

Mitch waited, still seated, looking up at Kris, who was standing nervously. He said nothing, hoping that Kris would fill the silence. Farmingham seemed to work up to his first question.

"If I had been in some kind of trouble in the past … it would be on my record … right?"

"What kind of trouble?" asked Mitch. He felt his gut tighten.

"Trouble that might land me in jail," said Kris.

"You think you’ve been to jail?"

"I can’t REMEMBER!" Kris almost shouted. "But it would be in my record, right? You could check on that."

"I already did. Your name … Kristoff Farmingham … comes up clean as a whistle."

Mitch watched the man almost crumble in front of him. He felt pity and it moved him.

"Unless it happened when you were a juvenile," he said. "That record would be sealed. Wouldn’t show up in the kind of check I did." Something popped into his mind. It fit. "Or … well, it’s a longshot, but if you’re in the Federal Witness Protection Program, that could be it. They’d have given you a new identity. If you got arrested and then rolled over on somebody bigger, and made a deal, there’s no way I’d have been able to find that out."

Kris sat down heavily in the same chair he’d been interviewed in.

"I don’t think that’s the deal," he said. "It wasn’t something like that."

"What wasn’t something like that?" asked Mitch, softly.

Kris looked up. "It wasn’t something the feds would be interested in," he said.

"Why don’t you tell me about it and let me decide," said Mitch. He loosened the muscles in his shoulders and chest, upon finding them tight as a drum. He knew he was close and it excited him.

"I don’t know what to do," sighed Kris.

"Tell me," said Mitch. "Whatever it is, I’ll try to help you as much as I can." He was too excited, and he pushed, when he should have sat silent. "Is this about the gunshot?"

Kris blinked. His face went calm. Mention of the gunshot didn’t cause him any discomfort at all. He stood.

"No," he said. "Never mind. You checked, and I didn’t get arrested for anything in my past. That’s really all I need to know."

Mitch almost groaned with the frustration he was feeling, but kept his voice neutral.

"I know you’d feel better if you got it off your chest … whatever it is. Maybe I can help."

"I’ll think about it," said Kris. "I have to go. I need to get some sleep."

Mitch wanted to pound his fist on the desk as he watched the man leave the station again.

By pure force of will, Kris tried to stop worrying about the memory of his hit and run accident. It wasn’t on his record and the detective hadn’t said anything about it. Everyone was interested in the gunshot wound, but Kris' total lack of memory about it left him more or less unconcerned about that. He was here, dealing with things. Lulu returned his affections and he knew, somehow, that she was the best thing he’d ever chanced upon. If fate was going to dump him in Pembroke, under completely odd circumstances, then he was just going to deal with it.

One thing that still worried him was that Lulu might think the only thing he was interested in was the sex, which wasn’t true by a long shot. Had he known her better, he wouldn’t have wasted the time worrying. She was an excellent judge of character, which was one reason she hadn’t "tested" her IUD since it had been implanted. She just hadn’t met a man who’d made her want to.

It seemed like their relationship had been mixed up since the beginning. Usually a couple went on some dates before they had sex. In this case, he was pretty sure neither of them had planned on having sex at all … until it just happened. In any case, that evening, when he suggested they go to Clairmont, a larger town thirty miles away, to visit a museum there … and called it a date … he was relieved when she got excited about it.

They planned to go on her next day off, which also made him feel relieved, because if they did that for most of the day, they’d be unable to make love, and she didn’t seem to mind that at all. At least she didn’t say anything about it. He was mistaken about that, too, also because he didn’t know her as well as it would’ve helped to.

It all went very normally, even though, as a couple, they looked very unlike a couple. He was older, with a slightly yuppie look to him, and she looked a bit like some renegade biker’s woman. Her mohawk got some stares, as did the flaming tattoo on her shoulder, which was exposed when she took her parka off in the museum. She was wearing a black tank top with thin spaghetti straps. It had flames on it, which was appropriate because Kris thought she was the hottest woman in the building.

It turned out that the visit to the museum triggered a lot of memories for Kris. They didn’t seem to be about his life, but "knowledge" popped into his head as they examined Native American artifacts on display. Most of the recovered memories had to do with Australian aborigines, and the similarities and differences between artifacts he had obviously seen Down Under and the ones they were seeing now.

Lunch was at a Thai restaurant, which triggered more memories as Kris realized he’d had this food before and liked it. Lulu had a taste for hot things, which he thought went with her shirt as well.

All in all, it was a great day. Ambrose hadn’t minded going to Roslynn’s, and they’d had a wonderful time just being together. On the way back to Pembroke, he looked over to find Lulu staring at him.

"You make me so hot," she said, her voice low.

"I do?" He sounded surprised.

"You’re a very sexy man, Kris Farmingham," she said.

He glanced over and was shocked to see her undoing her jeans.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"You just drive," she said. "I’m having fun looking at you, and I’m going to be having even more fun in a minute."

He had to correct his steering as he realized what she was doing, when he saw her slide her hand into the front of her unbuttoned and unzipped jeans. She was masturbating … right there in the car!

"I do not believe this," he sighed.

"Believe it," she panted, her hand moving in her pants. "When I’m done here, I’ll help you believe it. Are you wearing underwear?"

"Of course I’m wearing underwear," he laughed.

"Boxers or briefs?" she asked. Her hips were moving now.

"Why does it matter?"

"I’m just trying to figure out how hard I’m going to have to work to get your magnificent penis out, so I can suck it."

"In the car? While I’m driving?" He laughed harder.

"Mmmmmm, I can taste you already," she moaned. She leaned back, closing her eyes. She had spread her legs as widely as she could. Her hand was very busy in her pants.

Kris forced himself to watch the road. There was a logging truck up ahead, with enough of a load on it that it was going fifteen miles an hour slower than all the other traffic. People ahead of him were passing the truck, when they could.

Watching traffic was made more difficult by the sounds she was making. He looked over to see her other hand up under her shirt, moving around on one breast.

"You are SHAMELESS!" he laughed.

"You turn me on sooooo much," she moaned. Her head flopped back on the headrest and she closed her eyes.

He didn’t tell her he was going to pass the truck. He didn’t, in all truth, think about the fact that the cab of the truck was up high, or that the driver, if he looked over, would easily be able to see where Lulu’s hands were and what they were doing. Later he’d say he was distracted. In any case, he passed the truck and then jumped as the air horn of the truck started making repeated blaring sounds that he recognized as the rhythm of "Shave and a Haircut."

Lulu jumped too, because the horn started sounding before Kris had actually completed the passing maneuver. She twisted in the seat to look behind them and saw the driver waving at her, smiling.

"He SAW ME!" she squealed.

"Um … I guess so," laughed Kris.

"Ohhhh shiiiit," groaned Lulu. "Nnnnnnnggggg."

Kris realized with astonishment that the fact that a random trucker had seen what she was doing had set her off. She was having an orgasm. He felt his prick stiffen and, by pure force of will, kept his eyes on the road. She lay limply, breathing hard for another few minutes, and then did up her pants. She started giggling and leaned over to grope the front of his pants.

"Stop that!" he laughed.

"Pass another truck!" she giggled, trying to find the tab of his zipper.

"You’re crazy!" he yelled, batting at her hand.

"Move the seat back!" she ordered. "There’s not enough room for my head."

"You’re certifiably insane!"

"No I’m not," she said. "I’m just … HUNGRY!"

With that she pushed her face into his lap and began making eating noises, just like she did when she pretended to eat Ambrose’s neck. She couldn’t get his zipper down, but she rubbed her face against his burgeoning erection.

"Let me get us home first!" he roared. "THEN you can do what you want."

She sat back up, grinned, and scooted over to sit next to him, her hand still fondling his prick on the outside of his pants.

"OK," she said simply.

Then she unbuttoned her jeans again.

"See if you can find another trucker to pass!" she yipped excitedly.

Harper’s return drive to New York City gave him a lot of time to think about the interview he’d just conducted. It had been a bust, as far as getting what he’d gone after. The Henderson woman would walk. That didn’t bother him all that much. She wasn’t really a problem, in terms of being a criminal. He thought it was interesting that a man who had no real memory of his girlfriend would come to the conclusion that he hadn’t been that much into her in the first place.

The bullet wound was also interesting. It was pretty rare for someone to get shot and for no one to know anything about the circumstances surrounding the incident. Lots of people got shot and had no idea who had shot them, but they at least knew the situation in which it had happened. If they lived through it, anyway.

It wasn’t that he was particularly interested in Kristoff Farmingham’s particular situation. It was just something to think about as he drove through scenery that he didn’t get to see that often, which was so much easier on the eyes than the garish stuff that man created and called cities. He also thought about what it might be like to be in Mitch Connel’s shoes and do police work in a place where a shooting was unusual. That had to be a pretty much stress free environment.

He spent a while fantasizing about leaving the city and retiring in some little hamlet where an experienced cop could actually make a difference in the crime rate.

All that fled when he got back to the precinct, though, with its noise and barely controlled confusion. There was a note on his computer monitor for him to call FBI Agent Jefferson. He was surprised when Jefferson himself answered the phone. He had expected to have to go through several underlings.

"What’s up?" asked the detective.

"I need a favor," said Jefferson. "You’ve got the network of snitches there in town. This kingpin shit on the Custer case just won’t die. Plus they want me to pursue the lead you got on where Moe got the gun. I was wondering if you’d nose around with your sources and see if you can come up with any associates of the Higginbothams who would know if they ever worked for somebody else, or who this guy with the missing trigger finger is."

"It must be killing you to ask for this," said Harper, smiling.

"Come on," pleaded the federal agent. "We’re on the same team here."

"I’ll see what I can do," said Harper. "It’s been a while since I’ve seen some of my informants anyway. It will give me an excuse to get out of the office and make the rounds."

"I really appreciate this," said Jefferson. "This case is killing me."

"You’re the one who snatched it from my hands," Jim reminded him, still grinning.

"I know, I know. Just see what you can come up with. And please document it well, so I can include it in my file. And who knows? Maybe you’ll come up with something interesting."

"Not likely," said Harper. "You and I both know there is no mastermind. I’ll do it, though. I want you in a position to owe me."

"Thanks a lot," said Jefferson. Both men knew it wasn’t actually a display of gratitude.

Lulu leaned over and stuck the tip of her tongue in Kris' ear. He groaned and moved away, trying to pay attention to the road. She’d been pestering him the whole way, touching him and saying all sorts of things that inflamed him. There were several things about that that made him feel good. Primary among them was her casual acceptance of the fact that she loved him and loved their relationship. She didn’t try to change him, and her only demand was that he love her back.

"Your place," she whispered into his ear, her fingers drifting across his lap again.

"If you don’t leave me alone, we’re going to crash and we’ll never get there," he warned. "I don’t have a very good driving record around here, if you’ll recall."

"You’re so tense!" she murmured into his ear. "I’m going to have to do something about that when we get there."

"You’re the one making me tense!" he complained.

"You’re the one making me horny," she said, pressing a breast into his arm.

Jim Harper would remember, on many later occasions, when Richard Jefferson said, "And who knows? You might come up with something interesting." That’s because he came up, eventually, with all kinds of somethings that were very, as it turned out, interesting.

Among them was a discussion with a man known on the street as "Wheezer." Wheezer had asthma, which was how he’d gotten his name. He’d been in and out of jail for most of his sixty years and currently eked out a living by "doing favors" for people who paid him for it.

Wheezer would do literally anything for anybody who would pay him. He specialized in revenge and called himself a "payback artist." He could have written a book, describing the favors he’d done for people, and made a lot of money. He’d done many strange and interesting things over the years.

His personal favorite had been filling a trash can with water and dog feces, which had then been tipped and balanced carefully against the front door of a dwelling in which a woman and a man were having sex. The woman’s husband - who was not the man she was having sex with in that dwelling - had hired Wheezer. Wheezer had come up with the idea to booby trap the front door so that, when the cheating bitch let the man out, the trash can would fall inward, inundating the two lovers in shit. Wheezer had thought the whole thing was so funny that he’d stood there on the sidewalk for two hours, right in front of the house, waiting for the booby trap to be sprung.

Harper had made the acquaintance of Wheezer when the man had been hired to "recover" some stolen property. A "client" had lost a very expensive watch in a crap shooting session. His wife had given him that watch and was beating him up about losing it. When it became known later that the dice were loaded, Wheezer was hired to get the watch back. He chose to do that without talking to the new owner about it, deciding that burglary was the less confrontational way of solving the problem. His wheezing woke up the new owner’s girlfriend, who screamed bloody murder. He happened to run into a beat cop, quite literally, as he was fleeing the scene. It had been one of Harper’s favorite cases, because he’d ended up making a case against Wheezer for the burglary, and the two men for illegal gambling. The frosting on the cake was that the girlfriend had only been sixteen, so he’d gotten a bust for statutory rape as well.

Wheezer, of course, was a man full of information, about all kinds of people and situations. He knew everybody and everybody knew him, which made him the obvious person to start with when Harper began digging into the background of the Higginbothams. Harper knew Wheezer hung out at a particular video arcade. It was his "office."

"Whudduh YOU want?" was his greeting to Harper.

"Can’t an old friend just drop by to say hello?" Harper smiled.

"You ain’t no friend of mine," wheezed Wheezer. "You’re bad for business, too. I ain’t done nothin' you’d be interested in, lately."

"I doubt that seriously, Wheezer," said Harper, happily. "But I’m not here about you. I need some information on Moe, Larry and Curly Higginbotham."

"I heard about that," mused Wheezer. "Fits. Them three is dumb as a post. It figures they’d do sumpin' stoopid like that."

"You ever known them to pal around with anybody smarter?" asked Harper. "Maybe work for somebody else?"

"Them?" Wheezer’s eyebrows rose. "They’s a closed up bunch. They even do they own payback."

"There’s some folks think somebody else put them up to this," said Harper.

"Nah," scoffed Wheezer. "They been braggin' 'bout how they’s gonna hit it big for years. Ain’t no bogeymen in they’s closet. They’s just a bunch of dumbfucks what got too big for they’s britches."

"Hmmm." Jim’s voice was noncommittal. "How about a guy with a missing trigger finger? Ever heard of anybody like that around?"

"Jimmy Four Fingers?" asked Wheezer immediately. "He’s dumb too, but he wouldn’t mess around with them boys. They got a mean streak in em a mile wide. They’s a terrible big chip on they’s shoulders." He squinted at Harper. "And anyway, Jimmy’s a crackhead. He don’t care about nothin cept keepin his pipe from gettin' broke and keepin' it filled. He don’t have the brains to even think about a caper like snatchin' the fuckin' govenor’s wife."

"Tell me about Jimmy Four Fingers," said Harper.

Wheezer looked calculatingly at the detective. "Will you go away if I do?"

"Is that all you want out of life, Wheezer … for me to go away?"

"It’ll do for starters," groused the old man. "Ain’t nobody gonna talk to me for days after seein' me talkin' to you as it is."

"I just need to talk to … Jimmy," said Harper.

"All right, but you’ll owe me," said Wheezer.

Lulu pulled Kris up to the loft. He had only thrown the covers back, the last time he’d gotten out of the bed, and it was still unmade. She pushed him onto the rumpled sheets, unbuttoned her jeans again, and slid her hand into her panties.

"I’m so wet," she said, her voice throaty.

"I’m beginning to think you’re always wet." He grinned.

"Are you complaining?" Her hand went still, but stayed between her legs.

"Do I look crazy?" He kept grinning. "I think every person should have a hobby. Yours is being wet and you’re very good at it."

"Take your clothes off!" she ordered suddenly.

"Your wish is my command," he said, quickly removing his shirt.

"You better believe it, buster," she growled and took her shirt off as well. "You’re going to pay!"

"Pay? What for?" His grin seemed permanent. He stuck his feet up in the air to remove his pants and briefs. "I didn’t do anything."

He flopped back onto the bed, naked, as he watched her take her jeans off.

She slid her panties down, stepped out of them with one foot, and kicked. Kris' eyes followed the tiny scrap of fabric across the room, and he felt the bed move. He turned to see her climbing up onto the mattress to stand. She looked impossibly tall, standing near his waist. Almost delicately, she managed to lift one foot and step across him to stand with a foot on either side of his hips. Though the mattress shifted under her feet, she didn’t lose her balance. Her sex glistened and looked shiny.

"I was horny all day," she said, looking down at him. Her hands came to rest on her hips. He reached for one thigh and she slapped at his hand, then went back to her former position. "I had to play with myself, because YOU wouldn’t make love to me."

"In the museum?" He put one finger up to his lips. "Oh … you mean in the car."

"I wanted to suck you, and you wouldn’t let me." She was trying to frown and look angry, but it wasn’t working.

"I wanted to get back here alive," he said calmly. "And here we are! You can suck me to your heart’s content now."

She dropped her hands and walked forward, stopping with her feet on either side of his face. She began to squat slowly. He had been astonished at how easily she balanced on the moving bed, but was distracted as he gazed at her slippery pussy getting slowly closer to his face.

"I don’t think I want to suck you anymore," she pouted. His eyes shifted to see her head, bent over, her hair falling to shroud her face in shadow. "I think YOU need to make ME happy instead."

He was amazed at how strong her legs must be, to let her hold herself there so steadily, her wet-looking sex only inches from his face. Ever so slowly she lowered herself, until it was like she was kissing him gently with her sexual lips. He stuck his tongue out, lifting his head to drill the tip between them.

Then, suddenly, she dropped her weight and her knees hit the bed. Her vulva mashed against his lips, pushing his head deep into the mattress as she started rubbing her pussy all over his face. Within seconds his whole face was wet. Initially, there was nothing he could do. Her gyrations were so wild that he couldn’t center his attention on any one thing. His hands came up and grabbed her ass and he was finally able to seal his lips against her split.

She sounded like he was killing her. He realized that the insides of her thighs were pressing against his ears and that for him to be able to hear her as clearly as he could meant she was being really loud. He snorted into her wet pussy. All those neighbors Mitch had said were so happy about how quiet he’d been so far were probably standing up right now, looking toward his house. He imagined some woman saying, "Walt! That weirdo who moved in next door is sacrificing some poor woman to his Pagan gods! DO something!"

He saw her arms stretch out in front of her, her hands reaching for the headboard. Once she had a grip on it, her hips became a blur and there was nothing he could do to keep her still. Again, he became just the thing she was rubbing herself off against.

He let her have an orgasm … could tell when it happened … and then, in a burst of energy, he scooted out from under her, wiggling downwards.

"No!" she moaned, turning as her prisoner seemed to be getting away.

He flipped onto his belly and grabbed her ankles. Using them as an anchor point, he pulled himself to his hands and knees and then leaned back, to pull until she fell flat on her stomach on the bed. She lost her grip on the headboard and tried to flip over onto her back.

He let her, because it was part of his plan anyway. Then he spread her legs and slid his arms under her thighs, falling to the bed again. Her knees bent and seconds later his face was back between her legs and his hands were folded together on her belly. Her thighs were now on his shoulders, so she couldn’t use her feet for leverage.

He dropped his head and sealed his lips around her stiff clit. Now he could keep them there for as long as he wanted to and there was nothing she could do about it.

Ten minutes later, she was making noise again. Her hands were alternating between gripping the sheets and pounding them, as she came again.

All the time he’d been eating her pussy, he’d also been inching upwards. He was watching, looking up past her heaving breasts at that headboard. When her head finally bumped up against it, he rose to his knees and crawled forward.

This had the effect of folding her up, and her thighs slid down until her knees were hooked over his shoulders. He had to switch to her nipples as her knees got closer and closer to her face, until she was bent almost double, unable to straighten out because of the headboard in the way.

"Kris!" she complained.

Finally his face lifted and leaned forward until she was hanging by her knees from his shoulders, helpless. He reached for his penis, which had been achingly hard for half an hour, and stifled a groan as he swabbed it up and down her split.

"Oh yes," she moaned.

But all he did was tease her, rubbing her with his prick, entering her only enough to spread her lips and then pulling back. He jacked himself, because it was the only way he could resist slamming into her.

"Kris!" she moaned. "You’re teasing me!"

"Uh huh," he admitted.

"Stop that!"

"Nope."

"Kris! Fuck me!"

"I don’t know if I really should," he sighed. He let his prick push forward until the head was almost in and then pulled it out.

"STOP TEASING ME!" she yelled.

He leaned forward to suck a nipple. That folded her up so tightly that he knew she could only just breathe. He let the nipple pop out of his mouth and looked at her wild eyes.

"How come you get to tease me, but I don’t get to tease you?" He frowned. "That’s not fair at all."

He pushed, holding his prick firmly so that his hand kept it from going into her more than a couple of inches. She felt deliciously hot around the head of his dick.

"I’m sorry," she moaned. "I won’t tease you again."

"Yes you will," he said firmly. "You love teasing me."

"Kriiiisssss," she moaned.

"Admit it," he said, pulling his prick back out of her. He rubbed the tip all around her clitty.

"Oh PLEASE put it in me," she groaned.

"Admit you love teasing me," he said.

"Never!" she whined.

"You’re worse than Henrietta," he laughed.

Her eyes opened wide and her head lifted. It was obvious she was thinking about the parallels between what was going on and what he’d written.

She suddenly reached through his arms and he jerked as she pinched his nipples firmly … VERY firmly.

"You leave Henrietta out of this," she gasped. "You’re mine, not hers."

Her words electrified him. He’d gone way past where he really wanted to anyway. Taking his hand away from his rigid penis, he looked down and let gravity control it as he nosed it between her pussy lips again.

Then he slammed forward.

Her head bounced off the headboard as he began thrusting lustily into her.

He grinned as she began wailing again. He hoped they would be done before the neighbors called Mitch and he knocked on the door, wanting to know who was being murdered.

Chapter 25

Harper was standing by "Dilly" Dalrymple, an impossibly fit looking young man dressed all in black. He had enough crap hanging off of his body that it would fill a wheelbarrow. Harper didn’t say anything, though. Dilly and his team were good at what they did, and right now Harper was just so much excess baggage. Jim heard Dilly’s earpiece crackle and saw the man say something into the microphone clipped to his sleeve. He turned to Harper.

"We’re ready," he said simply.

"Let’s do it," said Harper, feeling foolish. Dilly was calling the shots here. He was only being polite by telling Harper they were ready to go.

Dilly spoke to his wrist again. Nothing happened at first, that Jim could see, except that Dilly changed positions. Then there was a thump of the ram hitting the door of the building, and suddenly the air was rent by screams and shouts as the entry team utilized a confusion tactic of screaming almost incomprehensible orders to the startled occupants of the building. Dilly cocked his head, obviously listening, and stepped forward. He apparently assumed Harper would follow him.

Harper thought it was over, because Dilly just walked straight for the smashed front door. The black-clad team commander walked forward and then faded to one side, as if he’d planned to do that. Jim was suddenly faced with the figure of a man hurtling toward him, his eyes wide with fear. Dilly simply stuck his foot out and the fugitive sprawled into Harper’s body. Instinct made Jim spin, while he grabbed the man to control the impact by letting his inertia keep moving him forward and down.

"FUCK, MAN!" grunted the crackhead as Harper came down on his back, wrenching one wrist behind him. "I didn’t DO nuthin'!"

Another officer was suddenly there, dressed in black like Dilly.

"Sorry," he said softly, as he took over and finished cuffing the man on the ground. "Let one get by me."

"Sloppy!" barked Dilly and went in the house.

Harper followed him in, to see chaos in action. People were screaming, some of them still struggling as black-clad men tried to restrain them. Dilly’s right foot lashed out and connected with a man’s head. The subject dropped, limp, and the entry specialist who had been struggling with him cuffed his wrists.

Dilly looked around and said, "Over there," pointing.

Jimmy Four Fingers was sitting on the stained floor - his arms raised straight up in the air, his glass crack pipe still gripped in one hand - staring at the business end of the rifle pointed at his face. It was only two inches away from his nose, and Jimmy was cross-eyed as he stared at the muzzle.

"We gotta move 'em out!" barked Dilly’s second in command. "They’re fucking cooking in the kitchen!"

There was no gentleness to the evacuation of the crackhouse. These men specialized in taking down places like this and they knew that breathing the air in a house where crack was being cooked could fuck you up for life. Their intelligence hadn’t turned up any information that this place was anything other than an abandoned building, where they’d find fifteen or twenty wretches inhaling the fumes of burning crack cocaine. Cooking meant volatile chemicals, and it wasn’t at all unusual for a crack kitchen to blow up spectacularly, as some addict’s addled brain caused him … or her … to do something stupid.

Once the subjects were huddled in the street near the paddy wagon that had driven up while Harper was inside, things calmed down a little. A designated member of the entry team had stayed inside to deactivate potential sources of ignition, and four others had finished clearing the building before running out.

"You want any of the others?" asked Dilly.

"Just Jimmy," said Harper.

"He’s yours," said the lieutenant. "We’ll have to hang around until a decon team gets here. Thanks. It was fun."

Harper thought it was quite possibly crazy that someone had thanked him for arranging for them to risk their lives by assaulting a building, in which any number of armed and desperate criminals might be. He’d seen the team member whose job it was to collect evidence picking up handguns off the floor and dropping them into evidence bags. He’d picked up three in the few seconds Jim had watched him. He was amazed at how smoothly everything had gone … how effortlessly the entry team had made it look. All those guns and not a shot fired.

Harper went to Jimmy and told him to stand up.

"I was just there to deliver a message!" croaked the man.

"You can deliver it to me," said Harper, leading him away.

Lulu looked over her shoulder at Kris and pursed her lips in a silent kiss. He was no longer amazed at how turned on that made him feel. Then she walked around the end of one of the stacks in the library, still looking at books. Ambrose was in the art section, as opposed to the children’s section. He was sitting on the floor, with a large coffee table type book open in his lap and was looking at pictures of surrealist paintings.

Kris had been awestruck when they first entered the library. He’d expected something small, maybe only one or two rooms, in a town the size of Pembroke. Apparently the long winters caused people to really cherish their library, though, because it was a two story structure that had to have forty or fifty thousand books in it.

Kris walked along, looking at author names, wishing that something would jump out at him. He didn’t even know if he’d actually published anything and, of course, didn’t know what section to look for it in, even if one of his books was there. He turned the corner, more or less following Lulu. She was halfway down the aisle. She looked over at him, scanned the area around them, then raised her shirt. The words "I WAS RAISED ON THE STREET" were replaced by her bare breasts. She giggled and pulled the shirt back down, looking behind her again.

"That’s not what they do on Sesame Street," whispered Kris. "Not on any episode I ever saw."

"Libraries make me horny," said Lulu, running her hand down and between her legs.

"Let’s go home then," suggested Kris.

"I haven’t found what I’m looking for," she said.

"What ARE you looking for?"

"I’ll know when I see it," she said. "Come stand behind me."

He wondered what she was up to, but did as she asked. She pressed her butt back against the front of his pants and bent over to look at a lower shelf. The Sesame Street shirt fell forward and he knew that, if he bent over too, he could look up it and see her hanging breasts. He moved back and brought his right hand down on the tight fabric covering her butt. The sound was unbelievably loud to Kris.

"HEY!" she yelped, standing up.

She looked both ways and shot him a murderous look.

"You’re acting like a slut," he whispered.

"So?" Her face didn’t soften. "Maybe I AM a slut … for you." Her whisper was strident in the calm of the building. "Maybe I WAS a slut for you! You better watch it, mister. Maybe I should STOP being a slut for you!"

"Awww, don’t be like that," he said, unable to keep a smile off his lips. He loved it when she got all cocky like this. "It’s just that we’re in a library. What would someone think if they saw us messing around?"

"We’re NOT messing around," she hissed. "I was GOING to let you mess around … but not anymore. Go find a book!"

"OK, OK. Don’t get your panties in a wad," he said, backing up. For the first time he thought she might actually be angry.

"I’m not wearing panties," she said, sticking her tongue out at him.

He went to another row and wandered along. A few minutes later he heard a hiss from above him and looked up to see Lulu on the second floor, crooking her finger at him. He found his way upstairs and saw her at the end of a row that let her look down on the central hall of the building. As he walked toward her, she went down the row toward the wall. He turned the corner, but she’d vanished. He went to the end of the row and looked both ways, still unable to see her.

He was almost tackled from behind as she smashed into him, causing him to bump up against the wall of books in front of him. He turned and her lips crushed his as she pinned him against the books. One book, longer than the others around it, pressed painfully into his back. He couldn’t think about that, though, because her kiss transmitted urgency and passion that couldn’t be resisted. In seconds he was kissing her back, his hands sliding up and down the back of her body.

Twenty seconds later she drew back to drag in a breath.

"I’m sooooo horny, Kris," she moaned.

"I thought you were mad at me," he whispered.

"I was teasing you!" she giggled. "You’re so easy to tease!" She kissed him again and reached between them to squeeze his penis. He pushed her back gently.

"You want to do it?" he asked, incredulously. "Right here in the library?"

"Yes," she said, astonishing him. "But I know we can’t," she added. "Now leave me alone so I can find a book. Then I’ll take you home and deal with your incessant horniness."

She said it so seriously that he blinked. Then she grinned, giggled, and danced off, to leave him standing in the middle of books on fighter pilots and warships in World War Two.

Harper looked through the one way mirror of the interrogation room. Jimmy was starting to fidget. He was still cuffed, both to himself and to the chair. He’d been sitting there for over an hour, so that the crack could leave his system before the interrogation started. Courts had a tendency to throw out confessions made by people who were high when they made them. The added benefit was that Jimmy was starting to get strung out. That’s why he was moving around so much. At the same time, he was starting to doze, so Harper went into the room.

It took over an hour to break down Jimmy’s initial resistance and then he wilted. Though Harper didn’t know it, Jimmy confessed for his own good. He knew what crack was doing to him, but couldn’t control himself when the longing gripped him. His teeth were rotting in his mouth and he weighed less than a hundred pounds. He knew that if he didn’t get locked up, he’d be dead within a year. So he copped to taking down the courier to get money for drugs. He admitted to selling the gun to Moe, who’d claimed that he and his brothers were going to come into a sizable fortune by transferring the money from some rich guy’s pockets to their own. But that was all he knew, and that was all Harper got.

In Pembroke, a month passed under conditions that were wholly acceptable to Lulu and Kris. He went to her house almost every evening, spending time with both Lulu and Ambrose, while the boy was awake.

Then, when Ambrose was down, more often than not, one or the other of the adults would begin a sexual game. Sometimes Lulu initiated things in a very straightforward way. Kris did, too. But both of them loved to tease and be teased, and there was a lot of "reluctance" in their play sometimes. It was actually all very straight forward, such as this example of how it started one night.

"I’m too tired to fool around," sighed Lulu dramatically.

"No you’re not," said Kris. "Your nipples are already hard."

"You’re not supposed to notice that," she complained. "You’re supposed to woo me and seduce me."

"I must be an old country boy," he said. "You know what foreplay is in redneck country, don’t you?"

"Do I look like a redneck?" she asked archly.

"A mutant redneck, perhaps," he suggested, smiling.

"What is redneck foreplay like?" she asked with an exaggerated sigh.

"Get in the truck, woman!" he said in a drawl.

"No it’s not. It’s 'Get in the truck, bitch, '" said Lulu.

"I thought you didn’t know what redneck foreplay was."

"I never said that. I just asked you to tell me."

"Never mind. I want to lick your pussy."

"OK."

It was like that sometimes. Whichever one was trying to resist could never resist for very long. Both were still much too horny for each other. Their relationship was based on an honest liking of one another, even though they came from wildly different backgrounds. They fit together well NOW, and that was all that seemed to matter.

While they were at a movie one night, Kris recalled another memory. In the film, one of the actors pointed a gun at the audience and, quite suddenly, the man Kris knew he had run over was back in his head. He was lying on the ground and his arm was pointed straight at Kris. His hand flashed and then flashed again.

The sound of gunfire from the screen made Kris jump. His head throbbed and he suddenly realized Lulu was whispering to him.

"Let’s go," she said. "This is dumb."

"It’s only half over," said Kris.

"I can think of better things to do than watch the rest," she said.

He was distracted as they drove away from the movie theater. Had the man he’d hit been shooting at him? That didn’t make any sense. He didn’t mention it to Lulu, because he knew she’d have questions, and he had no answers.

Instead, he let her distract him from thinking about it when they got home.

Two days later, Kris walked into the diner after work. Jessica was sitting at a table and he joined her. They chatted a little until Lulu came to take their order. She acknowledged it and then put her pad and pen in her apron pocket.

"There’s an art show over in Willow Flats next month," she said, looking at Kris. "I think Ambrose would really enjoy it."

"I want to go!" said Jessica immediately.

Lulu looked at her. "OK," she said.

Jessica looked across the table at Kris. "Maybe you could invite Mitch to come with us," she suggested.

"What?!" Lulu was obviously shocked.

"Well," whined Jessica. "He had another fight with Carla. I saw her in town yesterday and she was moping around complaining about him."

"I didn’t know you were interested in him," said Lulu, peering at her friend.

"I’m not," said Jessica. "Not like THAT. He’s kind of interesting … that’s all." She folded her arms. "And they DID have another fight."

"I’d think you’d be wanting to invite Carla," said Lulu.

"It was just an idea," complained Jessica. "I still want to go, though. I don’t get nearly as much time with you since HE showed up." Jessica jabbed her finger at Kris, who smiled shyly.

"I said you could come." Lulu’s voice was firm.

"OK, then," said Jessica. "Are you going to get our orders or do we need to go somewhere else?"

"Don’t go there," warned Lulu.

Jessica slumped. "OK, I’m sorry. It’s just that you get to have fun, and I’m still all alone. It’s not fair."

"I told Mitch about the naughty nurse outfit," said Kris, trying to defuse the situation. "He seemed very interested in it."

"Great," said Jessica glumly. "Like I’ll ever get to show it to him."

"I was thinking of borrowing it from you," said Lulu, her voice light. She laughed as Jess' face wrinkled up. "Oh stop! We’ll find you a man."

"Sure you will," sighed Jessica. "You may as well just take the damn thing."

"I’ll watch you wear it," offered Kris. "I liked it on you the last time."

He had to duck from Lulu as she slapped at him, then duck further as Jessica picked up the menu and launched it his way.

Chapter 26

Harper sat, staring at the four cases laid out on his desk. It was late and everybody else was gone, except for Rudy Chastain, who was catching up on paperwork on the other side of the room. Both men wanted quiet and neither had spoken to the other for over an hour.

Jim knew there was something he was missing in his review of the cold cases. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew it was there. His eyes kept drifting from one cover sheet to another. His gaze landed on the date that the young boy’s body had been found. The kidnappers had killed him on purpose, shooting him execution style in the back of the head. They’d left a warning that maybe the next victim’s parents would follow the "rules." His eyes closed and he realized he was falling asleep. But that dozing state allowed him to see multiple things in his mind at the same time so, as if he had left his body, he just looked at everything. Moe had gotten the gun from Jimmy Four Fingers about a month before the boy was shot.

His eyes popped open and his hands reached for the file, lifting pages until the lab report was exposed.

The bullet had all but exploded the child’s head, shattering the skull into multiple pieces that only the skin had kept in general relation to each other. The bullet had lodged in the jawbone, where it had almost penetrated the lower teeth, breaking them, but not pushing its way through.

His eyes dropped to the description of the bullet.

The boy had been shot with a forty-five.

Nine hours later, Harper was waiting by the lab entrance lab holding two sheets of paper, copies from the reports that had been on his desk the night before. The lab supervisor arrived first and tried to ignore him, going straight to the kitchenette to start brewing coffee. He wasn’t much interested in the agitated detective, and succeeded in ignoring him until Harper swept the coffee machine off the counter. The carafe smashed and what little coffee had dripped into it splashed all over the floor. He turned to berate the detective, but stopped as he saw the man’s face.

Thirty minutes later a tech lifted his eyes from the binocular microscope that had two bullets stuck to the viewing plates with wax, and turned to Harper.

"It’s a match."

The DNA evidence from the other cold cases took longer to process. In the end, the donor of the hair found on the girl’s body that had been thrown in a dumpster, still bound and gagged, was positively identified as coming from Larry Higginbotham.

Quite suddenly, relatively speaking, a group of serial kidnappers and murderers, already in custody and under charges for attempting to kidnap Chantal Custer, were identified and two cold cases were solved.

Jefferson, for once, smiled when he hung up the phone from his conversation with Jim Harper.

Ambrose struggled with the wrapping on the large, flat package that was decorated in brightly colored birthday paper. He finally got a purchase on the paper and pulled, ripping a large swath of it away from the box inside. Line after line after line of brightly colored artists pencils was exposed, along with various colors of chalk and a full array of watercolors, brushes and other accoutrements of the artist’s trade.

"COOL!" squealed the excited little boy.

Lulu looked at Kris, who had brought the package.

"That’s a professional set," she commented, thinking of how much it must have cost. The kit included a case to store everything in, with hundreds of little loops to hold each pencil, brush, and pot of paint.

"He’s got a real future in art," said Kris, shrugging his shoulders. "I just figured he should have the tools to explore his talent."

Lulu cocked her head and the hair fell away, baring her bald scalp.

"You’re just the sweetest man I’ve ever met," she said softly.

"I had an ulterior motive, of course," said Kris, smiling gently.

"Oh?"

"This will keep him busy, so his mommy has time to … entertain guests."

Lulu turned to Ambrose.

"What do you say to Kris?" she asked.

Ambrose jumped up, struggling to hold the heavy package in his hands and hug Kris at the same time. Lulu had to take the case, while Ambrose bestowed a wet kiss on Kris' cheek.

"Thank you," he said in a sing song voice.

"You’re welcome," said Kris. "Happy birthday, big guy."

"Would you like to draw something right now?" asked Lulu, taking the case to the table and pulling a chair up for Ambrose to climb up on so he could kneel at a comfortable height to work.

"YAY!" squealed the excited little boy.

After he was settled with a pile of paper there, Lulu stepped back and then turned to Kris.

"He looks like he’ll be busy for a bit. You look like you could use some … entertainment."

Jefferson and Harper had finished going through all the case files. There had been a jurisdictional fight, at upper levels, once it was determined that the Higginbotham case would reap some huge public relations benefits for somebody. The Department of Justice, though, had more clout, even more than Governor Custer. In the end, Harper had actually been relieved to turn over everything to Jefferson. It was going to be a complicated and drawn out prosecution. The death penalty was on the table now, for sure, and it was much better that it be handled at the federal level than the state. It still wasn’t likely that anybody would be put to death before nature claimed him first, but at least the state wouldn’t have to deal with the Civil Liberties Union. Their capital punishment division was already slavering and nobody had even been tried yet, much less sentenced to death.

The US Attorney, of course, was elated. This was the kind of case that could make for a lucrative career in the private sector at some later date. Many a US Attorney had "done his time" serving the public and then gone on to become a millionaire, based on that record of public service.

The actual amount of paper being transferred was minimal, considering the importance of the case. The real pain in the ass was Chantal Custer. She wanted her savior found, even more so, now that she knew the men who had tried to take her were murdering monsters. She called fairly routinely, at least once a day, asking for progress reports on identifying the man she was sure had saved her life.

When Jefferson left, that was the only residue of the case that Harper still had on his plate.

Kris fell forward as Lulu collapsed under him, landing on her stomach with her arms flung wide. He tried to stay in her as they bounced, but his softening penis slipped out of her.

"Ohhhhhh," she complained.

He started to get off her, but she told him not to.

"I like it when you crush me like this," she panted.

She’d been waiting for him when he got there. Ambrose was down for a nap. When he’d left after they’d celebrated Ambrose’s birthday, she had told him that, in the future, she wasn’t going to stop whatever she was doing just to answer the door. She’d told him to just come on in the next time he came over. This had been that next time.

When he’d entered the house, he had called out and heard an answering call from the bedroom.

"I’m in here! I need your help. I lost one of the studs from my ear and I’m looking for it."

When he got there, she was on her hands and knees on the bed, stark naked, her face close to the covers, which made her ass jut high in the air. He stopped to admire her and she peered around her shoulder.

"I’m unhappy," she said, pouting.

"You can get a new stud," he said, mildly.

"I want the old one!" she insisted. Then she went back to moving her face around on the bed, inches above it, which resulted in her ass waving back and forth at him. He could see the full lips of her labia peeking out at him. She moved her knees apart a little and backed up until her feet were off the bed. Her invitation was obvious and he knew she was teasing him.

"Be careful," he said. He was already hard. "You might fall off the bed and hurt yourself. Your knees are awfully close to the edge."

Again her face appeared around her shoulder.

"I’m not old and feeble like you," she said. "Come help me."

He went up behind her and, without warning, cupped her vulva, sliding his middle finger into her pussy. She was already slick and wet.

"Maybe it’s in here," he teased, wiggling his finger around. She pushed her butt back toward him.

"Maaaaybe," she said, resting her head on the bed.

"Can’t tell," he commented. "Can’t get deep enough to feel all the way up in there."

"Don’t you have something longer?" she moaned.

"Let’s see," he said, removing his finger from her and unbuckling his pants. He shoved them down around his thighs, fisted his erection, and pushed it into her. She groaned, an obvious sound of happiness. It made him even harder, if that was possible. "I don’t feel anything," he teased.

"Keep looking," came her muffled reply.

"Which one was it?" he asked, reaching under her to cup her breasts and squeeze gently.

She pushed her upper torso up off the bed and he pulled on her breasts until she was leaning forward, only supported by his hands. She turned her head and reached for her left ear.

"It was this one." She pinched the silver hoop with the black ball on it. "Oh! There it is! I guess I didn’t lose it after all!"

"Oh," he said sadly, flexing his penis inside her. "I guess you don’t need any help after all, huh?"

"I might have lost something else!" she insisted. "Keep looking."

He "looked" for another five minutes, reaching under her to strum her clitty while he went slowly in and out of her.

"Ohhhh you feel sooooo good," she sighed.

"You know, I was worried you’d think the only thing I was interested in was your body," he said, picking up his pace a little.

"That’s stupid," she said.

"You’re calling me stupid?"

"Shut up and fuck me, old man."

He punished her for ribbing him about his age by pulling out. She complained loudly until she saw he had only done so to remove his clothes. She scooted around until she was fully on the bed, still presenting from the rear. He climbed onto the bed and gave her what she so obviously wanted.

Now, in the aftermath, even though she said she liked his weight, he rolled, pulling her on top of him, face up. His hands immediately went to her breasts to stroke them.

"You’re so good to me," she sighed.

"Why, because every time I come here I have my sordid way with you?" He squeezed her nipples.

"No, because you love me," she said. "It’s been a long time since I felt so loved. The sex is only part of it. I like that part, but only because it’s you doing it to me. You’re a nice guy and you care about me. All of that is very good for me and I love you for it. Every day, I wake up smiling, looking forward to seeing you. I love that feeling, I want it to last forever."

Her comment, rather than making him feel good, however, brought to mind the secret he had, which might tear them apart. He didn’t want to be torn apart. It must have affected his body in some way, or maybe it was because he didn’t respond. In any case she rolled off of him and then leaned back in, putting her arm across his chest.

"What’s wrong?"

"I don’t know," he answered.

"I don’t understand," she said, taking his answer for confirmation that something WAS wrong.

"I remember something," he said. "It’s not something nice. I might not be the nice guy you think I am."

"What is it?" she asked. She didn’t lean back. As far as she was concerned, nothing had changed. She trusted her heart, and her heart said he WAS a good man.

"I don’t want to tell you," he said. "I have this memory of doing something wrong … of hurting someone. I don’t think anybody knows about it, but it could get me in a lot of trouble if they found out."

"You MURDERED SOMEBODY?" Her voice rose an octave.

"No! Not that!" he said. "I think he was just hurt … maybe badly … but not dead."

"This makes no sense!" she said firmly. "You said nobody knows about it. But obviously this man - the man you say you hurt - HE knows about it. Tell me what’s going on, Kris."

"If I tell you and Mitch asks you about it, you’ll have to tell him. If you don’t know, then you can honestly say you don’t know."

"Mitch? Why would HE be worried about this? It didn’t happen here … did it?"

"No. It was somewhere else. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want to hurt you and I don’t want you involved in this. It might even be something from back when I was a juvenile. It could be nothing. Don’t worry about it." He sat up. "I’d better go. The book is almost finished and I need to get that done. Then maybe I can figure out what to do."

She tried to get him to stay. She tried to get him to talk about it.

He was almost surly by the time he left.

He forced himself to think about the book and by the time he got to work he knew how he’d end it. The Duchess of Fellborough had submitted to him, but only as a surrogate for the other women. She felt it was her duty to protect them, and Quigley agreed that if she’d submit willingly, she would be the only woman for the rest of the cruise who had to see the inside of his cabin … and share his bed.

He wrote the scenes in which the duchess sobbed and then was quiet, lying stiff beneath her rutting rapist, and then later was seduced by the things he made her feel. True to his word, he took only her for the rest of the voyage and set the women free on the shoreline of England as promised.

Mechanically, Kris did his job, keeping one eye on the clock and the other on the computer screen as he wrote about how the duchess, once home, used her influence and testimony to mount the mother of all pursuits.

Quigley was hounded and, in one last bloody battle, was captured, his infamous ship sunk. There were only seven survivors from the pirate crew. Quigley was among them, but he wasn’t hanged like the rest. Instead, he was taken in chains to the duchess' manor and beaten to the floor in front of her chair. She sat there, six months pregnant, and looked down at him.

"You must be punished," said the duchess flatly.

Quigley lifted his bruised and bloodied face to his captor. He knew she had been on the ship that had defeated them in the end, though she had not shown herself to him then. He had gone into the hold in chains with the rest. His eyes fell to her bulging belly.

"You loved what I did to you," he croaked. "In the end, you loved it."

"You raped me," she said, her voice emotionless.

"You submitted!" he countered. "You took the burden of the others on your own shoulders." He grinned. "Or should I say back?"

A soldier stepped forward. His fist lashed out viciously, connecting with Quigley’s mouth, and he fell to the floor and lay there. The man stepped closer to continue the beating, but the duchess raised her hand and he stopped.

"My consent was coerced," she said. "It meant nothing under the circumstances."

"You loved it," he mumbled through split and bleeding lips.

Henrietta Clayworth, Duchess of Fellborough, unwed and obviously pregnant, instructed her soldiers to leave the room. When the doors closed, Quigley sat up, but did not rise.

"You are correct," she said.

He blinked and shook his head. His ears seemed to be ringing.

"I beg your indulgence, milady," said Quigley. "My scrambled brain thought you agreed with me."

"Oddly enough, your scrambled brain was correct," she said. She knelt and reached out to touch his bruised lips with one fingertip.

"I shall let you live," she said softly. "You will use your considerable knowledge of the sea and the pirate trade to help me expunge them from the oceans. You shall provide for the women you ruined and see that the children you so carelessly spawned grow up to contribute to the empire’s greatness, rather than soiling their heritage like you did. You, my dear Quigley, shall make amends for your deeds."

"Is that all?" He chuckled. "Those things I will do gladly, if my neck is to be left unstretched."

"There is more," she said, standing. "Kneel before me."

Quigley wasn’t ready to die yet. If she was going to let him live, the least he could do was pay her the respect she demanded. After all, that bulging belly held his child. She had said he must provide for the women, one of whom was herself. He admired her. He’d admired her since he first met her. It was that admiration that had led to his agreement with her, whether she counted it valid or not.

"What else, your grace?" he asked, bowing his head.

"I shall birth no bastard child. You shall become my husband." She said it in the same voice she had been using all along, and it took two full seconds for it to register with Quigley. His head snapped up, his eyes open wide.

"You will make love with me at every opportunity," she said. The corners of her lips rose appreciably. "I did love it … in the end … and I shall love it again, when this insufferable burden you gave me finally leaves my body and I look like a woman again."

"You’ve never looked more like a woman than you do now," he said, wonderingly. "Nor have you ever been more beautiful. But you needn’t wait until you give birth to our child. I have it on good authority that a man and woman may continue their amorous adventures up until the last possible moment."

"You’d have to take me from behind, like you did when you ravaged my innocence," she said. Her eyes were dangerously close to twinkling. "As I said then, I am no animal to be roughly bred."

"The breeding is already accomplished," he said, the cocky grin back on his face. "Now there is but the pursuit of pleasure to enjoy."

"Do you accept my conditions?" she asked, standing tall and stately.

"I do," he said.

"GUARDS!" she thundered.

The doors flew open. Obviously the men had been waiting for her call.

"Take this scoundrel and have him cleaned up. Once he is presentable, chain him to the bed in my bedchamber."

"Chain me?" asked Quigley.

"Tis only proper that you understand how I felt when you ripped my maidenhead from me," she said. "If you please me, I may remove your bonds. If not … well … I was your captive for two months."

She smiled sweetly.

"Perhaps you should be taught what that felt like as well."

Kris looked at the screen. He thought he should FEEL something … having finished the first book he could remember finishing. It was good. He knew that. Lulu liked it and that meant lots of women would like it.

But it didn’t feel like he’d done anything special.

He thought about that. He eventually decided that romance wasn’t what he’d written in the past. It wasn’t his "thing." That had to be the answer.

The arrival of the Cynthia, who ran the morning show, jerked him out of his reverie. He packed up and went home.

He tried to sleep, but the wondering kept him awake: "If romance isn’t what I write … what IS it I write?"

Even more disturbing was the other question on his mind. What to do about the accident and the man who had been shooting at him…

Chapter 27

It could be that his conscience drove him to it. Many men are haunted by past acts, until there is some kind of resolution. It is certain that his relationship with Lulu had a lot to do with it. He loved her too much to put her in a position to be hurt by his past. At war with himself over the thorn that kept piercing his psyche, he finally came up with what could only be called a half assed plan to at least TRY to move forward.

Kris invited Mitch in, taking him to the living room. Mitch looked around.

"Nice place," he said. "I’ve always wanted to see what the inside of one of these summer places looked like."

"I’m sure you knew somebody who lived in one," said Kris.

"Yeah, but it seemed kind of rude to just ask to visit so I could gawk, you know?"

"You didn’t mind coming over here to pry into my life," said Kris.

"You’re different," said Mitch. "You’re an anomaly, both professionally and personally." He sat down and they both listened to air whooshing out of the leather-covered easy chair. "So, you said you needed a favor. What’s up?"

"I need your opinion on a plot idea," said Kris.

"My opinion?" Mitch sounded surprised. Then he grinned. "Is the woman going to be naked this time?"

"No, I need your opinion as a law enforcement officer," explained Kris.

"Ahhhh," said Mitch. "I give advice for free, but a couple of fingers of good Scotch would most likely get my real opinion."

"All I’ve got is lemonade," said Kris, shrugging his shoulders. "I don’t drink."

"How do you know you don’t drink?" asked Mitch curiously.

"Beats me, I just know."

"Well, lemonade will get you a polite determination as to whether your plot will work or not," said Mitch, grinning.

Kris handed him a sheaf of papers, containing fifteen pages.

"You can read that while I get the drinks," he said. "It’s an idea for part of a book."

"And you want my opinion on this?" asked Mitch, holding up the pages.

"Yeah," said Kris. "As a friend … and from your perspective as a cop."

Kris went to the kitchen. He looked longingly at the back door, but he knew he wouldn’t get far if Mitch came after him. He was taking a huge chance, but it was probably better to just tough it out and see what happened. He mixed the lemonade, putting four ice cubes in each glass, just killing time. He knew the important part was on page eight. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to be in the room when Mitch read that or not. Finally, the feeling of just wanting to get it over with drove him back to the living room. When he handed Mitch the lemonade, the man took it without looking at him, his eyes firmly on the "story outline" in his hand. Kris saw that as Mitch had read each page, he’d put it face down in his lap. He appeared to have four or five pages left. That meant he’d already gotten to the part Kris was concerned with … the part that this whole charade was designed to deal with … sort of. Not knowing what else to do, he went and sat down in the other chair.

Mitch put another page face down on top of the others. He took a sip of the lemonade, but didn’t stop reading or look at Kris. He set the glass on the end table without looking at it. Five long minutes later, he was holding … and reading … the last page.

Mitch reached for the lemonade next to his chair. He took a sip and put it back. Almost carefully, he picked up the sheaf of pages and held them by the sides, tapping them on his knee to straighten them and get them all into a neat pile. He laid them beside the glass of lemonade and looked up at Kris.

"So, you’re going to write this story," he said.

"I’m just thinking about it right now," said Kris carefully. "I need to make sure that the plot idea makes sense. It’s just a rough outline, right now."

"Reads a lot like your own situation," observed Mitch. His eyes didn’t waver. Neither did Kris'.

"I started this when I first got here. It was Lulu’s idea, but I didn’t get very far because I couldn’t remember what happened to me. Now it’s based loosely on what happened to me, with some extra stuff thrown in, of course. I mean authors get to take license and all that kind of thing when they write fiction." He took a sip of his own drink. "So, yeah, it’s loosely based on my situation," said Kris. "That’s why it’s just a very rough outline. I don’t know how things are going to turn out yet. Does he get his memory back? Are there … complications? Does he live happily ever after?"

"Complications," said Mitch softly. "Such as the hit and run accident?"

Kris paused a fraction of a second longer than he felt like he should have, but he had to work up the courage to speak.

"Yeah. I mean … what would happen to a guy in that situation?"

"You mean a guy who can remember that he hit somebody, but can’t remember anything else?"

"Yeah," said Kris tightly. "I mean it could be something from his past that is over and done with … couldn’t it?"

Mitch cupped his chin in the web between his right thumb and forefinger.

"You mean it was processed … investigated … adjudicated … and he just can’t remember that part?"

"Yes," said Kris.

"Then it wouldn’t be a complication, except as a vehicle to insert tension and a sense of fear into the plot. He’s running from the law, because he doesn’t know the whole thing was dealt with." Mitch reached for the lemonade and took another sip. "Is that what you mean?"

"I guess so," said Kris. "How would a guy in that situation go about finding out if it had been dealt with?"

"Officially or unofficially?" asked Mitch.

"Both, I guess," said Kris. "Which would be more likely to get the needed information?"

Mitch picked up the papers and looked through them again. He put about half of them face down on his lap and reread the page that was left on top. He was quiet for a full minute as he read. Then he looked up.

"Well, obviously, going the official route would be easier. I mean if he had a friend in law enforcement, who could ask some questions without raising suspicion, he could probably find out pretty easily. If there was a prosecution, or even an arrest, it would be in public records."

Kris’s eyes opened wider. "I never thought of that," he said.

"But then you have the problem of not knowing which name to run," said Mitch. "Your boy here has two names. Who knows if either of those are his real name, if you know what I mean. Running his aliases wouldn’t necessarily get you squat." He frowned. "Such as when I ran YOUR name. I didn’t find anything like this in your background."

"Oh," said Kris. He sounded disappointed.

"On the unofficial side, there are some things I could think of to do," said Mitch.

Kris perked up.

"It says here that there were a lot of people standing around when this happened … like maybe it was in a parking lot or something?"

"I guess it could have been," said Kris. He suddenly looked shocked. "I mean I guess it could be written that way."

Mitch acted like he hadn’t heard the slip. "A guy could go back to the scene and look around for a business, or workplace or something, where it’s likely someone might have seen something. He could ask around, you know? Like he was a reporter, maybe, asking about this accident and whether anyone saw it or not. Then, if he found someone like that … who saw it, I mean … he could do an interview to find out all the details."

"Like if the police were there and caught the guy," suggested Kris.

"Or if the guy drove away and was never found," said Mitch.

Kris sat for a minute. "But if he can’t remember where it happened … he couldn’t do that. And anyway, if that was the case … he’d have to turn himself in."

"If you wanted him to be the good guy, in this story of yours," said Mitch, "then yeah, he’d have to resolve it some way. I mean somebody got hurt, right? He’d have to take responsibility for that … if he was a good guy."

"That’s not quite the ending I had in mind," sighed Kris.

"Who says that has to be the ending?" asked Mitch.

Kris looked up in surprise.

"Of course it would be the ending. Hit and run. Guy injured. Book 'em, Danno. Case closed." Kris sighed.

"You’re forgetting that he doesn’t know all the facts here," said Mitch. "Something like you described in this fictional account here would get a lot of law enforcement attention. I’m guessing that this fictional account you came up with happened in a big city, based on the little details that he CAN remember. Big cities are full of cops and they all have radios. With all those witnesses around, the first cops on the scene would have a description of the offending vehicle right away. The bolo goes out and the offender is found … unless he gets the car into a garage right away."

"Why a garage?" asked Kris.

"Because the car is damaged. Accidents like this leave all kinds of evidence. Paint, glass, dirt, and that doesn’t include the evidence transferred the other direction. Did you know if you hit a human being at forty miles an hour that the pattern of the cloth on the shirt he’s wearing can be pressed into the paint of the car that hit him?"

"You’re kidding," said Kris.

"Not even a little bit. They can actually match the shirt, or pants, or whatever, with the pattern in the paint and say in court that the car hit someone wearing that shirt."

"Wow," said Kris. He sounded impressed because he WAS impressed.

"Oh yeah," said Mitch. "There’s ALL sorts of evidence at a scene like that. Every criminal leaves something at the scene and takes something away from the scene. You can take that to the bank."

"So … having the car that the guy was driving … that would be very important." Kris’s voice sounded hollow.

"It would be very important indeed," said Mitch.

"What if something happened to the car?" asked Kris.

"You mean like … oh say … it fell in a river or something?" Mitch didn’t bat an eye.

After a pause that was longer than short, Kris said "Yeah … something like that, maybe."

"Wouldn’t matter a whole lot," said Mitch. "The damage would still be there. That pattern I was telling you about would still be there. The paint transfer would still be there. It could all be matched back to an unsolved case."

"So the guy is pretty much toast," said Kris.

"Like I said." Mitch stood up. "There are always mitigating circumstances. And, if the perpetrator got his memory back, and realized he’d done something illegal, and turned himself in … all that would be to his benefit. It might not do a lot, but every bit helps when a court of law is involved."

"I still don’t see how it could possibly have a happy ending," said Kris.

"Well, you’re the author. Maybe you need to think about it a little longer. You’re writing this other book first, right? The one about the pirate I’d give my left nut to be?"

"I guess so," said Kris.

"And you’re going to hang around here until that’s done, right?" Mitch’s meaning was clear.

"Yes," said Kris firmly. Since Lulu hadn’t seen or edited the ending yet, he didn’t feel like he was lying by withholding the fact that it already was finished. "I’m not going anywhere."

"Then you have some time to think about your plot idea. I’ll think about it, too. If I get any ideas, I’ll let you know." He put his coat on. "Meanwhile, I got to go. Got things to do … people to meet … that sort of stuff."

"There’s one other thing," said Kris. He sounded very tentative.

"What’s that?" asked Mitch.

"What if the guy who was hit had something in his hand … that flashed … like it was a gun … maybe?"

"A gun." Mitch’s voice was flat.

"What if he was shooting at the man in the car … as he left the scene of the accident?" Kris shook like he’d suddenly gotten cold.

Mitch was silent for a long minute. What he was thinking about furiously was whether there had been any incidents in which law enforcement officers had been run down. He couldn’t think of any … not for several years … but unless the officer died, the word might not spread as far as Connecticut. Mitch’s initial conclusion was that this accident had happened in New York City. He might not have heard about it if the cop had lived. Still, this was a huge leap forward in Farmingham’s willingness to talk about what he’d been holding back. This had to be about that. And the way he’d been handling it had kept the man talking so far.

"That would complicate things a lot," he said finally. "It would all depend on who the man with the gun was."

"Why?" asked Kris, his voice barely audible.

"There are basically two kinds of people with guns these days," said Mitch. "Good guys and bad guys. If it was a good guy, it changes the whole dynamic of the … plot."

"Oh," said Kris. "But a thing like that … a hit and run where somebody was shooting … surely that would come to the notice of the police."

"Absolutely," said Mitch, realizing he should have thought of that immediately. Running down a situation like that should be fairly easy, if he could narrow down the target area. "I’d feel pretty confident about being able to find out if something like that had happened and if it was … unsolved or not."

"I’m not sure about the gun," said Kris. "I don’t know if I can … if the guy in the story can trust his memory or not."

"I understand that perfectly," said Mitch. "You keep thinking about it and I’ll keep thinking about it. When you’re ready to write some more on this, maybe we can work together."

Kris held out his hand. "Thanks. I mean that. I really want this story to get figured out."

"I can tell," said Mitch. "That’s why I suggested you think about that plot as much as you can. And if you can work it out that your protagonist remembers anything else … well that couldn’t hurt, you know?"

His session with Kris created urgency in Mitch. While Kris didn’t trust his memory, the things he had written about had a clarity to them that meant he was either a very good author … or they had happened to him. The car was even more important now and they couldn’t wait until spring to get it out. It would answer too many questions.

He stopped the patrol car in front of a ramshackle looking building that had signs all over it. One said "Bait," another "Tackle". There were three or four logos from different kinds of beer and another sign that said "Gas." Mitch had never understood the one that said "Trinkets," because he’d never seen anything inside that he’d classify as a trinket. Low in one corner of one of the windows, though, was a small sign that said "Underwater Scuba Tours."

The place was owned and operated by Tim Weston, who had taken over running the store from his father when he’d had a heart attack. But before that, they had gone to high school together and been best friends. They had gone on double dates together, drunk their first illicit beer together, hunted together, and had only drifted apart because of Carla, who’d had a tendency to be interested in one of them one week and the other the next week. Mitch hadn’t talked to Tim in over two years, though he still saw him occasionally.

He went into the front door, which hit an old fashioned hanging bell as it opened and then closed. No one was behind the counter. Mitch could hear the sound of a TV coming from the back room. The curtain that was the door to that room was pushed to one side. Tim’s face appeared in the opening.

"Oh," he said, sounding disappointed. "It’s you."

"I need a favor, Tim," said Mitch, getting right to the point.

"And why would I do you any favors?"

"Call it for old time’s sake," said Mitch. "It’s a big favor and it’s important."

"What is it?"

"You have cold water diving gear, right?"

"Yeah, but not for water that’s as cold as it is right now," said Tim.

"Could you survive a dive of five or ten minutes?" asked Mitch.

"Yeah, I could go for as much as twenty minutes, but it wouldn’t be any fun," said Tim.

"I think there’s a car under the ice on the river, out by Hopkins Lane. I need to know if it’s there and get a cable on it."

Tim stared at his former friend. "The ice still has to be four or five inches thick," he said.

"I have a plan for that," said Mitch.

"This has to do with that new guy in town, doesn’t it?" asked Tim. "The one that’s got Lulu acting all weird."

"Yeah, it’s his car we’ll be looking for. I think it might have some bullet holes in it."

"Really?" Tim sounded interested for the first time.

"Somebody shot at him. Winged him on the side of the head. That’s why he can’t remember anything from his past. Well … couldn’t remember anything. He’s remembered a couple of things now. He says he ran a man down, and the man was shooting at him. I need that car, Tim, and I can’t wait until spring."

"You got any idea where it is?" asked Tim. "The last thing I want to do is go under the ice and find nothing. All the diving I’ve done was in the lake. What about the current in the river?"

"Shouldn’t be much," said Mitch. "It’s always slow moving in the summer. I’ll have a rope on you while you’re in the water."

"Damn skippy you will," said Tim. "And I’ll need someplace to warm up as soon as I come out of the water. Something hot to drink too."

"Whatever you need," said Mitch. "Will you do it?"

Tim looked at him. "How are things with Carla?"

Mitch looked him straight in the eye. "Not so good these days."

Tim’s face didn’t change. "Too bad."

"Yeah. Shit happens, you know?"

Tim was silent for another handful of seconds. "Let me get my stuff together. I’ll have to charge up a tank. You go get everything else ready and then come get me."

"Deal," said Mitch.

Chapter 28

Mitch and Tim stood on the lip of the drop off, looking down.

"Shit," Tim cursed softly.

"I know," said Mitch.

Tim looked around at the big panel truck that was parked in front of Mitch’s patrol car. It was called the "Roach Coach" by everybody in town. Sally Lazenby owned it and made her living driving around selling hot food out of it. She was sitting behind the wheel weaving to and fro, listening to music. Mitch had hired her to sit there and have the interior of the truck as hot as possible when Tim came out of the water. That she’d have hot food and drink was a given.

Still, there was the trip down the hill and then back up to deal with.

"How the fuck are we going to do this?" asked Tim darkly.

"We’ll go down together," said Mitch. He took the coil of rope off his shoulder and tied one end off to the bumper of the Roach Coach. "I’ll get the ice broken up. You go in, find the car, fasten one end of the tow strap to the axle, if possible, or around one tire if you can’t reach the axle, and then come back out. The other end of the tow strap will be tied off to a tree. I’ll help you back up the hill. Then I call a wrecker and you go home."

"How long is the tow strap?" asked Tim.

"Thirty feet," said Mitch. "It’s three inches wide and rated for thirty-six thousand pounds."

"And how you going to make a hole in the ice?" asked Tim. He was already dressed in his wet suit. His aqualung was on a harness, sitting on the ground beside him, and his mask and fins were hanging from one hand.

"I’m going to break it up. You’ll have to push it aside when you go in," said Mitch.

"How the fuck are you going to do that?" asked Tim.

"Watch and learn," said Mitch.

Both men were breathing heavily when they got to the bank of the river. They had followed the path of destruction down. The ice didn’t look any different in front of them than it did all over the river.

"What now?" asked Tim.

"You just be ready to go in," said Mitch.

He took off his back pack and set it on the ground. He opened the pack and pulled out three tubes that were a rusty red in color. There was a thick green colored cord protruding from the end of each one, about a foot long.

"Sweet fuck, Mitch!" moaned Tim. "That’s fucking dynamite!"

"Do tell," said Mitch. He reached in a pocket and pulled out a silver Zippo lighter. He casually flicked it open, thumbed the wheel and started one fuse burning. He pulled his arm halfway back and flung the stick with a sidearm throw. It hit the ice and skittered across it, going a hundred feet downriver. "Might want to put your fingers in your ears," he said to Tim, whose eyes were wide open, along with his mouth.

Tim hit the snow hard and put his arms over his head. Mitch stood, with his fingers in his ears, watching the smoke from the burning fuse rise slowly into the air. There was a bright light and then the concussion hit him, making his clothing flutter. A ball of dirty gray smoke hovered over the ice and then the slight breeze began dispersing it.

Tim uncovered his head and peered at the river.

"Shit!" he said. "It doesn’t look like it did anything at all!"

"Have faith," said Mitch, as he lit another fuse.

It took five sticks, spaced out from a hundred feet downstream to a hundred feet upstream. He was careful to get the sticks far enough away from them that all they really felt was the concussion. By the third stick, the ice downstream had started to buckle. The fourth stick caused a twenty foot gap to appear from one side of the river to the other. The fifth stick started the loose ice in the water moving downstream. The ice in front of them stayed mostly in one large chunk, but began to move away from the bank.

They had to wait about ten minutes for the larger chunks of ice to stop moving. While they did that, Mitch tied one end of a hundred foot rock climbing rope around Tim’s waist and Tim tested his tank. He put on his gloves, tucked the silver hook on the end of the tow strap into his belt, and turned on his diving light. Then he waded into the water, lifting his fins in an exaggerated high stepping motion, as opposed to diving in. They had no idea what was in the water right there. He put his gloved hands tentatively against the chunk of ice in front of him and pushed. It moved slowly outwards.

Mitch watched the rope in his hands play out. He estimated about twenty feet had gone through his hands when it quit moving. He waited for what seemed like an hour, and checked his watch three times to see seven minutes tick away. Tim’s head suddenly broke the surface. He spit the mouthpiece out and, gasping, reached for Mitch’s hand to get out. He had something in his hand when he struggled up onto the bank. It was a briefcase. He sat down, pulled off his flippers, and pulled on the mukluks he’d brought for this very purpose. Then he stood up and picked the briefcase up.

"Saw this pinned under the edge of the car and worked it loose. Let’s go," he said, his teeth chattering.

"You found it?" Mitch was astonished.

"It’s right fucking there," said Tim, pointing. "Maybe ten feet out, lying on its roof. Your tow strap is wrapped three times around the front axle and then around one of the tires. If Jerry does what I tell him to, he’ll turn it over onto its wheels as it comes out of the water. Piece of cake. I’m freezing. Can we talk about this in the Roach Coach?"

The car sat, dripping and mud-smeared on the edge of the road. It was a mess on the inside. Tim was in the Roach Coach, still eating and keeping warm, but Mitch had to do a walk around as soon as Jerry Tidwell had pulled the car up the incline. Jerry was getting the dolly wheels ready to put under the front wheels of the car, while Mitch stopped and looked at the damage to the right front fender. The headlight was broken and the fender dented in. It wasn’t consistent with rollover type damage, but it would take closer examination to tell if it had hit a body. He saw white paint transfer on the pale blue of the Buick.

His eyes drifted to the windshield and widened as he saw the hole there. It was obviously a bullet hole and the cratering suggested the bullet had come from inside the car. If a man sat in the driver’s seat, it would be just to his right. If the driver had been turned around, looking behind him, the bullet that had made that hole could easily have grazed the left side of his head. Mitch slipped and fell in his haste to get to the back of the car. There was another neat punched out hole in the trunk. It looked huge.

The rest of the damage was textbook rollover stuff, with the body pressed inward and warped from the weight of the car hitting parts of the body that weren’t designed to bear that much weight. All in all, though, the damage was light. Mitch credited that to the fact that, on the way down, there really wasn’t all that much weight on where the body had hit the ground. Only the roof was seriously dented in, where it had smashed into the ice.

He looked at the briefcase sitting on the ground beside the Roach Coach and went over to pick it up. It weighed a ton, but opened easily. Water poured out of it, but the contents were surprisingly clean, as if the seal on the lid had strained out the mud as water seeped through.

Right on top was a manuscript, soaked, but readable. It was maybe eighty pages, all stuck together. The cover page said: The Case of the Broken Kangaroo Pounder by Ron Stevens. Mitch’s eyes widened. He’d read "Living With an Aardvark" and had laughed his ass off. It had been given to him as a birthday present from his sister and was one of the strangest books he’d ever read. He knew, from the "other books by" page that Stevens had written another book, and was interested in finding it, but had never gotten around to it. Farmingham was THAT man?! He stared at the manuscript and then saw where something bulged under it. He pried the thick pages upward and found a cell phone. Maybe it would work if somebody who knew what they were doing cleaned it up and dried it out. If nothing else, maybe the numbers stored in it were retrievable. Excited now, he turned to Jerry.

"Take the car to the impound lot. Be careful of it. It’s loaded with evidence."

"We ain’t got no impound lot in Pembroke," said Jerry, scratching the top of his winter cap.

"Behind the station," said Mitch, impatiently. "There’s a fence there with some bicycles in it."

"We got an actual impound lot?" Jerry sounded impressed. "Cool!" He looked happy. "I been doing this for six years and never knew that."

Mitch sighed. "Yeah, well maybe in another six years we’ll need to impound another car. Just be careful of it, OK?"

"Sure thing, Mitch," said Jerry, squinting at the car. "Hey! That there looks just like a bullet hole in the trunk, Mitch!"

"It is, Jerry. That’s part of what I’m talking about."

"That’s a forty-five," said Jerry, leaning closer. He stuck the tip of his finger in the hole.

"Dammit, Jerry, don’t screw around with that!" yelled Mitch. "I have to get back to town. Just tow it and be careful, OK?"

"Sure Mitch," said Jerry, sounding hurt. He jerked his finger back from the car. "Damn. A real bullet hole. This is about that author feller, ain’t it. Is this his car? Who was shooting at him?"

"I don’t know, Jerry," sighed Mitch. "And if you screw up the evidence, or tell anybody about this, I may NEVER know. Mum’s the word. Got it? This is an official investigation now. If you go blabbing around about this I may have to arrest you for obstructing justice."

"Shit, Mitch, I ain’t obstructing nothin'," said Jerry, backing up a step. "You don’t have to get all worked up about it. I’ll be real careful, OK?"

"OK, and remember, this is privileged information, about the bullet holes I mean. You keep it to yourself until I get this figured out. That’s an order, Jerry."

"Yes SIR!" yelped the tow truck driver.

Mitch had brought Tim out here, so he stuck his head in the Roach Coach.

"Tim, you did great," he said. "This is going to answer a lot of questions, I hope. It’s an important thing you did. I’ll try to get you some pay for it. I’m ready to go, unless you’re riding back with Sally."

Tim looked up. "I don’t want money," he said. It was obvious there was something else he did want. Mitch went in and closed the door, before Sally started yelling that he was letting all the heat out.

"What do you want?" asked Mitch.

"I want to ask Carla out," said the man, looking straight at Mitch.

Mitch was speechless.

"Come on, Mitch," said Tim softly. "You know you two have been dancing around for years, and you know nothing’s going to happen. I been serious about her since high school and it’s killing me to see you stringing her along."

"I haven’t been stringing her along," objected Mitch.

"Yes you have. You gonna marry her, Mitch?"

"I can’t," said Mitch automatically.

"Well I can, Mitch. I love her, Mitch. I’ve always loved her. I just never got a chance with her, 'cause you went off to the academy."

"You could have made a move while I was gone," said Mitch.

"She wouldn’t even talk to me," said Tim. "She was waiting for you."

"I don’t know, Tim," said Mitch doubtfully.

"That’s my price, Mitch," said Tim stubbornly. "You needed a favor and I did it. You owe me."

"I don’t owe you my girlfriend!" barked Mitch.

"Just tell her she can go out with me," said Tim. "Just one date. Let me tell her how I feel about her. After that … it’s up to her."

Mitch felt like his stomach was suddenly empty and craving food. Yet the smells in the Roach coach weren’t attractive at all. The problem was that he and Carla weren’t really getting along all that well right now. It had happened before and she’d walked out on him a couple of times. But she always came back. He didn’t make promises … but he let her believe what she wanted to believe about what he’d do. She was fun to be around. He liked her a lot and the sex was great. But his conscience bothered him sometimes, because he knew he’d never marry her. That just wasn’t in his plans. Not for years more, at least.

He frowned. Now he had this case … a real case. Somebody had shot at a famous author … well an author who’d sold a lot of books, anyway … and if he could come up with the right information, he might be able to parlay that into a job offer from a bigger jurisdiction. Carla would never go with him … not if he didn’t marry her first. And that would tie him down. He looked at Tim. Tim hadn’t dated anybody since high school. He ran his little store and minded his own business. He wasn’t going anywhere. It was hard, but he said the words.

"OK. Ask her. If she says anything to me, I’ll tell her I agreed."

He expected Tim to look happy, but his face didn’t change.

"I appreciate it," said Tim. Then he stood up, pushed past Mitch and said, "I’m ready to go."

Finding Kris was easy. It was five in the evening by the time he got back to town and Mitch drove straight to Lulu’s. The car Butch had loaned Kris was there. He got out of the patrol car and took the briefcase out of the back seat, where he’d left it so it wouldn’t stain the front seat covers. It still felt like it weighed fifty pounds as he carried it to Lulu’s front door and knocked.

"I can’t believe it," said Kris, staring at the open briefcase. "Ron Stevens? It doesn’t mean anything to me."

"Well, you’re him," said Mitch. "You have to be, with that in your car and what we know about you so far. It all matches up. I’ve even read one of your books." He frowned. "There’s something else, too."

"What?" Lulu and Kris asked at the same time.

"There are bullet holes in the car."

"What?" gasped Lulu.

"Shit," said Kris softly. His eyes went glazed.

Lulu looked at his expression, and her jaw closed, only to fall open again. Then it closed as she spoke. "You KNEW about this?"

"Not exactly," said Kris, his eyes clearing. "I had this vague memory that might have been a man, pointing a gun at me and shooting, but I wasn’t sure."

"There’s damage to the right front fender too," said Mitch.

"Oh shit," moaned Kris.

"What’s going on here?" yelled Lulu. Mitch looked uncomfortable.

"I have to look into this, Kris," he said. "Officially," he added.

"I know," said Kris softly.

"Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on here?" squealed Lulu.

Ambrose’s voice cried out from his bedroom. Lulu looked stricken and started toward her son’s room. She turned.

"Nobody leaves here until I know what the fuck is happening. Is that clear?"

"I have to go," said Mitch, almost, but not quite wincing.

"I’ll tell you about it," said Kris. "Go take care of him. He’s probably scared because you yelled."

"Because I yelled." Lulu’s voice sounded disgusted. "Don’t you move an inch," she said, staring at Kris.

"I won’t," he said.

Mitch got to the door and stopped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key ring. "Oh, by the way," he said. "Here are the keys that were in the car. I had to keep the ignition key, but you can have the rest back."

Communication is the key to any relationship. When there is not enough, or it is of poor quality, each person in the relationship is left to make assumptions. Sometimes we make those assumptions on the basis of body language, and sometimes what is said, or even not said. Good communication doesn’t just happen, usually. It has to be worked at and the people involved have to make themselves vulnerable to each other, to allow whatever is on the mind to be said. When that doesn’t happen, and the communication is poor, the relationship suffers.

He was sitting, waiting, when she got back. He knew she was agitated because she paced.

"You’ve been keeping secrets from me," she said, stopping and looking at him. What she actually meant was that she thought he’d been confiding in her. She didn’t think they had any secrets.

"I didn’t want you to worry," he said. He didn’t tell her he was afraid they’d be torn apart by the knowledge that he had committed such an atrocious act.

"So now you just drop all this in my lap." She sounded disgusted again, but it was really just frustration that he hadn’t trusted her enough to share his troubles.

"I’m sorry." He felt like he had hurt her.

"I’m very disappointed in you," she said. If she’d been thinking more clearly, she might have phrased that differently. She might have said she was sad that she hadn’t been able to participate in finding out what his memories meant … that the partnership they’d started might have been strengthened by the teamwork of working through a problem together.

To Kris, her attitude meant that her love for him had diminished. He had brought her pain, even though he had tried not to. He felt like a failure.

"I can’t believe they found your manuscript," said Lulu, changing the subject. She was excited about learning something about the man she loved by reading something he’d written before he’d lost his memory. "I’m going to go get the hair dryer and see if we can save it."

Kris felt conflicted. She was more interested in a wet pile of paper than trying to work through this problem. At the same time, he was interested in seeing what his mind had created before his life had been turned upside down. At last he had the chance to find out what kind of things he usually wrote about.

Lulu approached most things with a single mindedness that was born of the desire to do something well, and as efficiently as possible. For that reason, her attention was on each page as it was peeled off the pile, dried with the hair dryer, and then read. It would have been better to just dry all the pages, and then read them in order, because the stop and go process robbed the pages that were fully written of some of their impact. But she was impatient to explore and so she did it that way.

From Kris' viewpoint, the words on the paper were just that … words. He had a hard time claiming ownership of them because, even as he read them, they seemed flat and unfamiliar.

As a result, the gap between them widened even more as the pages were processed. Neither of them wanted that gap to widen, but neither recognized what was actually happening. All they felt was the vaguely uncomfortable rift between them, a rift that wasn’t actually meant to be there, but which had been created through imperfect communication of what each was feeling.

That lingering dissatisfaction with the way things were going, and the errors each had made that night, had one more huge impact on the relationship. The manuscript was a draft and unfinished. All the thought and editing that would eventually go into it had not yet been done. Kris, who knew he had written it, was disappointed. Lulu, unaware that her involvement in the romance novel had biased her towards it, and because the page drying marathon had left her tired, simply said, "You’ve done lots better work."

Lulu expected him to kiss her good night, as a display of his repentance for not confiding in her.

Kris expected Lulu to kiss him good night, as a display of the fact that, despite the obvious flaws in his personality, she forgave him.

In the end, that good night kiss didn’t happen, which was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.

Chapter 29

When Kris left, he felt like the world was closing in on him and he had nowhere to turn for sanctuary. He believed Lulu was disgusted with him because he was a bad person. Mitch was going to conitinue investigating, find out that he’d committed a crime and probably arrest him. Even if he could find a way to patch things up with Lulu, his life would still be down the crapper, sooner or later. Eventually … he was going to have to pay the piper, and he didn’t need his memory to tell him how difficult it would be to carry on a relationship if he was in jail.

He imagined what it would be like. He’d be at the Early Girl, eating pancakes with hashbrowns and flirting with Lulu, while other people in town looked on and wondered what was really going on between them. Mitch would come in, draw his gun and shout for Kris to get down on the floor, or something like that, and then drag him out in handcuffs. Or, worse, it would happen at Lulu’s house … with Ambrose looking on.

Tears spilled down his cheeks as he blinked rapidly, trying to keep his vision clear as he drove through the streets of the little town that had somehow become home for him. It wasn’t fair. While he couldn’t remember his previous life, he somehow knew that what he’d stumbled into in Pembroke was better than anything he’d ever had before. Now that he had carved a niche for himself, it was all going to come undone.

It was as he thought of these things, on his way home, that emotion overrode common sense.

He decided to just get it over with. He decided to pack up, that very night, and go back to New York City. He’d find his apartment, find his publisher, and sell the book he’d written, if that was possible. He’d probably have to use that money for a lawyer, but he’d turn himself in, like Mitch had talked about. Mitch had said that might help a little bit. That he didn’t know exactly WHERE to turn himself in was a minor issue, as far as he was concerned. It must have happened in the city, so any NYPD station house would do.

He knew he should tell Lulu what he was going to do, but he couldn’t face her. She was already disappointed in him. It was better to just make a clean break. When he got to the city, he’d call Mitch and tell him he was going to turn himself in and that he just needed to wrap up a few things first.

Packing was easy. He hadn’t bought much since arriving in Pembroke. A piece of his forwarded mail provided the address of his apartment. The rental was paid for for another two months, but he’d just forfeit that. He could mail the key back to Rudy, along with an explanation. He didn’t know what to do about the radio station. He’d think of something when he got back home.

Lulu kept popping into his head. He could picture her easily, walking up and down the aisle of the diner, a coffee pot in one hand, and a smile on her face. He told himself over and over that it would be less painful for both of them if he just drove away.

So that’s what he did.

It was two in the morning when he finally found his address. It had taken so long mostly because of the people there had been to ask for directions. Most of them were either high, drunk, or didn’t look like the kind of person who would entertain a request for directions with much humor.

One of the keys Mitch had given him fit and he walked into what should have been the comfortable feeling of home.

Except that it wasn’t.

He spent half an hour just looking around, trying to remember something, but nothing came to him. He found the stuffed frog riding the motorcycle and examined it. Next to it was what looked like a big plastic, red and black lady bug. When he picked that up, he discovered it was a telephone.

He almost dropped it as the memory of it came back into his mind, like a rushing wind. His sister’s face popped into his mind. Her name, June, popped in with it and so did the face and name of Tanya, her daughter. He had a niece! And she had sent him this phone for his birthday! He even remembered how hard he’d laughed when he’d opened the package it came in.

He looked around eagerly now, hoping to remember more things, but nothing came of it. His frustration level rose, because that one memory was all he could get back. He was disappointed that, with so many possible triggers all around him, nothing was happening.

His desk yielded an address book. Lola Hendeerson was the only one on the H page. Most of the pages were blank. He wasn’t sleepy, and he had only a few plans, so he picked up the phone and dialed her number.

It rang a dozen times before an obviously sleepy female voice came on the line.

"Hello? It’s two fucking thirty. This had better be some kind of emergency," she said.

"Hi. This is Kris."

There were exactly seven seconds of silence, then he had to hold the phone four inches away from his ear to keep from being deafened. She sounded mad and excited all at the same time. When she finally wound down he interrupted her.

"I was in an accident. I lost my memory. That’s why I didn’t call. So maybe it won’t sound so strange if I ask you who my publisher is."

"Where are you?" she asked.

"I’m in my apartment."

"DON’T GO ANYWHERE! I’LL BE RIGHT OVER!" she screamed.

"No!" he said. "I just got here. I drove all night and I’m completely wasted." He wasn’t sure why he was lying to her, but he didn’t feel up to actually meeting this woman yet. "I have to turn in a manuscript in the morning, but I need some sleep first. I just need to know where to go. That’s one of the things I lost." It occurred to him that his memories of being less than enthused with Lola might be suspect, so he threw her a bone. "I remembered you, but I couldn’t remember how to contact you. I would have called a lot sooner, Lola, but I couldn’t."

She argued with him, insisting that she should come over. She offered to sit and watch him sleep. He finally got her to agree to wait until morning, when she could come get him and take him to the publishing house. She said she knew where it was and knew people there.

When he was finally able to hang up, he booted up his computer and stared at the password field. Nothing came to him at first. He closed eyes and a mottled picture of a dingo/dog appeared in his mind. He grinned, opened his eyes, and entered "gypdog" in the password box. Then he explored for a while.

There were some interesting ideas in documents that were mostly just outlines. There was also a complete copy of the manuscript that Lulu had worked so hard to save. Finally, because he was so keyed up, he began to write the story that he’d fronted to Mitch … the story of what had happened to him. There were large gaps that he knew he’d have to fill in, but he just put notes in those places, and wrote about the people he’d met and the things he’d done. He wasn’t sure what the plot was going to be yet. If reality wasn’t good enough, he’d just make something up.

Besides, writing helped the hurt at having lost the best woman he’d ever met.

Mitch decided to skip breakfast at the Early Girl. He ate a peanut butter sandwich on his way to work. It took him over an hour, working the phone to get Harper’s number, but he wouldn’t talk with anybody else. He remembered the debacle of trying to do anything with the NYPD when whoever was on the other end of the phone line didn’t know you. His relief at hearing the man’s voice finally come on the phone was palpable.

"Hey," he said when Harper answered the phone. "I need a favor if you have time."

"Maybe," said Harper, carefully.

"Farmingham remembered something from his past, and it’s kind of weird, but I had to check it out."

"OK," said Harper.

"He remembers running somebody down with his car and being shot at. He left the scene."

"You’re shitting me."

"Not at all," said Mitch. "He said there was a crowd of people around. Since he’s from New York City, I thought maybe he’d hit a cop or something. Have you had any incidents like that … where somebody ran down a cop?"

"I can’t remember anything like that happening," said Jim. "I’d remember that, I think. I can put in a call to traffic if you want me to."

"Please," said Mitch. "I’d appreciate it. It’s probably nothing. At first I thought it might be something from a long time ago, and it was just a memory that popped up. You know, like something from his juvy years. But then we got his car out of the river and it had damage consistent with the kind of accident he described and a couple of bullet holes in it. It might have happened while he was on his way up here."

"This guy gets more interesting every day," said Harper. "I’ll run both his names through the system and see what pops up."

"Shit! I almost forgot! I have another name for him now," said Mitch.

"Another one? Like two wasn’t enough?" Harper laughed. "What’s this new alias?"

"It isn’t an alias, really. It was on a manuscript in the briefcase we found with the car. He turns out to be an author, just like he said. Writes under the name Ron Stevens. I’ve actually read one of his books."

"Small world," said Harper. "OK, I’ll check all his names. Give me a day or two."

"No problem. I really appreciate this," said Mitch. "It may turn out to be nothing. I kind of doubt he ran over a cop anyway. The bullet holes in his car look like they’re from a forty-five and practically nobody in law enforcement carries a forty-five these days. See you later."

Mitch hung up and decided to go through the recovered car. It would still be wet and muddy, but maybe the bullet that had penetrated the trunk was still in there somewhere.

Harper hung up the phone and reached for the department phone book. He was leafing through the pages looking for a contact in the traffic division, when the information in the last couple of sentences Mitch had spoken finally sank in.

Forty-five. Farmingham/Phillips/Stevens had hit a man, who had shot at him with a forty-five.

The hairs stood up on the back of Harper’s neck and a chill ran through him. It wasn’t possible. Life just didn’t work this way.

In a frenzy of movement he searched through the files on his desk, pushing six or seven aside. It was still there! The file on the Henderson woman was still there, waiting for him to write a final report. He opened it, searching for the information about when Farmingham had gone "missing." Her statement had the last date she’d seen him in it.

It was two days before the Custer kidnapping attempt.

He read further. He was sometimes accused of being overly thorough, but once again he was glad he got extra details. He’d gone on to ask her the last time she’d talked to him.

That was the night before the Custer incident. The day the Higginbothams reared their ugly heads was the first day she hadn’t been able to reach her boyfriend.

He went to the part of the file where the victim statement should be, then remembered he hadn’t transcribed Farmingham’s deposition yet. He cursed. He found the tape and plugged it into the tape recorder on his desk. He put on the headphones.

It took ten minutes, but he finally found it. The information was actually provided by the voice of Mitch Connel, who wasn’t identified in the beginning of the tape. That was a minor problem … no problem at all, really, since the case wasn’t going anywhere, but he was thankful that Mitch had spoken up when he’d asked Farmingham what date he’d arrived in Pembroke.

He’d been brought to the hospital around midnight … the same day the Higginbothams tried to kidnap Governor Custer’s wife. The same day Moe Higginbotham had been run down and had fired a forty-five at the car that had hit him, as the mystery driver sped off.

Harper spent a quarter of a minute berating himself for not having connected the dates before this. It was insane, but it all fit. They hadn’t been able to find the car, because Farmingham had driven it to Connecticut and into a river! Whether he’d pretended to have amnesia to avoid getting caught for leaving the scene, or the gunshot wound to his head … or the accident itself, for that matter … had caused real amnesia didn’t really matter. He’d told Mitch about it and now Mitch had told him.

It seemed like an incredible series of coincidences, but Harper didn’t care. He couldn’t do anything about it himself, and he couldn’t call Connel back. He’d been told in no uncertain terms that any information that came in on the case was to go directly to the FBI. If he pursued it, he’d get his ass handed to him.

He dialed Jefferson’s number.

"Hey," he said as calmly as he could into the phone. "This is Harper. You’re not going to believe this."

Lola showed up at his apartment at six-thirty, hours before the publishing house would be open. She was almost frantic, speaking loudly as she told him all the things she’d had to do because he was so inconsiderate as to leave town without telling her first. She reminded him of how simple things would have been if he’d been forthcoming with her. She tried to get him to apologize for withholding other information from her too … that he was a bestselling author.

He tried to explain that he couldn’t remember anything from his past and didn’t know why he hadn’t told her he was much more of an author than she said he’d represented himself to be.

In an almost astonishing change, she turned from a harpy into a woman possessed, as she tried to get him naked and into bed. He resisted, both because he couldn’t remember her as a lover and because his initial memory of her … of being less than enthusiastic about her … had been reinforced by her opening tirade. Other resistance was there, too, even though the woman responsible for it wasn’t with them. He couldn’t very well tell Lola that she couldn’t possibly compete with Lulu. In the mood she was in, she might actually try to hurt him.

Finally, he lied and said that the doctor had forbidden him to get "excited" because of his head wound.

She looked at his forehead, where he pointed, as if it was the first time she realized he’d been shot.

"That’s going to leave a scar," she said.

Then she said, "You really can’t remember anything about … before?"

"Almost nothing," he said.

Her eyes took on what he could only think of as a crafty appearance.

"I hope this won’t disrupt our marriage plans."

Chapter 30

Mitch was covered in black mud. He’d finally hooked up a hose to the spigot at the back of the station and just started hosing down the interior of the car. The floorboards were full of dark water, but he’d exposed the area of the back seat where the bullet from the trunk had penetrated. Hosing down the back of the front seat had found an entry hole, which had led him to the exit hole in the front of the seat. He hosed off the dash and saw immediately that there was a hole in the front of the radio.

He’d had to go home to get the tools, but he finally got the radio out and was unscrewing the last of the screws that held the cover on. He had to pry the cover off, because the whole thing was warped, but when he was finished, there it was … a bright copper slug, misshapen, but recognizable as a .45 caliber bullet. He looked at it dubiously. It was pretty mangled and he’d have to pry it out of the guts of the radio to recover it, which might damage it even more. He didn’t want to do that.

He wrote the whole radio up as a piece of evidence and took it in the station to put in the lockable closet that was the Pembroke PD evidence locker.

Then he went back outside to get the laptop he’d found jammed under the front seat.

Kris stepped off the elevator as Lola pulled his arm. She had her arm looped through his and had been holding on to him tightly ever since they’d gotten out of the car. He’d finally convinced her that what needed to happen first was the trip to the publisher’s. She scoffed when he said he needed to sell the book because he was probably broke. She reminded him he was a bestselling author and was probably rich. He said that maybe they could check with the bank … when he figured out what bank he dealt with. He knew that he hadn’t received any bank statements in his forwarded mail. That probably meant he got electronic statements online. It would take a while to figure that out. He needed to talk to his publisher before they did that anyway.

Now she made it very clear that she felt possessive about him. Her large, soft breast-so different from Lulu’s-was pressed firmly into his arm as she walked beside him. He found it interesting that the feel of that soft flesh didn’t excite him. Her conversation with the receptionist seemed to carry a vicious undercurrent, when she announced who he was and that he’d brought another bestseller with him. The receptionist rolled her eyes, but made a call.

He didn’t remember the short, bald man who came hurrying out of an office nearby, but the man knew him. That he knew Lola, too, was obvious.

"You FOUND him!"

"Yes, I did," said Lola, obviously ready to claim having done something she didn’t do at all.

Then there was tension as the man berated Kris for failing to report on schedule. Kris explained that there’d been an accident, that he’d been in the hospital, and that he’d also had amnesia.

"You mean you didn’t write the book?" That seemed to be a disaster and Kris saw beads of sweat pop out on the man’s brow.

"I wrote A book," he said. "I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to be writing, and I couldn’t remember this place, so I couldn’t call for advice. I wrote something while I was there, though, while they were trying to figure out who I was." He pulled the manuscript out of the plastic bag that had been all he’d had to transport it in. "It’s a romance novel."

"A romance novel?" The publisher looked confused. "You don’t write romance."

"I did this time," said Kris. "It’s an adult romance novel."

"Oh my, oh my," moaned the man. "I gave you a substantial advance. I can’t take my boss a romance novel to show for it. You HAVE to finish the book you started for us!"

"I’ve got that," said Kris. "They got my car out of the river just before I came back here. I don’t remember writing it, but maybe I can use the notes in it to finish it. I’ve already started another book based on my whole experience. There are a lot of unanswered questions, but I think I can spin it into a good mystery. At some point during this whole thing, I was shot at."

"Shot at?" The publisher was incredulous.

Kris pointed to his head. "Got hit right here. I wasn’t just fooling around, trying to avoid you."

The man looked at the manuscript in his hands and back up at Kris. "What’s the main idea of this one?" he asked.

Kris told him and saw the interest build as he talked.

"OK, I’ll read it," said the man. "Meanwhile, you keep working on the original book. I’ll tell my boss that you had this accident, but that you’re recovered now and working on it. If this is any good, it may help. I’ll try to call you this afternoon."

"OK," said Kris. He felt helpless. The Kangaroo Pounder book didn’t light up in his mind like the plot for the romance novel had. All he could do was try, but he decided not to say that.

At one-thirty in the afternoon, two crime scene specialists from the FBI district office in New York City packed their tools and equipment into a van to go to Pembroke, Connecticut to process a car. That was all they knew, except that the car had bullet holes in it. It was unusual, but a field agent was going with them. Neither of them knew the man, and neither was particularly interested in getting to know him. They assigned him to the jump seat in the back and told him to brief them on the way.

Kris couldn’t get rid of Lola. He knew now why his memory of her was not positive. She was a conniving, clinging, whining woman. She had a lovely ass, but that was about all that was attractive about her. It wasn’t that she was physically ugly. Not by a long shot. But her personality overshadowed her outward appearance. He was quite sure there was no way in the world he’d asked this woman to marry him, but that was all she wanted to talk about. She’d been telling him about the plans they’d made. So far, she said, they’d agreed to rent a hall big enough to hold five hundred guests. She said lots of famous people would want to come, since he was a famous author. At the same time, she was very vague about exactly which jewelry store on Fifth Avenue was sizing the rings they’d chosen. She said she’d take care of all that and that he didn’t need to worry himself about it.

The other thing she seemed comsumed with was getting him in bed. She said the worst part of his being gone was that she almost couldn’t stand not being able to make love with him. At the same time, she didn’t seem very turned on at all. It was almost like getting him in bed would win her a bet or something. He continued to resist. Thinking of Lulu made it easy.

They were interrupted, thankfully, by the phone ringing. It was his publisher, who had read the romance novel and was ecstatic.

"Of course the original book is still on," he said. "But I convinced my boss to take this romance novel and the rights to that other book you were talking about, to make up for your lack of progress on the original book. I just wanted you to know."

"How much do I get for the romance novel?" asked Kris.

"We’ll negotiate that later," said the man. "I need to get it edited first, and then we’ll give it to the test readers. I should have something on that in a week or so."

Lola almost drove him crazy then. She was almost bouncing around when she found out the romance novel had sold. Then she’d wanted him to tell her all about the character in the novel that had been based on her. He was hard pressed to do that, since none of them had been based on her. Most of them had been based on Lulu.

In the end, the only way he could get her to leave was to explain that he had to start working on the original story, which he’d gotten the advance for, and that he couldn’t work with her there. She’d resisted.

"But honey, I’m your … what do they call it … muse. Yes! You’ve always said I was your muse! I’ve always been here before, when you were writing a book."

"I thought I didn’t tell you I was an author," he said.

She blinked. "You didn’t tell me you were a best SELLING author," she corrected him. "You just said you wrote for journals of some kind."

"And I needed a muse for that?" He looked skeptical.

"Oh all RIGHT!" she snapped. "I’ll just go check on our wedding rings. What’s your size again?"

Mitch was driving around, looking for something to do, when the radio crackled to life.

"Pembroke Two, this is Chief Whittaker, come in."

Mitch picked up the handset. "What’s up, Dabney?" He was surprised when Dabney didn’t curse at him for calling him by his first name.

"Return to station immediately, do you copy?"

Something in Dabney’s voice … some undercurrent of excitement … caused Mitch to play it straight.

"Be there in ten," he said.

"Over and out," came the voice on the radio.

He saw the van parked at the station and glanced at the tag. Official U.S. Government. Interesting. The first person he saw when he walked in was a woman he’d never seen before. She was getting a cup of coffee from the Mr. Coffee machine on one wall. There was a man who looked impatient, standing ten feet from her, and another man talking to Dabney. Dabney was obviously excited, based on the fact that he was holding his gut in and looked flushed. Mitch stared at the man he was talking to. He was tall, athletic, and black. Mitch tried to think of any other time he’d seen a black man in the station and couldn’t. He thought of Jess, for some reason.

Dabney saw him come in.

"Officer Connel," he said officiously. "This is Special Agent Jefferson, of the FBI. They’re here to examine the car you recovered from the river."

Mitch’s eyebrows went up. Harper hadn’t called him back. What was going on? He felt his stomach lurch. If the FBI was interested in Farmingham, this could get ugly. He almost snorted as he thought about how pissed off Lulu was going to be if these people arrested Kris.

"Car’s out back," he said. "I’ll get the key."

An hour later, Mitch still didn’t know what was going on. Jefferson wouldn’t tell him anything. He now knew that the other two were crime scene technicians. They’d gone over the car just like he had. When he’d explained about the radio, the man had frowned and demanded to see it. All he’d said was that Mitch had done the right thing by leaving the bullet embedded in the radio. They’d collected paint scrapings off the front right fender. It was obvious this was about what Kris had remembered and that Mitch had told Harper about.

"So how come you guys are involved, instead of NYPD?" Mitch had asked the closed-mouth FBI man. "Where’s Detective Harper?"

"He’s not on the case anymore," said Jefferson, who then ignored Mitch.

That lasted another half hour, before the male crime scene tech announced that they’d done all they could at this location.

"So, what do you think?" asked Jefferson.

"There’s enough left on the bullet that we should be able to work with it. One side looks usable. The paint transfer is the right color, both ways, but will have to be confirmed in the lab. I’d say it looks pretty good." Jefferson turned to Mitch.

"I need to talk to Kristoff Farmingham."

Mitch bit off the reply that came to mind immediately, which was "Well la-de-fucking-da." Instead he looked at his watch and said, "I have an idea of where he probably is."

Mitch took a roundabout route to Lulu’s house. Partly to check and see if Butch’s car was parked at the rental, which it wasn’t, and partly because the agent in the passenger’s seat was impatient, and apparently an asshole, just like Mitch had heard most feds were. When they pulled into Lulu’s driveway, and Kris' car wasn’t there, Mitch didn’t say anything. He also didn’t warn Jefferson what Lulu was like. He figured it would serve the son of a bitch right if he got a little surprise.

Lulu’s reaction to his knock on the door wasn’t what Mitch had expected. He heard the thumping of feet, as if she were running, and she had a look of consternation on her face when she saw who was at the door. Her eyes only glanced at Jefferson and then pinned onto Mitch’s eyes.

"We’re looking for Kris," said Mitch, carefully. "This man is from the FBI."

The shock on Lulu’s face was obvious. Her mouth opened and closed several times. Jefferson chose that time to speak. He’d hauled out his credentials and flashed them at Lulu. "May we come in please?"

She stepped back and a little boy ran to stand beside her. He didn’t stand behind her, as most boys his age might do, when faced with strangers … or at least one stranger.

Lulu bristled for some reason. "I haven’t seen him for two days! He hasn’t come here and he hasn’t been to the Early Girl. I’ve been worried sick!"

Jefferson, who hadn’t blinked an eye at her appearance, spoke soothingly. "He’s not in any trouble. Nothing that can’t be worked out, anyway. He actually did something important. He’s a material witness."

"What’s going on?" cried Lulu.

"I’m not really at liberty to discuss it right now," said Jefferson, officiously. "I need to interview him and we need to do some lab tests, to make sure he’s who we think he is."

"Lab tests? What kind of lab tests?" asked Lulu. She was obviously upset.

"I can’t really tell you anything else," said Jefferson. "Where can we find him?"

"I TOLD you!" she said vehemently. "I don’t KNOW where he is!" She turned to Mitch. "This is all YOUR fault!" she barked. "He was doing fine until you kept butting your nose into things. We had a fight about it and now he’s GONE!"

"Calm down, Lulu," said Mitch, stepping back half a step. "I don’t know what’s going on either. We just need to find him. That’s all."

"Well when you do, tell him he’s in BIG trouble for making me worry like this!" yelled Lulu.

In the car, on the way back to the station, Mitch suggested that Jefferson might get more cooperation if he gave up a little more information.

"I can’t right now," said Jefferson. "If Farmingham is who I think he is, this will all turn out OK for him."

"How can a hit and run accident be OK for somebody?" asked Mitch.

"If he’s who I think he is," said Jefferson, "that hit and run is going to go away. It may have saved someone’s life. That’s all I can tell you right now. Where do you think we should look next?"

"I have no idea," said Mitch. "We drove by his house and his car wasn’t there."

"When did we do that?" asked Jefferson.

"On the way to Lulu’s," said Mitch. "I checked there first. The only other place he might be, that I can think of, is the radio station."

They drove there and went inside. Gregg Shaffer was there.

"He quit," said Shaffer, frowning. "Didn’t give me any notice either."

Back in the car, Jefferson was unhappy.

"Do you think he ran?" he asked Mitch.

"How would I know?" asked Mitch. "Maybe." He couldn’t very well tell a federal agent that he’d discussed this accident with Kris and done nothing official about it. "Maybe he went back to New York City, where he came from."

"We’re going to take the car," said Jefferson. "One of our wreckers will be here within a day. I can’t hang around here forever. If he shows up, call me." Jefferson pulled his badge case out and extracted a calling card from it, handing it to Mitch.

Mitch didn’t know what to think. He’d told Jefferson that Kris might have gone back to the city, but he didn’t really believe that. Kris had obviously been smitten with Lulu, and it was equally obvious to him that Lulu felt the same way about Kris. Kris had kept asking if he’d be arrested and it was Mitch’s opinion that he was hiding out somewhere. He drove all over town, looking for Butch’s old car, but never found it. Of course, it could be parked somewhere in the woods, to make it LOOK like he’d left town. In that case, Mitch was sure he’d be at his girlfriend’s house.

It was almost nine in the evening when Mitch went back to Lulu’s. Jessica’s car was there this time, and it was Jessica who answered the door. Mitch had some second thoughts about his hypothesis when he saw Lulu. She’d been crying and the atmosphere in the room was tense.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Is he here?"

She just looked daggers at him.

"Look, Lulu, I know you like him and all that, but he can’t hide out from the FBI. This is serious. I don’t know why, but it obviously is. Don’t get yourself in some kind of trouble trying to protect him."

"He’s not here, you idiot," snapped Jessica.

"Did you search the house?" asked Mitch, looking at her.

"Of course not," she said darkly. "I believe my friend, which is more than I can say for you!"

"I’m just trying to do my job," said Mitch. "I don’t like this any more than you do."

"So you want to search my house?" asked Lulu. Her voice was flat.

"I guess I do," said Mitch, feeling less and less good about this. He was going to have to stay clear of the Early Girl for at least a month. Longer if he found Kris hiding here.

What came onto Lulu’s face looked suspiciously like disappointment, but she waved her hand toward the back of the house. "Have at it," she said.

He knew, somehow, that he wouldn’t find "the fugitive," as he now thought of Kris, but he went through the motions, looking anywhere a grown man might be able to hide. There was an access port to the attic, but when he stood on a chair and lifted the panel, dust floated down, convincing him it hadn’t been opened recently. He returned to the living room to hear Jessica talking.

"Sweetie, I’m sure he just had to go back to New York City to sell his book or something. He’ll be back. I know he will. I’ve seen how he looks at you."

"But why didn’t he tell me he was going?" moaned Lulu. "First he didn’t tell me about this stupid accident he was in and now this."

"He’s all mixed up, still," said Jessica. "He can’t remember things. That has to be hard on a person. He’s probably just trying to find out some stuff about himself or something."

"He didn’t kiss me goodbye," said Lulu softly. She was talking about the last time she’d seen him.

"He probably thought he could run down there, get things done, and then hurry back, and that you wouldn’t even know he was gone," said Jessica. "Then, maybe his publisher needed him to do something or … I don’t know … he just got delayed."

"Why hasn’t he called?" asked Lulu.

"Maybe he cut off his phone in New York, while he was gone or something."

Mitch went into the room. Jessica wasn’t helping her friend, making excuses for Farmingham. If he’d run, he was gone for good, or at least until the FBI caught up with him and dealt with whatever was going on. He didn’t buy Jefferson’s comment that Kris wasn’t in trouble. The accident and the bullets couldn’t be good, especially if they involved the FBI. Maybe it had been one of their undercover agents who’d been run over.

"Maybe he’ll show back up," said Mitch. "But it’s possible he won’t. If he does, though, I need to know about it, Lulu."

"Geez, Mitch," complained Jessica. "Can’t you see she’s all torn up about this? You don’t have to be such an asshole."

"I’m just doing my job," he said.

"Well do your job by protecting the public, instead of picking on one of them," said Jess. "Maybe he’s gotten into another accident. Maybe he’s lying out there hurt somewhere and needs help. Why aren’t you looking for him that way? In fact, I’m going with you. I’ll help you!"

Jessica took his elbow. He either had to jerk away from her or go with her. He decided that, since Kris wasn’t at Lulu’s, he might as well go elsewhere. Maybe Jessica would have some ideas of where to look. Lulu obviously wasn’t in a frame of mind to help.

He reminded Jessica to put her seat belt on as they pulled away from the house.

Stress brings out odd things in people sometimes. Mitch was stressed and so was Jessica. She had been coming up with all kinds of arguments designed to give her friend some hope, but she didn’t believe them. Not really. Like Mitch, she was sure Kris would have said something to Lulu if he was going to run away. Unlike Mitch, she was afraid something had happened to him to prevent him from contacting Lulu.

The problem was there was nothing she could think of to do about it. She felt helpless. It was also the first time she’d ever been in a police car. She used the various differences between a regular car and the patrol car to try to distract herself from worrying about Lulu and Kris. She looked curiously at the radio, the shotgun in its clip on the dash, and the myriad of buttons and switches that did different things.

Mitch was also frustrated and tense. He’d ended up genuinely liking Kris, but now he had a bad feeling about things. He tried to convince himself that bad feeling was at odds with the facts. Kris HAD confided in him, with that cockamamie story idea. Mitch had known what was going on and he truly believed that Kris wasn’t at all sure about his memories. He was pretty sure Kris wouldn’t just run over somebody and drive away. He wasn’t that kind of guy. The gunplay in the matter complicated things, though. And Jefferson had said it would all go away, like it was no big deal. He couldn’t figure that part out. Jefferson, despite his assurances that Kris wasn’t in trouble, hadn’t really helped.

He realized, quite suddenly, that Jessica was wearing some kind of perfume. It smelled delicious, faintly like peaches.

For years afterward, the two of them would shrug their shoulders about how things had turned out. Neither of them could explain it.

It started with Jessica questioning Mitch about what he knew. Lulu hadn’t been able to explain much, except that Kris was in some kind of trouble involving an accident and that somebody had shot at him during said accident. As Mitch filled her in, they drove around, more or less aimlessly, looking for a car that both of them knew, somehow, they’d never find.

When Mitch said he’d thought maybe Kris had hidden the car in the woods, to go hide at Lulu’s, she scoffed, but then suggested they leave town and look for the car.

Then, somehow, they ended up parked in those woods and, somehow, they ended up leaning toward each other. Neither remembered unfastening their seatbelts, but both remembered their first kiss. Neither remembered how it came to be that Jess' shirt came off, but both would remember quite clearly how his mouth found her fat, black nipples. Both would remember for the rest of their lives when she sank down on him, taking his manhood inside her. She was naked. He was still in his uniform, though his pants were down around his knees.

Then there was a period of jerking and moaning and kissing as they acted like teenagers out in Daddy’s car.

When it was over, they just stared at each other.

"Shit," said Jessica softly.

"It wasn’t THAT bad," said Mitch, trying to smile. He was wondering how in the world this had happened.

"I never thought it would be you," she said.

"You’re telling ME that?" His voice sounded weak.

"You just took my virginity," she said. Her eyes welled up with tears.

"Hey, don’t cry. I’m sorry," he said. His stomach churned. What had he DONE?!

"I’m not mad," she bawled. "I’m haaaaapeeeeeee!"

It almost evolved into a second chapter, right then and there, but she pushed him away.

"Not here," she panted. "Take me home. I’ll show you my naughty nurse outfit."

Two hours later, he drifted off to sleep in her arms, his patrol car still parked outside. It occurred to him that somebody would notice, and that there would be hell to pay if Dabney ever found out about this, but he decided not to leave her bed anyway.

Through it all, neither felt guilty for forgetting all about Lulu or Kris, and the problems both were facing.

Chapter 31

Kris knew it was going to be Lola before he even opened the door. It was always Lola. He still hadn’t given her a key. He’d told her it was because he only had one and hadn’t had time to have another one made.

"I need your credit card," she said, smiling widely.

"Why?" he asked.

"The rings are ready," she said.

It was the last straw.

It got ugly very quickly, as he said there would be no rings and no wedding, no credit card, and no key to his apartment. He thought she might start throwing things, but she didn’t. Instead, her face took on a horrible aspect and she shouted, "You can’t DO this, you prick! What about the BABY?!"

"Baby?" He was stunned.

"I’m PREGNANT, you son of a bitch!" she screamed. She pulled up her shirt. It didn’t show from the outside, but once the skin was bared, there was a discernable bulge there.

Kris felt panic, initially. He couldn’t abandon a woman if he’d gotten her pregnant.

Then, in a flash of insight, he remembered they hadn’t been to bed since he’d come back. He’d kept putting her off. Not only that, she was obviously at least two or three months pregnant, if he could actually SEE it. He’d been gone for four months … longer actually.

"I’ve been gone for almost four and a half months," he said, his eyes wide.

Lola blinked and then frowned. "You came back two months ago. You don’t even remember that?!" Her voice sounded hesitant, rather than irate that he couldn’t even remember getting her pregnant.

"Two months ago, I was in Connecticut," he said. "I was writing a book. I never came back here until a week ago last Monday."

"Of course you did," she said, looking scared for the first time. "We had sex. You got me pregnant."

"You bitch!" He turned around and walked away from her, because he knew that if he could reach her, he’d punch her out. "Get out."

"Noooo!" she wailed. "You were gone! I didn’t know where you went. I couldn’t find you. I tried to, but nobody would help me. And I got lonely. I didn’t know if you’d EVER come back! It was only once … I swear! And it wouldn’t have happened if you’d told me you were a real author and that you were going away to write a book. This is all YOUR fault! You can’t DO THIS TO ME!"

He turned around. "I didn’t press charges against you for breaking into my apartment. If you’re not gone in ten seconds, I’m going to do exactly that. You can have your fucking baby in PRISON for all I care!"

"Noooooo," she whined. "He’s married. I can’t go to him. I love you. You love me. We were going to get married," she moaned.

"Ten … nine … eight … seven…" Kris intoned, looking at his wrist. The effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that he wasn’t wearing his watch at the moment. He got to three before she wailed and ran back out the door.

He felt only sadness as he closed it after her.

What brought Kris out of his doldrums, or at least lifted his spirit somewhat, was a phone call from a man who announced he was Mr. Templeton, from Miffen and Combs. Kris recognized the voice of the man Lola had taken him to see.

"We sent your romance novel to a group of test readers. We just got the results back and they all have glowing things to say about it. We feel even better about it now than we did before," said Templeton. "I need you to come down so we can negotiate about the price."

"Certainly," said Kris, feeling hope and happiness for the first time in a long time.

He was less happy when he got there and Templeton handed him a check, beaming widely.

Kris took the check and looked at it. It seemed like it wasn’t much money, and he wondered immediately how he could survive on an author’s income.

"I thought we were going to negotiate," said Kris.

"This is a first book for you, in this genre," said Templeton. "If it does well, and you write more of this kind of book, I’m sure your compensation will increase." He smiled. "We’re taking a chance on this." He fussed with things on his desk and then slid a piece of paper across it toward Kris. "Just sign here," said Templeton.

Kris remembered that Templeton had said something about an advance for the Kangaroo Pounder book. He still hadn’t been to the bank yet, to find out what his account looked like, but he knew he’d paid for six months rent on Chastain’s lake house in advance.

"How much was that advance you gave me before?" he asked. He watched wariness come into Templeton’s eyes.

"That has nothing to do with this book," he said.

"Then I’ll take this book to another publisher and sell it there. Perhaps I can start paying you back that advance that way," said Kris.

"There’s no need to be hasty," said Templeton.

"How much do I owe you?" asked Kris.

Templeton thought he was being clever by giving Stevens the figure. He thought it would cow the man.

"And you’re only offering me a tenth of that for this book?" asked Kris.

"Well…" said Templeton uncomfortably. "You’ve never written anything like this before. We don’t know how it will be received. We can’t offer you full price for something untried, now can we?"

Kris stood up and held out his hand. "I think I’ll shop around a bit."

"You’re in default on our agreement," said Templeton. "It would be a shame if we had to sue one of our best authors."

"If you’re willing to threaten to sue one of your best authors over something like this," said Kris, "then I don’t want to publish with you. I lost my memory, not my mind. I think our negotiations are at an end."

"Sit down … please." Templeton was sweating now. "Look. My boss said I had to drive a hard bargain, OK? These are very irregular circumstances."

Kris sat, still holding the check. "OK. I don’t remember anything about negotiating this kind of thing, but I know how I feel. You pay me what you think is fair for this book. We’ll see how it does. If it hits the bestseller list, like my other books did, and I find out you short changed me, it’s the last book I’ll ever publish here. I’ve been through hell lately and the last thing I want to deal with is a publishing house that’s going to rip me off."

"We’re concerned about your … output," said Templeton weakly.

"I owe you a book that will recoup the advance," said Kris. "Either I’m good or not. I don’t know how much my memory loss will affect things, but you seemed interested in what I DID write after that happened. I’ll write you your book, and if it doesn’t cover the advance, then I’ll pay it back. That’s all I can offer. But I DON’T have to accept less than my work is worth."

Templeton stared at him for another fifteen seconds and then stood up. "Give me a minute," he said. He didn’t wait for an answer. He just left the room. He was back in ten minutes, with another check in his hand. He reached for the one Kris was holding and replaced it. It was a sum that staggered Kris' mind.

"This is for the romance novel, free and clear," Templeton said. "If we do better than usual, we get the profits and you get no additional royalties. If it tanks, we take the loss. But you still owe us the original book and we’re interested in the other idea you had, about this whole mess you got yourself into." He sat down, still sweating. "Deal?"

Kris stared at the check and swallowed. He didn’t know if he’d ever been confrontational before the accident, but he was a sudden and enthusiastic adherent of haggling now, and would be for the rest of his life. He stood, offered his hand, shook Templeton’s, and left without saying another word.

"I’ll call you when we have the paperwork ready!" was the last thing he heard the man say.

"I’m SORRY!" moaned Jessica to her best friend.

"You don’t have to be sorry," said Lulu. "Why would you be sorry to find a man and fall in love with him?" She looked tired. "Even if it is Mitch Connel," she added.

"But it’s not fair!" moaned Jessica. "I mean you lost…" She couldn’t finish that thought. Just the mention of Kris' name would cause pain.

"So," said Lulu, trying to ignore the unspoken name. "How did all this happen?"

"I don’t KNOW," wailed Jessica. "We were out looking for … him … and we were talking, and the next thing I knew I was on TOP of him!"

"Did you at least use protection?" Lulu took protection very seriously.

"I didn’t know it was going to happen!" moaned Jess. "I didn’t PLAN for it to happen. It never even occurred to me it MIGHT happen."

"You’ve thought he was cute for years," said Lulu.

"OK, you’re right, but I never thought he’d be interested in ME. I just don’t understand."

Lulu smiled a tired smile. "I think it’s funny that, after all these years, you lost your virginity in a car, to the cop who sneaks around trying to catch kids making out in cars."

"This ISN’T funny, Lulu!" said Jess. "I’m crazy about him. I’ve never felt like this about ANY man, and we only spent ONE NIGHT together!"

"Yes, but it was the night you lost your virginity," reminded Lulu.

"I didn’t know it would be like THAT!" moaned Jessica. "What do I do, Lulu?"

"How does Mitch feel?"

"I don’t know. How am I supposed to know that?"

"Oh … I don’t know … maybe TALK to him?" Lulu looked disgusted.

"I can’t talk to him," sighed Jessica.

"Why in the world not?"

"Because every time I see him I just want to tear my clothes off and then tear HIS clothes off." Jessica frowned. "This sucks."

"Don’t be silly," said Lulu. "Being in love shouldn’t suck. Being turned on shouldn’t suck either. I can’t tell you how turned on Kris…" She stopped abruptly and covered her face with her hands. "Maybe love does suck," she said, her voice muffled.

She dropped her hands in her lap. She looked sad, but wasn’t crying. She looked at her friend.

"Have you ever thought about just being a lesbian?"

"No!" yipped Jessica, her eyes wide.

"I’m just kidding," sighed Lulu. "But it might be a lot less stressful."

Special Agent Jefferson was doing what he called dotting "I"s and crossing "T"s. He was doing an exhaustive review of the report he was going to turn over to the Assistant US Attorney, on the Higginbotham case. It was complicated and he was too busy to be running around trying to find one material witness who wouldn’t really make all that much difference to the prosecution of the brothers. It was unfinished business, but it was the kind of unfinished business that could wait. And, just because he wasn’t actively searching for Farmingham didn’t mean no one else was. Proof of that materialized in his doorway as an intelligence technician stuck her head in his office.

"Hey," she said, shooting him a dazzling smile. Most of the women in the office liked working with Jefferson, because he was eye candy and behaved himself. "There’s activity at the Farmingham residence."

He looked up, his eyebrows raised.

"Increase in electric usage," she said. "Consistent with full time occupation. And phone calls-both incoming and outgoing."

"OK, thanks," said Jefferson. That answered that question. He HAD come back home, or at least somebody was using his apartment. It was most likely him. He could be located any time now.

Jefferson went back to his line by line review of the report.

The man Jefferson had been thinking about was pacing the apartment the tech had been talking about. His immediate plans, upon returning to the city, had been accomplished. He had found old bank statements and gone to the bank to deposit the check. He’d explained his situation, and a helpful employee, after verifying his ID, had gone through his account with him. He wasn’t hurting for money.

His biggest problem now was the new book. He still didn’t know enough about what had happened to him to write the beginning of the book, where the explanation for his loss of memory would be documented. He could make it up, of course, but for some reason he wanted the story to be as close to the truth as possible. He was mildly surprised that no one had come knocking on his door from the law enforcement community. He still hadn’t called Mitch, to let him know he’d left Pembroke. And he still hadn’t turned himself in yet. Knowing Mitch, he was pretty sure the man would have already figured it out and, since Mitch had already said he’d have to take official action, he was surprised that nothing had happened yet.

He thought about going to a precinct station and just turning himself in. He was intelligent enough, though, to know that unless he could provide enough details about the incident, or unless the incident was somehow well known, they might just think he was a wacko. He’d heard that people confessed to all kinds of things they hadn’t done, just to get attention, and that the cops knew that happened. The fact that nobody had broken down his door suggested that it was NOT well known, or at least that nobody was looking for him very hard.

Another problem was the Kangaroo Pounder book. As he read over what he’d written, he recognized it as his own words. The phrasing was familiar, as was the humor. It was a book based on his life in Australia and, even though he couldn’t remember that life, he knew it had been loosely based on fact, too. What he’d written so far was about a legendary aborigine, known as "Budgie Boy," who was reputed to sport a monster penis. He was a little like the Tooth Fairy, from western culture, except that his job was to deflower virgins on the night before their wedding, so that their wedding night would be trauma free. The older women in aboriginal culture swore he was real and passed along "secret" information to young brides about how to prepare for his appearance. The men, on the other hand, often mounted significant barriers to his success, guarding the bride and trying to prevent her despoilment. It was a classic collision between male and female values, in a culture that few people knew anything about, and he had to admit that what he’d written thus far was pretty funny.

The problem was that he had no idea where he had planned on going from where the draft left off. There were notes, but they were mostly notes about scenes involving specific characters. For example, there was one note about having one of the male characters be accused of being Budgie Boy during a B&S ball. The problem was that he couldn’t remember what a B&S ball was, or how that would support the plot. Other notes suggested situations to write about, but told him nothing about how he had planned on resolving the story. Was Budgie Boy ever caught or identified? It was obvious, from what he’d written, that the wives in the story thought very highly of the Australian boogey man and the men loathed him. But that didn’t help to illuminate what the point of the book was supposed to be. Still, he had the feeling that if he kept at it, his muse, whoever and wherever SHE was, might slip the information into his head.

If he turned himself in, though, that would never happen.

His pacing continued as Lulu crept into his mind again. She was there a lot. Every woman he met or even saw on the street got compared to her. They were flat … dull by comparison. He recognized beauty and intelligence in the women he saw, but that wasn’t enough. It made him wonder about his amnesia. If he’d taken up with a troll like Lola, before the accident, his standards must have been a lot lower than they were now. He didn’t think that just losing one’s memory would make him more discriminating in his tastes for female companionship. That meant that Lulu was simply a cut above the rest.

On top of that, he couldn’t help but compare the noise, clutter and stink of the city to the simple beauty and pace of Pembroke, where no one was ever in a hurry and everyone took the time to smile. People had given him clothing and even a car in Pembroke … had helped a stranger down on his luck. He hadn’t seen anything even remotely like that in New York.

Danny Southerby stepped into Jefferson’s office without knocking. He had a folder in his hand, and dropped it on Jefferson’s desk, away from the papers the agent was reading.

"Report on Farmingham’s car," he said. "It’s definitely the one that took out Moe Higginbotham. We even found some threads of his clothing caught in the broken headlight. Positive ID. Ballistics matched the bullet in the radio to the pistol, too. This Farmingham person is the one the governor and his wife have been looking for."

"Excellent," said Jefferson, looking up with a tired smile.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"How come this guy didn’t step forward?"

"Another bullet grazed him in the head," said Jefferson. "Lost his memory, or at least most of it, according to the locals where he turned up. I’m told he remembered part of the incident, but not where or when it happened. And, who knows? Maybe he remembered it all and thought he was in big trouble."

"Is he?" asked the lab supervisor. "I mean he did hit and run."

"What do you think would have happened to Mrs. Custer if they’d gotten away with her?" asked Jefferson.

The lab man frowned. "Bad news," he said.

"I don’t think Farmingham is in any trouble for disrupting things and stopping that bad news. It’s not even worth filing charges." He grinned. "Even if he got convicted, the governor would just pardon him anyway."

Southerby smiled. "Yeah, well, we’re done, unless you need anything else."

"I’m good," said Jefferson. "The case is good. It’s nice to be on a case that will actually make the world a better place, you know?"

"Later," said Southerby and left.

Chapter 32

Kris stopped pacing and just looked around the apartment. It didn’t feel like home. He wondered if it ever had. There were personal objects scattered around. Some of them held meaning, but there were others that were just things. He hadn’t missed them when he was gone. He’d missed knowing things about himself, but he hadn’t missed any of his "stuff." He hadn’t missed any people either.

He was missing people now, though. Missing Lulu and Ambrose was a given, but he also missed Jessica, Hank, and even Mitch. He missed seeing the men in the Early Girl putting their heads together, and dollar bills changing hands, as they made silly wagers on what might happen in the diner. He missed the peace and quiet of the radio station, where he could think clearly, without distraction. He missed the woods, even though he’d never paid that much attention to them when they were all around him.

He missed everything, he realized, about Pembroke, Connecticut.

He didn’t think about it as an impulse. He didn’t think of himself as an impulsive person. But he found himself throwing things into a suitcase. Clothes to last him a while … the new laptop he’d bought to replace the one ruined by the river water … the stuffed frog riding the little wooden motorcycle … a handful of personal records, so he’d have addresses of businesses that would send him bills. It occurred to him that he hadn’t even had the post office stop forwarding his mail to Pembroke. There’d be a pile of stuff waiting for him there. The rental was paid up for another month and a few days, and Rudy might let him extend that anyway. He could come back for more of his stuff later. It was only a few hours' drive.

Jefferson rubbed his eyes. He needed some eye drops, but didn’t have any. He decided this was a good time to call Farmingham and tie up that loose end. He picked up the phone and dialed.

Kris closed and locked the door, carrying the last of the things he was taking with him down to the car. He was halfway down the staircase and wasn’t aware that his phone was ringing, back in the apartment. He left the building, got in his car, and headed for I-95.

After ten rings, an answering machine picked up.

"This is you know who and I’m not you know where, so leave a you know what."

Jefferson hung up. He didn’t leave messages.

"I don’t understand!" said Chantal loudly. "You said you found him, but now you say you’ve lost him again?"

Jefferson wanted to groan. He’d called Harper, throwing the man a bone (and keeping the bureau out of it) by telling him that Farmingham was the man who had saved Chantal’s life, and that he was free to reap the benefits of communicating that to the governor and his wife. He’d figured he’d be able to find Farmingham and interview him before Harper moved on things. Then Jefferson’s boss, the Special Agent in Charge, had insisted that the bureau get its fair share of the credit and ordered Jefferson to be there when Harper delivered the good news.

Unfortunately, he’d done that before they’d found out from intel that signs of life in Farmingham’s apartment had returned to zero.

"He was living in his apartment three days ago," said Jefferson. "I was wrapping up your case, getting it ready for the US Attorney, and thought his interview could wait. By the time we got there, he’d left. We thought he’d returned to New York for good."

"But you never talked to him," said Chantal, her voice low. "Let’s just recap here, gentlemen," she said heavily. Harper wanted to sigh along with Jefferson. "This man was shot while disrupting the kidnapping. He was then involved in a terrible accident, obviously the result of the gunshot wound, and suffered amnesia, because he saved my life, and you never thought it was important enough to speak with him about that."

"We were trying to solve the case!" insisted Jefferson.

"An idiot could have solved the case!" she barked. "The case was solved when the high and mighty FBI swooped down and took it away from the men who serve my husband’s constituents!" She held up one sculptured nail as Jefferson took a breath, to keep him from speaking. "I fully understand that your work, and that of Detective Harper here, uncovered the fact that these despicable animals killed two helpless children. I appreciate that fact and heartily applaud it. I’m even willing to concede that the three animals had no keeper and may have acted alone. But the fact remains that a man who suffered on my behalf doesn’t even KNOW HE’S A FUCKING HERO!" She ended up screaming, then almost collapsed into the arms of her husband, who clucked at her and looked accusingly at the two lawmen.

"We’ll find him," said Jefferson faintly.

The supermodel raised her face from her husband’s shoulder just long enough to scream "YOU’D BETTER!"

Kris took his time driving, really paying attention to the scenery for the first time. There were still patches of snow all over the place, but the hint of spring was on the land. He hadn’t realized how strung out he was until he got sleepy and pulled into a rest area to get out and walk around a little. He wasn’t in a hurry, now that he was on his way, and the stop at the rest area turned into a nap that lasted long enough that it was dark when he woke up. He felt relaxed and at peace for the first time in a long time.

Driving into Pembroke was both less and more than he’d thought it would be. It was less, because everything looked exactly the same. It was almost as if he’d never left. It was more, because he found his heart pounding. It was almost ten, which meant Lulu would be getting ready for work and taking Ambrose to the sitter’s. He wasn’t sure how she’d react when she saw him again, but he was pretty sure that while she was intent on getting to work wasn’t a good time to find out. He also thought about trying to find Mitch, but didn’t know where to look, except for the police station. Now that he’d had time to think about how good his life in Pembroke might someday be, he wasn’t so anxious to see the inside of a police station again, especially if he’d get locked up as soon as he walked in.

As he drove through town, he thought about the things he hadn’t followed through on while he’d been in New York. He felt guilty that he hadn’t followed through on his plan to tell Mitch that he’d left town and to turn himself in. He wanted to believe he’d failed to do those things because of everything that had happened to him. The alternative was that he was just indecisive. On the other hand, he was glad that he’d neglected to mail the key to the rental back to Rudy Chastain, because now he needed that key.

He drove straight to the rental. He acted just like he always had, parking in the driveway and turning lights on. He was pretty sure he’d burned his bridges with the radio station, so he didn’t go there. Instead, he took his clothes in, opened up his laptop, and began writing.

Four hours later, he was nodding off again. He hadn’t realized how much the stress had taken out of him. The only alarm he had was his watch, so he set it and lay down on the bed. He’d completely forgotten to bring the sheets Lulu had bought him.

The watch beeped and did, in fact, wake him up. He got up, brushed his teeth, stared into the mirror for a minute or two, and then went to the Early Girl. He had to face her, sooner or later.

The early birds had begun to filter in, and Lulu sighed as she realized her shift was almost over. It had been a slow night and slow nights weren’t so good for her any more. She had time to think about Kris. And she had time to berate herself for trusting another man and feel sorry for herself. That always made her a little testy and, since she still thought about Kris a lot, she was testy a lot. Hank hadn’t spoken more than ten or fifteen words to her all night.

Not that she just moped around, doing nothing. She completed her tasks, as usual. Her waitressing wasn’t affected by it, other than the fact that she was a little less patient with the flirters. Oddly, she didn’t take out her feelings about Kris on them. It wasn’t their fault and she knew that.

It was just that life had returned to what it had been before Kris. She hadn’t realized how drab that had been when she’d been living that life. Now, though, she did.

"Bathroom," she announced to Hank as she went toward the door.

"Remember to wash your hands," droned Hank, who always said that, because he thought it made a positive impression on the customers.

Kris saw her moving inside the diner as he parked. He drew a deep breath. His hands were shaking just a little. He forced himself to get out of the car and go into the diner. The smells made him feel like he was home, but he was still tense. He looked around, but she had vanished.

"Well I’ll be," said Hank, staring at him.

"Hi Hank," said Kris.

"She’s in the bathroom," said Hank. This was a situation Hank didn’t know how to handle. Part of him wanted to tell the man to leave. Another part of him wanted to see what would happen if he stayed. Part of him cared about Lulu and knew she’d been hurt. Another part of him said it wasn’t any of his business. She was a waitress and that was it. Part of him recognized that her behavior might mean he had to look for another waitress, and he really didn’t want to do that. In the end, he simply said, "May as well have a seat."

"I’ll take whatever you think is good this morning," said Kris.

"Everything is good all the time," said Hank, a little injured.

Several men sitting at one table waved at him. He didn’t know if they knew he’d been gone or not. One of them pulled out a cell phone and punched some buttons. His eyes darted from the phone to Kris and back again several times. He spoke softly into the phone, but his attitude was tense and urgent.

Kris sat in a booth. For lack of anything else to do, he reviewed the menu.

Lulu came out of the bathroom, straightening her apron. She saw him and stopped. It was as if time had stopped, but just for a second or two, and then she was moving forward again. He didn’t know what to say as she approached, so he just looked at her.

She walked on by him without a word.

He turned his head, watching her move away from him. He couldn’t help but look at that beautiful behind, as her buttocks rose and fell under the uniform skirt. A feeling of complete helplessness washed over him and it was suddenly a chore to sit upright. He knew, at that moment, that he loved this woman more than anything or anyone he had ever loved before.

She picked up a coffee pot and started making the rounds at the far end of the diner. She didn’t look at him, stopping to chat with the other customers as she warmed up cups of coffee. To the casual eye, her actions were just as normal as pie. He looked over at Hank, who had come out from the kitchen to see what happened, and who was staring her way too, frowning slightly. Then, as if he could smell that something was starting to burn, he turned and went back to his work.

A few minutes later, Hank put a plate in the window and rang the bell. "Pickup!" he yelled.

Two more people, a man and woman, came into the diner and sat down at the booth next to the one Kris was sitting in. Two cars screeched to a stop outside, the screech audible even through the windows. A man got out of one, hurriedly. Kris had seen him before, but didn’t know his name. Butch and Reverend Hoskins got out of the other one, just as hastily. Butch went to the car he had loaned Kris and walked around it while Hoskins spoke to the other man. At Reverend Hoskins' obvious urging, Butch left the car and they hurried toward the door.

Lulu passed by him closely enough that he could smell her unique scent, something he wouldn’t have said he was aware of, until he detected it on the wind of her passing. There was a faint aroma of peaches. He wondered idly if she and Jessica used the same perfume. She set the coffee pot down on the table of the next booth and pulled out her pad and pen.

"What can I get for you folks this morning?" she asked the man and woman who had just come in.

The bell rang again. "Pickup!" hollered Hank.

"I heard you the first time," Lulu called back. Hank muttered something that couldn’t be understood.

She was taking the order as Reverend Hoskins and the other two men came in. They stopped, as if testing the air, then moved toward Lulu. She ignored them. Butch pushed past the others and came straight to Kris.

"You took off with my car!" he complained. "I want it back."

Kris blinked, but then fished in his pocket for the keys. He removed the key to the car from his key ring and held it out. "Thanks for the loan," he said. "I appreciate it." Butch looked uncertain then, but took the key and walked on past Kris.

Reverend Hoskins stopped just long enough to tilt his head and say, "Morning Kris," then moved on himself. The third man didn’t say anything.

Lulu was still standing there, within five feet of him, and had to have heard the exchange, but showed no sign of it. Kris wanted to turn around and see what the three men were doing. He had a suspicion he’d see wagers being made, but if Lulu looked at him, he didn’t want his eyes to be on them, so he sat still.

She delivered the couple’s order to Hank, who said something that included "It’s getting cold, Lulu." She said, "I know that," and went to take the order of the three men who had just come in. Hank sighed and brought the plate to Kris himself.

"Sorry," he said softly.

"No problem," said Kris. "I understand."

He was hungry, and the biscuits and gravy, and two eggs with bacon were consumed quickly. Hank hadn’t brought anything to drink, though, and the last of the biscuits left his throat a little dry. He knew Lulu had walked by him at least three times while he was eating. She hadn’t said a word and it was getting to him. He could understand if she yelled at him, but to completely ignore him hurt more than he would have believed.

It may have been the hurt. It’s possible there was more involved than that. Maybe he even craved punishment, since nothing had happened concerning the hit and run accident he felt so guilty about, either. At any rate, something took charge of his right arm and, when Lulu walked by him a fourth time, holding a pot of coffee in her right hand, HIS right hand darted out and slapped her soundly on her ass.

Time stopped again. Lulu stopped and it seemed like all the noise in the diner stopped. Kris was frantic at what he’d done. Shame caused his face to flush, but contact with her body almost overwhelmed his senses. He couldn’t think of anything to say, except for a phrase he’d heard a hundred times in the diner where he was sitting.

"How 'bout some coffee, sweet thing?"

Chantal didn’t wait for the lawmen to do her bidding. When she and her husband got back to the mansion, she gave orders and had the press secretary make phone calls.

She was on the Today show the next morning and she wanted the world to know about Kris Farmingham, and the fact that he didn’t even know he’d saved her life. At one point in the interview, she turned to the camera and said, "If you see this man, please have him get in contact with me. I owe him a great debt of gratitude."

The interviewer, who had done a story on the chaos Chantal’s reward offer had created, couldn’t resist a little jab.

"And there’s the reward, of course," she said smiling.

Chantal didn’t miss a beat.

"And then there’s that," she agreed.

Harper called Mitch, just to cover the bases.

"About time you got in touch with me," groused Connel. "It would have been kind of nice to be ready for the FBI when they got here."

"I couldn’t do anything," said Harper, who felt like any law enforcement office should be ready to host the FBI any day of the week. "I was told to share information with nobody except the bureau."

There was a dim shout and then "What?" Mitch’s voice sounded odd in Harper’s ears and it was fairly obvious that someone in the station in Pembroke had yelled something at him. "Hang on," said Mitch. Harper heard exclamations and what sounded like laughter and hooting, and then Mitch came back.

"Turn on channel four," he said. "Isn’t that your NBC station?"

"What?" asked Harper.

"Just turn it on. Chantal’s on TV, talking about Farmingham."

The television set was in the training room. There were two secretaries in there eating breakfast, before they clocked in for work. They were already watching the Today show. Harper got there just in time to see Chantal face the camera and plead for people to look for Kris. His picture flashed on the screen, taken from his driver’s license, which was a state record the governor had access too.

He couldn’t help but laugh as the governor’s wife made it thoroughly impossible for any court in the nation to prosecute Kristoff Farmingham for just about anything he had ever done or would do in the near future.

Mitch only went to the Early Girl to see if Lulu was still there and to tell her about what he’d just seen on TV. He walked in the door of the diner just in time to see her haul off and slap the shit out of someone sitting in a booth. He gaped as she stepped back and he recognized the man as Kris.

Then, as if it had all been a dream, Lulu said: "I’ll be back with your coffee in a minute."

She walked off as if nothing had happened, while Kris brought his hand to his face, to feel the sting that was no doubt still suffusing the flesh there. She’d slapped him hard and he hadn’t been expecting it, so hadn’t defended himself at all. Mitch went to sit across from him, as conversation suddenly blossomed among the rest of the patrons in the diner.

"Well," said Mitch, as he slid into the booth. He waited to see if the man would say anything as Kris' round eyes fixed on him. When he didn’t, Mitch went on. "So … you want me to arrest her for assault?"

"No," said Kris instantly. "I sort of asked for it."

"Law doesn’t work that way," said Mitch, leaning back. "There’s no such thing as justifiable assault."

"I slapped her on the ass," said Kris.

"Oh," said Mitch. "Then again, I haven’t read every law on the books."

Lulu suddenly appeared at the table, a pot of coffee in her left hand, with a cup dangling from her little finger. Her right hand had a small plate with a huge cinnamon roll on it. Mitch glanced over Kris' shoulder to see dollar bills going into small piles on table tops. Every face in the place was turned toward the booth he was sitting in.

She managed to set the cup down and pour, left-handed, without spilling a drop. Then the plate with the cinnamon roll swayed forward to drop toward the table top.

"This is on me," she said. Her voice didn’t sound any different than it ever had. That high, clear soprano voice sounded lilting and young. "I thought you might want dessert."

Then, just before the plate touched the table, it seemed to streak off course, toward Kris' face. Somehow, the plate went from being supported by her fingers gripping the top and bottom to resting on the palm of her hand as it tipped sideways. Mitch watched in awe as the roll hit squarely on Kris' nose, which penetrated the center, before the rest of the roll squashed flat against his face. Lulu’s hand rotated once to the right, then back to the left, rubbing the roll into his face.

"Oops," she said, her voice young and carefree. "I guess I was wrong. I guess it’s on you." She let go of the plate, which hung there, still stuck to the bottom of the squashed roll for a few seconds, and then fell towards Kris' lap. His hands came to catch it.

It was a tense moment for Mitch. He’d seen things like this turn ugly and if Kris roared his anger and stood to go after Lulu, Mitch knew he’d have to intervene. He hoped he wouldn’t have to take them both in.

But Kris just caught the plate, which had most of the roll still on it. All the icing was on Kris' face, though, and he raised one finger to wipe his right eye clear of the stuff. He set the plate on the table and cleared the other eye. Lulu just stood there watching.

"I’m so sorry," she said, sounding as un-sorry as it was possible to sound. "I’ll go get you a new one."

"It’s OK," said Kris. Mitch relaxed a bit. "This one tastes pretty good." He licked his fingers and started scooping more frosting off his face, sucking each fingerful off as he collected it.

"At least let me help," said Lulu.

Mitch would never forget what happened then for the rest of his life. Neither would any of the other customers in the diner. It would be told and retold for years.

Lulu bent over and grasped Kris' head with both her hands.

Then she licked her tongue up along one cheek. She pulled back a little. There was frosting on her nose. She smacked her lips.

"It IS good, isn’t it?!"

She was like a cat cleaning a kitten’s face, and Kris just sat there. Then, suddenly, instead of licking his face, her lips welded to his. The passion in that kiss was electric and exploded outward from them in such a way that the other customers actually FELT it themselves. It was a full minute before she pulled back. Now there was frosting all around her lips and on her nose. His face was a mess and he looked a little dazed. She stopped, with her lips an inch from his.

"Don’t you ever do that in public again," she said softly. "That’s for private. Do you understand me?"

"Yes ma’am," he croaked.

It looked like it was over, and, in truth, it was, but not quite yet. Lulu walked behind the counter and washed her hands in the sink, cleaning her face as well. She dried her face and hands, then got the towel she’d used damp. On her way to refill coffee cups, she walked back by the booth and powered the damp ball of cloth into Kris' chest.

"Clean up," she hissed. "You look like a slob." Without a pause her face swiveled to Mitch. "Be with you in a second, Mitch."

Then she went on to take care of people who were laughing, crying, or just plain astounded into mute amazement. Some of them were collecting piles of dollar bills and stuffing them into pockets.

Chapter 33

Mitch completely forgot why he’d come to the diner until Lulu came up to the table with her jacket on and looked at Kris.

"We have some things to talk about," she said. "I’m ready to go."

Then it all came back to Mitch and he told them why he’d come. Lulu seemed to be the most impressed.

"My man is a hero? The governor of New York’s wife wants to thank him? That’s pretty cool."

Kris might not have been able to remember who he was, but his inner psychology had not been affected. He felt a sudden craving for anonymity. He didn’t want to be in any spotlight. The whole incident that had just played out, and in which he’d felt only mildly humiliated, had only made him wish it had happened privately, instead of publicly. The fact that Mitch had acted like nothing had happened at all had helped. Well, other than pointing to places Kris needed to get cleaner, as he wiped his face off with the damp towel. But after that was done, it wasn’t mentioned again.

"I don’t want to be a hero," said Kris. "I just want to get on with life."

"You can’t just ignore what happened," said Mitch. "You’re famous now. At least for fifteen or twenty minutes. Enjoy it while it happens."

"No thanks," said Kris. "I’d rather spend time with Lulu."

"Awwwwww," she said, leaning down to give him a quick peck on the lips. It was all sweetness and light, until she said, "You sure couldn’t have told that by the way you acted for the last two weeks."

"I can explain that," said Kris weakly.

"We’ll see," said Lulu. "In the meantime, I think you should be civil and let the woman thank you."

"I don’t think so," said Kris stubbornly. He turned to Mitch. "You call her back. Tell her I said thanks, but no thanks. Tell her I’d have done it for anybody." He blinked. "Hey. Wait! There’s no WAY I did that on purpose. Even if I’d known they were kidnapping her, I wouldn’t have run into one of them. That’s crazy! It was an accident!"

"But you DID save her life," said Mitch. "At least it looks like it. They killed two other victims they kidnapped before this."

"That’s awful!" said Lulu, her voice soft.

"No," said Kris. "I don’t want fame or any of that. I just want to write and love Lulu … if she’ll let me."

"Awwwww," she said again. Kris stood up before she could kiss him. He glanced around. Several men were grinning at him, including the pastor. He looked at Mitch.

"Are you going to arrest me for the hit and run?"

Mitch grinned. "I’m not that stupid," he said. "You’re a hero."

Kris turned back to Lulu. "Come on," he said. "Like you said, we have things to talk about."

Initially, it wasn’t much fun. He hadn’t spent much time thinking about how Lulu would feel about his actions. He soon recognized the fact that he’d only been thinking of himself, for the most part, and had only thought about her in very abstract terms.

She disabused him of the abstraction of his actions very quickly.

She told him about how worried she’d been, initially, and then how frustrated and worried she’d been when she couldn’t find him. When it had finally sunk in that he’d just left town, the pain had almost ripped her apart. And then, when he hadn’t called or contacted her in any way at all, she had doubted her own intelligence. It had been torture for her and she made him feel it.

He sat helplessly through it all. They hadn’t gone to pick up Ambrose. She’d called Roslynn and asked if he could stay for a while, so they could work through the obvious issues. She’d told him to sit on the couch and had disappeared into her bedroom, returning in a Popeye T shirt that said, "I YAM WHAT I YAM!" on the chest and a pair of dark blue hip hugging jeans. She’d paced then, while she talked, unburdening herself. He kept staring at the zipper of the jeans, where the tab was standing straight out at the top, instead of lying flat, the way it was supposed to. It suggested she’d dressed in a hurry, putting on what first came to her fingers. She’d been eager to rake him over the coals.

"Well?"

His mind had wandered and he tried to focus. She’d said a lot, to sum it all up with a one word question.

"I needed to find out who I was," he said. He felt like it was completely inadequate as an answer.

"I know," she said, her shoulders slumping. She didn’t quite wilt in front of him, but she swayed, as if she was suddenly so tired that she might fall down. He leaned forward, instinctively, ready to catch her if she fell. She saved him the trouble by stepping toward him and sinking down on his lap. "I wanted to help you find out who you were."

Then the tears came and she hugged him fiercely, telling him in actions what words could never have conveyed. She had lost him … but now she had him in her arms.

He wanted more than anything to make love to her then. The passion that surged through him was animalistic. He’d lost her too, after all, and was experiencing the same thing she was … the reintroduction of the love of their lives, after a torturous hiatus.

But, when she stood and pulled him to the bedroom, it seemed all wrong, somehow, to tear off his clothes and jump on top of her. Instead they lay down. Her night’s work, followed by the emotional storm, and his night’s driving, followed by the verbal flogging he’d received, drained them both of the energy needed to make physical love.

Instead, they slept in each other’s arms.

Mitch dutifully delivered Kris' message to Harper, who groaned when he heard the news. Hoping against hope, he called Mrs. Custer. While the phone rang he wondered what kind of hissy fit Captain Hildebrand would have if he knew one of his detectives not only had the private number of the governor’s wife, but was using it to deliver information she would probably not be happy about.

She wasn’t. Not only that, his argument that the poor man had been through hell already and only wished to get on with his life out of the spotlight, didn’t cut any mustard with Chantal.

"I have to deal with the spotlight," she snapped. "He saved my life and he WILL let me thank him for it!"

She then commenced to browbeat out of the big tough detective, where her savior could be found.

Lulu woke first. Upon finding herself fully clothed, she looked at her watch. It wasn’t terribly late. She looked at the still sleeping man beside her and had a mountaintop experience, in which she just knew that the worst was over and that things were going to work out. She could take another hour before she’d be imposing on Roslynn, so she got up and took her clothes off. Then she methodically tried to strip her lover, something that looked easier than it turned out to be, until he woke up and began to help.

It is quite possible to be completely satisfied with your lover, and crave his attention, and at the same time pursue a continuing, but less vituperative line of punishment for his misdeeds. In this case, Lulu got on top of him and rode him until he was about to cum.

Then she stopped and willed her pussy muscles to go slack.

She was winding down from her third orgasm and had just done that again, when he finally caught on.

"You’re still mad at me," he panted.

"Only a little," she said, looking down at him. She gave his prick a little squeeze.

"My balls are going to swell up and explode," he moaned. "What good will I be to you then?"

"You hurt me," she said, beginning to rock again. "You must be punished."

"I WROTE that line in my last book," he moaned.

"Until further notice, you may address me as Duchess Lulu of Pembroke," giggled Lulu. "Don’t move, I’m going to cum on your beautiful hard cock again."

Again, Chantal didn’t depend on any resources out of her own control to deal with the Farmingham matter. To her credit, she didn’t intend to ruin the man’s life, she merely wanted to thank him. She had her own money and, to avoid any possible conflict of interest, or the wasting of taxpayer’s funds, she instructed her personal assistant to charter a helicopter to take her to Connecticut. The governor, of course, couldn’t break away from his duties at the drop of a hat, so she only took an entourage of five with her. The only mistake made was that she failed to tell her personal assistant that this was to be an "under the radar" event. The personal assistant told the press secretary about the trip and he did what he thought he was supposed to do.

Thus it was that, when the chopper took off with the first lady of New York in it, three other helicopters took off as well, carrying reporters, cameramen and all the gear that is required to fulfill their "obligation" to report the "news."

Pembroke didn’t have an airport. But they had a town square, which was large enough and clear enough to land a Sikorsky S-76, which is what Chantal’s group was in. And there were fields nearby that were large enough to land two Bell 429s and a Eurocopter AS 350. Of course, with no air controllers being involved, there was no warning for the citizens of Pembroke that they were being invaded.

In most situations where something like this happens, the VIP involved hands out a press packet that explains the itinerary-times, dates and so forth-so the media organization can make plans. This little junket happened quickly and there was no press packet, which led the reporters and editors involved to suspect that something secret was going on. As may be imagined, there was a lot of creative thinking that went on after the aircraft were down and parked. Ground transport was needed and, since each media group was trying to get the scoop first, the need for that transport was urgent.

Bud Wilkinson, a local farmer, was the first to approach a helicopter. It had landed in his field. His truculence at the nerve of some fancy pants to just land there was overcome when he was offered three thousand dollars for the use of his pickup truck, which was worth, in his own estimation, about eight hundred bucks.

Twila Bittlesbury thought the helicopter that had landed in her back yard had actually crashed, and she called 911 before going outside to see what actually happened. When the ambulance and volunteer fire department arrived, there was some tension, until the reporter on the chopper offered to reimburse them all for the cost of coming out. Of course, part of that deal was a ride back to town.

The WNBC helicopter opted to land on the football field of the Pembroke high school. It wasn’t being used at the time, but the racket was heard in every room in the building. School might as well have been suspended, because every teacher and every student went to see what was happening. A number of those kids had vehicles, so WNBC had no trouble getting their stuff taken into town.

Chantal had no need for transport. As she stepped down the steps of her helicopter, she was met by Greg Shaffer, who’d gotten a call from one of the radio stations in New York City and asked to provide a feed. Mayor Childress was with him, as was Dabney Whittaker, who was NOT there to arrest anybody for landing a helicopter on the town green without permission. People began to come out of shops on the square, to see what was going on.

Lulu was just about to let him cum, when there came a pounding on the front door that they could clearly hear, even in the bedroom. They could also hear a voice bellow "POLICE! OPEN UP!"

"That sounds like Mitch!" groaned Kris.

"What now?!" growled Lulu.

She hopped off of Kris with a slurping, sucking sound, and he moaned as cool air hit his penis. He was of half a mind to just jerk off, he wanted to cum so badly. His hand went to his prick and Lulu stopped, just long enough to say, "Don’t you dare! What’s in that is mine!"

Then, both because she was ticked off at the disruption, and because modesty wasn’t among the top ten of things she worried about, she went to the front door and pulled it open.

Mitch took a breath and almost choked at the same time, as he saw Lulu in all her naked glory.

"What the fuck do you want now?!" she snarled.

"Ahb … um … gurk … abla…" gasped Mitch, as he stared at her dark red nipples on her rosy pink breasts. Before he could stop himself, his eyes dropped and took in her pooching pussy lips and the sheen of moisture on her inner thighs. He jerked his eyes upward, as if searching for the fairy godmother who was the only creature on earth who could protect him at this particular point in time.

"MITCH!" she shouted.

"The gubenor’s wife!" he choked out.

"Who?"

"Chantal," he whispered. He had to stop to drag in more air. It seemed like he was standing in a vacuum and there wasn’t any air there at all. "She’s here," he gasped. "Kris!"

Lulu looked past him, leaning forward. Mitch could smell the delicate aroma that was this naked woman. He moaned.

"I don’t see anybody, Mitch!" she snapped.

"You’re naked!" he yipped.

"So was Jess when you screwed her brainless the other night," said Lulu. "Her boobs are bigger than mine. Think about them, Mitch. What’s going on? What about the governor’s wife?"

Oddly, her mention of Jessica calmed him and he was able to think again, though he did not think of Jessica naked. Instead he just talked to the doorframe.

"Chantal landed on the town square in a helicopter," he said. "She wants to see Kris … to thank him for saving her life."

"We’re kind of busy right now," said Lulu, unrepentant. She’d never seen Mitch this red before. He’d leered at her just like every other man in town had leered at her at one time or another, yet now he was acting like a little boy seeing his first naked woman.

"Lulu, she’s the governor’s wife, for pity’s sake," moaned Mitch.

"Not the governor of Connecticut," shot back Lulu.

"Would you PLEASE put something on?" he groaned. "All I’m asking … all the MAYOR is asking is that Kris come see her … just for a few minutes … so she can thank him … then you can come back here and…"

"And what, Mitch?" she asked sweetly.

Anger blossomed in Mitch Connel. It gave him back the control that had fled and his eyes slid from the door frame to Lulu’s face. He didn’t look down.

"Check each other for ticks, for all I care," he said, his voice level. "Unless you want Chantal Custer coming here to see him, I suggest you both get cleaned up and come down to the town square. Otherwise, I’m going to tell her where to find him and you can deal with her here." Then he looked at her breasts. "You’re right, hers are bigger."

"Why Mitch Connel," said Lulu in a light voice. "I expect much better from my public servants than to be ogled in my own home." She laughed.

"Step outside that house and I swear I’ll arrest you for public indecency," he growled.

"You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mitch," she teased, lifting one foot and pushing it through the door to touch the porch with her big toe. "You’d get your rocks off wrestling me to the ground and putting cuffs on me, wouldn’t you?"

"You bet your no doubt beautiful ass I would!" he said. "But then you wouldn’t be able to come home and play hide the sausage with your fricking boyfriend who you were slapping the shit out of, the last time I saw you. I could arrest you for that, too, Lulu."

"Oh, all right," said Lulu, finally getting control of her own emotions. "We’ll come down to your precious town square and see the precious governor’s wife. I’ll even bring him myself, to make sure he gets there and doesn’t get lost on the way."

"Please hurry," said Mitch. "This is a big deal for our town. I know you don’t care about it, but it will help our image a lot, Lulu."

"I know," she said, feeling less and less like punishing anybody. "Go on. Tell them we’re coming. I’ll go get him dressed."

"Thanks," said the cop who had thought it would be a hoot to yell for the occupants of the house to open up. He’d always wanted to do that, but it had never been needed before. He decided he had watched too much TV, as he went back to his squad car.

The first thing she had to do was work through what had just happened.

"It was Mitch. We have to go downtown."

"You’re naked!"

"I’m so happy you noticed. You’re naked too, you know."

"But you were talking to Mitch! You went to the door naked!"

"My goodness but you’re observant today," she said sweetly. "Get dressed. We have to go downtown."

"Lulu!"

"Oh get a grip. He can’t have me. And if you don’t get up and get dressed so we can get this over with, you’re not going to be able to have me either. Then I’ll be horny and frustrated, and I’ll have to buy another rabbit, and I’ll be all cranky about that. Is that what you want?"

It wasn’t until they were in the car that he had recovered mentally enough to ask: "So why do we have to go downtown?"

"The stupid governor of New York’s stupid wife flew into town to say thank you to you for saving her stupid life."

"Oh no," he moaned.

"Just walk up to her and smile and say she’s welcome. Nothing to it."

"I don’t want to," he groaned.

"If you do I’ll let you cum in me," she said.

There was half a minute of silence.

"OK."

"Men!" she snorted. "All they think of is one thing."

"Have you looked in the mirror lately when you were naked?" He managed a grin.

She stopped in the middle of the road and turned to face him.

"I love you," she said.

"I know that," he replied. "I love you, too."

"No, you don’t understand," she said, still stopped and still looking at him. "I LOVE you, Kris. I was miserable when you went away. The thought that you didn’t love me … that you’d just leave like that … that I’d never see you again…"

She moved forward again.

"I don’t ever want to feel like that again, Kris."

"I’m back for good," he said. "I’m going to find a place to live and stay here in Pembroke."

"That’s good," she said firmly.

"Is it?" he asked. "Because so far, you’ve kind of been beating me up a lot."

She glanced over at him. "Oh, it’s good," she assured him. "It’s good that you’re here to stay, 'cause if you ever leave like that again, I’m going to have to find out what a man’s balls taste like deep fried … and I just hate deep fried foods."

There was a short detour, to pick up Ambrose. Then she drove him to town … and into chaos.

There were people everywhere. All three news crews had arrived at the square, and word had spread that something crazy was going on. People who had survived cabin fever during the long, cold winter, embraced any diversion from the norm. It was like a holiday, where people flipped over the "Open" sign to "Please visit again," and shrugged on a jacket to go see the sights. The music teacher, upon learning why a helicopter had landed on the football field, quickly threw together the pep band, which was tuning up, standing in a cluster of shiny instruments and playing snatches of a John Phillip Sousa march.

Chantal, used to such madness, just stood, coolly beautiful in her furs, waiting for someone to bring some semblance of organization to the events. The chief of police, who blushed and tittered whenever Chantal said anything to him, assured her that her savior was on his way there. A gaggle of young girls with moon eyes was standing twenty feet away, giggling as each of them tried to prod another into being the first to approach Chantal and actually say something to her. She’d seen it all before and, down deep, she loved it when people made a fuss over her.

At the same time, she was fully aware of why she was actually there and she intended to follow through with that. When a buzz arose from one direction, and she heard people saying, "It’s him!" she turned to wait. She saw him and recognized him immediately from his picture. She almost laughed as she saw the woman who was escorting him through the crowd, one arm through his, the other arm trying to keep a little boy from running ahead of them.

She’d wondered what he’d be like … what kind of people he was close to … but she hadn’t given any thought to the possibility that he’d be an oddball, or married, with a child. She reassessed the woman with the bizarre hairdo as they got closer. The woman walked with that confident, in-control stride that models have to learn how to use, even though she was controlling two men, for all intents and purposes. Her face was calm, even though people were shouting at her and the man she was with from all sides. She heard "Hey Lulu!" being called from several places.

The woman wasn’t blushing or fawning, which told Chantal that all this attention didn’t impress her much. She might look odd, but it was obvious to an interested observer that this was a strong, capable woman, whose head wasn’t turned by being suddenly catapulted into the limelight.

And then they were there, and she was finally facing the man who had so impacted her life. While the woman looked as cool as a cucumber, the man was quite the opposite. His eyes rolled as he darted looks everywhere. He was decidedly uncomfortable. She felt real relief that he wasn’t a strutting braggart, because she had hoped he wasn’t one of those.

His face was craggy and there were a number of places where there were bits of lighter flesh, that suggested newly healed injuries. She saw the streak on his left temple and knew, instinctively that this was where he’d been shot. Shot while stopping those men from ruining her life … from TAKING her life.

She stepped forward and hugged him. The woman with him didn’t let go of his arm.

She leaned back and brought one finger up to trace along the scar on his temple. The band suddenly roared to life and people yelled. Microphones were thrust near her face, on long booms, as people crowded around. She hadn’t planned for any of this, and the urge she felt next wasn’t planned for either.

She leaned forward and pressed her lips to that bullet wound.

"You wanna back up offa my man, lady?!" growled the young woman who was still holding his arm.

Chantal looked over at the woman, using the cool, superior look she’d practiced in the mirror for hours-raising only one eyebrow slightly and looking down her nose … just a little … at the woman.

"You can keep him," she said softly. "I just want to thank him."

"I can get behind that," said Lulu, smiling brightly. "Could we hurry just a little? You interrupted a really nice orgasm and I’d kind of like to get back to it."

Chantal’s eyes went round for just a second and then she laughed.

She held up her hands then, in the universal sign asking for silence, and the crowd slowly obeyed her. The microphones hovered above her head, weaving in the air as the people holding them were jostled by the crowd. The band finally honked to an abrupt end.

She made her little speech and the crowd went wild. The band started up again, and this time, when Chantal hugged him, she included the woman in the hug too.

"One more thing," she said, half yelling as the hug ended. She reached into her purse and brought out a piece of paper. It was a check. "We offered a reward. This is for you."

"No," blurted Kris. "I couldn’t!"

"Don’t listen to him … he’s a man," said Lulu. She plucked the check from Chantal’s fingers. "I’ll just take care of this for him."

Chantal looked at Lulu. "You’re a lucky woman."

"I know," said Lulu, stuffing the check into her jeans pocket. "Thank you."

"You must come to the mansion for dinner some time," said Chantal, looking at Lulu.

"Can I bring him?" Lulu grinned.

Chantal laughed. "At least once," she said. "And your little boy, too, of course."

"Of course," said Lulu, beaming.

Chapter 34

No one was in a hurry to let the famous woman leave, which translated into people standing too close to the helicopter to allow the pilot to spin up the rotors. Chief Whittaker finally began to exert influence, and his men, all of whom were present, began pushing the crowd back. Once the pilot started the engine, people were much quicker in retreating, but still braved the rotor wash to stand and watch as the big bird lifted off the ground.

Mitch looked around for Kris and Lulu, and saw Jessica standing alone, watching the helicopter get smaller and smaller. He walked over to her.

"You look envious," he said. "Do you wish you were on it?"

She looked at him and blinked.

"I don’t want to leave you," she said, her voice holding complaint.

"I’m glad to hear you say that," he said. "Where’s Lulu?"

"They left," she said.

"They did?" he asked, incredulous.

"You know Lulu," said Jessica, shrugging. She suddenly smiled. "You have any plans?"

"Nope. The excitement is all over."

"It doesn’t have to be," she said. "Your place or mine?"

Ambrose’s questions had been answered and he was watching a video on TV. Kris had calmed down and was breathing almost normally. Lulu remembered the check and got the crumpled paper from her pocket. She stared at it as she smoothed the wrinkles out of it.

"Kris," she said weakly. "This is for two hundred thousand dollars!"

He just stared at her.

"Wow," she said softly. "Know what?"

"What?"

"Looking at this check makes me horny."

"Then I’m glad she gave it to me."

They had chosen her place, because it was closer.

Jessica pulled her lips away from Mitch’s and sighed.

"I never thought I’d love kissing you so much."

"I never thought I’d ever get to kiss you at all," he said, smiling.

"But you wanted to … right?" she asked.

"It’s kind of strange," he said uncomfortably.

"Strange how?"

"I’m afraid you’ll get mad at me if I tell you," he said.

"Oh," she said. "Well then, never mind. I already know anyway."

"You do?" Mitch looked confused.

"I’ve been black all my life, Mitch," she said softly.

"That’s not it," he said immediately. Even HE knew it sounded false and hollow.

"If we’re going to build something here," she said, "and since I gave you my virginity we’d BETTER be building something here … we have to be honest with each other."

"I know," he said softly. "It’s just that I feel so stupid."

"Well you’re not. You’re normal. I never thought I’d take up with a white boy either, you know."

"You didn’t?" He sounded surprised.

"Why would you assume I’d go for a white boy, when you weren’t willing to entertain the idea of you having a relationship with a black woman, Mitch?" Her voice sounded unhappy, but she was still pressed against him.

"I don’t know," he moaned. "I just didn’t picture me with that kind of woman I guess."

"And you figured that I’d settle for second best because there were no black men in Pembroke for me to fall in love with?"

"I guess I did," he said.

"So you think that as soon as some studly brother comes along, I’ll jump ship and chase after dark meat?"

"No!" he said quickly. "I might have before, but I’ve gotten to know you better … or deeper … or something. I think about you differently now than I used to."

"Well that’s good, Mitch Connel, because you’re stuck with me, buster. I still don’t understand what happened between us, but I’m not going to question it. I know how I feel, and as untrained and ignorant as you are, I can’t stand the thought of being away from you for more than a few hours. I know that’s crazy, but that’s the way it is."

"I feel the same way!" he insisted.

"And, if you think you’re going to get away with treating me like you treated Carla, you’re in for a very rude awakening," she said.

"That’s the whole thing," he moaned. "When I think about how I feel about you, it’s NOTHING like how I felt about Carla. Carla was like puppy love, compared to this. That’s what scares me!"

"You’re scared of me?" Her voice was high.

"I guess I am. Or maybe I’m scared of what I’d be willing to do for you."

"Would you rob a bank for me?"

"No." He glared at her.

"That’s OK," she said. "A bank doesn’t have what I want from you anyway."

"What DO you want from me?" he asked.

"If you didn’t have all those clothes on, you’d know," she said, rubbing her loins against his.

Ten minutes later he let himself down, almost gently, on top of her, just lying on her and kissing her.

"Did you go on the pill yet?" he asked.

"No."

"Jessica," he moaned.

"Did you bring a condom?"

"No."

"Mitch," she moaned, her voice theatrical, like his had been. She giggled.

"What are we going to do?" he grumped.

"We’re going to make sweet love," she said, spreading her legs.

"Without protection," he said.

"Uh huh," she sighed, reaching between them to find his stiff prod.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because that’s how much I love you," she said.

It was Lulu’s day off and she’d arrived at Kris' rental early, with Ambrose in tow. She leaned on the doorbell and heard a muffled shout from within. Kris opened the door with a frown, that turned almost instantly to a grin.

"To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" he asked.

"You’ve been lollygagging about finding a house," said Lulu. "Ambrose and I are here to help you choose one."

"I can live anywhere," he said, his face straight. "I lived in the bush for a whole week with no tent one time."

"Oh?" Lulu looked doubtful.

"I’m remembering more and more. I think I was just too tense before. Now that things have calmed down, I get little bits and snatches pretty often. Sometimes they don’t mean much, but I spent a week in the bush with a couple of aborigines one time and I remembered a lot of that."

"Well we’re not going to come visit you if you’re living under a tree," said Lulu. "We have standards."

"What’s standards?" piped Ambrose.

"It means we’re picky, darling," said his mother.

"But you always tell me to stop being so picky," complained Ambrose.

"That’s different. That’s about how you eat. If Kris lived in a cave, you wouldn’t want to go visit him would you?"

"A cave? COOL!" squealed Ambrose.

"There you go," said Kris. "I have his seal of approval."

"Well you don’t have mine. Let’s go."

"I’m writing," he complained.

"You can write later. We’re going house hunting!"

They decided to use a realtor, simply because it was easier to find and look at houses. They were on their sixth one when Lulu snorted.

"Now look who’s being picky," she groused. "You always manage to find something you can’t live with."

"They’re all nice," said Kris. "But I just haven’t seen one I get excited about."

"What’s wrong with this one?"

"I didn’t say anything was wrong with it."

"You don’t have to. I see the same thing here that I saw in all the others. You’re just not interested." She frowned at him.

"It’s too big," he said.

"It’s only three bedrooms," she said tersely. "You can use one to sleep in and one for your office, or study, or whatever writers call the room they write in. The other one can be for storage or guests."

"Who’s gonna come see me?" he said. "I don’t know anybody."

"You know me, you dope."

"Yeah, but I sure wouldn’t put you in the guest bedroom." He leered.

The agent, who was just as frustrated as Lulu was, helpfully pointed out the square footage-again-and tossed in a couple of other things that made this home "to die for."

"It would be expensive to heat," said Kris.

"No more than my place!" objected Lulu. "Mine is only a little smaller and this is newer. It’s probably better insulated and all that stuff." She went to the window. "It’s a good neighborhood, and it’s close to both the school and the grocery store."

"You’re thinking like a parent," said Kris. "I don’t have kids."

"That doesn’t mean you’ll NEVER have kids!" moaned Lulu.

"I can’t have kids," he said.

"What?" She looked confused.

"The only woman I’d think about having a child with already has a little boy and doesn’t want to have any more."

She put her hands on her hips. "Be serious," she said.

He looked puzzled for an instant, then his face went calm. "Look," he said. "I don’t really care. Like I said, I can live anyplace. Why don’t you just pick the one you like the best, and I’ll buy that one."

"It’s your house, Kris," she objected.

"How often do you get to pick a house like this?" he asked.

"Never," she said.

"OK, so now you get to."

He had to talk her into it, but she finally broke down and told him which one she had thought was the best they’d seen. The real estate agent looked stunned when he said, "I’ll take that one." She was even more stunned when she suggested they go back to her office to arrange for the financing and he said, "It’s OK. I’ll just pay cash. You just get the papers ready and I’ll sign them when I give you the check."

Three days later, he had a new house. It took longer to move into it and redecorate than it had to buy it in the first place. He enlisted Lulu’s help, asking her opinion on paint colors, and whether to change the carpeting or not. Then he had to go meet with the movers in New York City, while they packed him up and moved his stuff to Pembroke.

It was, all in all, two months since he had returned to Pembroke, when he went over to Lulu’s house one afternoon. He had maintained the same routine with her they’d had earlier, and even still wrote at her house sometimes. He carried his flash drive with him everywhere, which meant he carried his unfinished books with him everywhere, too.

"I had a thought," he said, sipping the fruit juice she’d offered him. She was working on a web site and he’d been playing with Ambrose until it was time for his nap.

"Hmm?" Her attention was on the screen in front of her.

"Well, you know how you have to take Ambrose to Roslynn’s every night?"

"Uh huh," she said, her fingers flickering over the keyboard.

"That’s kind of inconvenient."

"Not really," said Lulu. "It’s almost on the way."

"Well, OK, but childcare costs a lot."

"True," she said. "Aha! I just found the error in the code!"

"I’m not working a regular job," he said. "I was just thinking that if I adopted him, he could live in the spare bedroom and I could watch him while you’re at work."

She looked over at him then.

"That’s silly," she said. "You can’t adopt him. He can’t live at your house. He lives with me. What are you talking about?"

"Oh, nothing," he said. "Never mind. It was just an idea."

"Just a minute," she said. She turned back to the computer, hit several keys and switched the monitor off, before rotating to face him fully.

"What are you talking about, Kris?" she asked.

"It’s just that I see how you’re struggling to make ends meet," he said. "I could take some of the burden off of you if I took care of him. I wouldn’t charge you anything."

"You must be having a relapse," she sighed. "If you think I’d just let him go off and live somewhere else, just to save some money, you need your head examined some more. He’s my SON, Kris."

"I know, but if I adopted him, he’d be my son too. Don’t you think it would help if he had a father figure in his life more often than once or twice a day?"

"Of course I do," she said. "But if he comes to live with you, he wouldn’t have a MOTHER figure in his life anymore, you idiot!"

"Oh," said Kris, looking dejected. "I guess you’re right." He seemed to think hard, and she looked at him with some concern, because he didn’t seem to be thinking rationally. Then he brightened. "Well, I suppose I could let you both come live with me." He said it like he’d just thought of that. "I mean that would solve the problem too."

"You want me to move in with you?" Her voice squeaked.

"Well … two CAN live more cheaply together than they can apart," he said. "Three, in this case, but you know what I mean."

"That’s a pretty big step … don’t you think?" She looked uncertain.

"Yeah," he sighed. "I don’t know what I was thinking. Moving in can end up badly sometimes. I mean just the term itself sounds so … temporary. If you can just move in, ' I guess that means you can just 'move out again whenever you feel like it."

"Well … yeah," she said, looking confused, and then her face smoothed out and she tilted her head, examining him. "This isn’t like you. You’re up to something."

"Me?" He put on such an innocent look that it was obvious it was contrived.

"What’s going on?" she asked, her voice level.

"Nothing!" he said. "You’re right. Moving in with me is definitely a bad idea."

"I didn’t say it was a bad idea," she said immediately. "I just said it’s a big step." She tilted her head the other way. "And what’s all this stuff about adopting Ambrose?"

"Oh that," he said dismissively. "Never mind about that. I had in mind to ask you to marry me and it just seemed natural to offer to adopt him. But if moving in is such a huge step, you wouldn’t even consider marrying me."

Her mouth opened, then closed. Her eyes got huge. Her face got red, until she suddenly remembered to breathe.

"You just asked me to marry you!" she yipped.

"No I didn’t," he said calmly. "I said I was thinking about asking you to marry me."

She just stared at him.

"I remembered you said you weren’t the marrying kind," he said. "So don’t worry. I won’t ask you to marry me, OK? I was just trying to help. That’s all. I mean you saved my life and all. It’s really the least I could do … to help out with Ambrose I mean. And with him needing a father figure and all, I just thought maybe I could do that. It was silly. Just forget it."

"I can’t just forget something like that!" she squealed. "You can’t DO THAT!"

"I didn’t DO anything," he reminded her. "I was just making suggestions. That’s all."

"KRIS!" she wailed.

He held up a hand.

"OK, I know a way to work this out. Let’s say … just for the sake of argument … that you WERE the marrying kind … and I DID ask you to marry me and let me adopt Ambrose. How do you think you’d entertain that kind of question?"

"KRIS," she moaned. "This isn’t fair!"

"It’s only conjecture," he said smoothly. "It’s not like I’m ACTUALLY asking you to marry me and let me adopt Ambrose. But if I DID offer to do that, what do you think you’d say?"

"I don’t know!" she squeaked. "I’d have to think about it, you dope!"

"Oh," he said. "Well, I’m hungry and I saw some peaches in the fridge. I’m going to go get a snack. Why don’t you think about it while I’m gone … you know … as if it were real … which it’s not, of course, so there’s no pressure or anything." He smiled. "You want me to bring you anything back?"

"No." Her voice sounded like that of a ten year old, who was very frightened. She was looking at him like he’d sprouted another head.

"OK," he said happily. "Be back in a bit."

When he got back, she was standing in the middle of the room, several feet from where she’d been when he left. Otherwise she looked the same. It was simply as if some massive hand had picked her up and moved her. She was frowning when she glanced at him.

He simply sat down in a chair and continued to eat the peach he’d cut in half and taken the pit out of.

"You want me to marry you," she said.

"Uh huh, I do," he replied.

"Why?"

He stared at her for a few seconds. "Well, it might have something to do with the fact that I love you and I don’t ever want to be without you, or at least without the knowledge that we are a couple."

"We could do that without being married," she observed. "Be a couple, I mean."

"So you don’t want to get married." His voice had a curious, or maybe slightly empty tone to it.

"I didn’t say that," she said. "It’s just that I never thought it would be necessary."

"Necessary is a kind of harsh word," he said.

"It’s just that the whole concept of marriage gets kind of screwed up sometimes," she said. "If I married you, I wouldn’t want you to think that meant you owned me."

"Of course not," he said explosively. "Nobody owns anybody else."

"People think that way in some marriages," she said.

"Not me," he said. "And obviously not you either." He frowned. "I hope you’re not suggesting that if we were married, and some hot guy came along, you’d want to have sex with him or something."

"No," she said, frowning herself. "But I’d like to be free to WANT to have sex with him, maybe."

"That’s just weird," he said, but he smiled. "I don’t think anybody can snuff out those kinds of urges, married or not."

"Have YOU wanted to have sex with anybody but me?" she asked. "Since we met, I mean?"

"Jessica is kind of cute," he said.

"That’s not happening," she said firmly. "She’s my best friend and besides, she and Mitch have something going on, as odd as that sounds."

"Hmmmm." The sound was drawn out. "So she has double standards. Interesting." He put his hands in his lap. "This isn’t going at all like I thought it would. Perhaps I should withdraw the offer. It obviously makes you unhappy."

"Don’t tell me when I’m unhappy!" she snapped. "I can decide for myself when I’m unhappy. This is a serious decision, that’s all."

"It is," he agreed. "And I AM serious about it."

She seemed to come unglued from the spot she’d been standing in and walked a few paces. Then she turned.

"OK … what if there were conditions?"

"Such as?"

"We’d have to be married in Las Vegas … by an Elvis impersonator."

His eyes widened, then went back to normal. "I could live with that," he said.

"That’s not all," she said. She paced some more and started listing her demands.

"You have to always do the dishes. I hate doing dishes." She took another step. "You have to teach Ambrose to put the seat down, and if he doesn’t, you will be punished instead of him." He could see her gathering steam as her steps got wider and wider. She wasn’t looking at him now. "You have to love me even when I have part of a Kleenex stuffed in my left nostril because my allergies are acting up. CDs must be alphabetized." She whirled and looked at him, obviously waiting for his reply.

"Dishes, toilet seat, allergies and CDs," he said, his face straight.

Now it was HER eyes that widened. "And on Tuesdays and Saturdays of alternate months beginning in J I want you to wear only yellow," she said.

He blinked. "If you want to say no, just say it," he said softly.

"I didn’t say I want to say no," she said, peering at him. "I just said these are some of the conditions you’d have to agree to if you want me to marry you."

"Some of the things," he said. "What else?"

It was obvious she was searching for more in her mind as she froze. Then she came to life again. "You have to fix my car if it breaks," she said, a little breathlessly.

"I don’t know if I have those skills or not," he said.

"Then you’d have to learn," she said. She sounded desperate.

"And these things are important to you," he said, sounding doubtful.

"If you want to marry me, you need to know what you’re getting yourself into," she said.

"But all this … stuff … it means a lot to you?"

"Would I set these conditions if it didn’t mean a lot to me?"

"It just doesn’t sound like you … some of it, I mean."

"Like what?"

"Like yellow on Tuesdays and Saturdays of alternate months beginning in J. That just doesn’t seem like Lulu, somehow."

"Well, you obviously don’t know me very well," she suggested.

"I know you well enough to know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you," he said calmly. "I thought that might be enough."

"That could be a long time," she said.

"Unless one of us gets hit by a bus tomorrow," he argued.

"We don’t have buses in Pembroke," she said sharply.

He stood up.

"Honey," he said softly. "If you don’t want to marry me, it’s OK. I mean it’s not OK for me, but I can live with it. I just don’t want this to force a wedge between us. Marriage is supposed to bring us closer together, not drive us apart. It’s OK for you to not want to get married."

"But I DO want to get married!" she cried.

He looked shocked and his face fell. "Just not to me," he said. His voice was dismal.

"Of COURSE TO YOU, YOU IDIOT!" she wailed. "I LOVE YOU!"

Suddenly she rushed toward him, crashing into him and holding him tightly.

"I’m confused," he said, kissing her bald scalp.

"I just never wanted to get married before," she moaned. "I don’t know what it means. I mean I don’t understand what I’m supposed to DO."

"All you have to do is be yourself," he said, feeling relief flood through him. "Marriage doesn’t mean we have to change. It just means we agree to stick together AS we change."

"But I don’t want anything to change," she moaned. "I love things the way they are right now."

"We can’t keep change away," said Kris. "Look at me. One little incident changed everything for me. As best I can tell, it was good change, because it brought me to you. It was hard, but I’m sure glad it happened. And we can’t help but change as more things happen to us. I just want to know that we’ll try to make all those changes into something positive, that’s all. That’s really what marriage is all about. We’ll pledge to work through the tough times and celebrate the good times. And if you’re tempted by some hot, young trucker or something, I’ll bring you home and spank you for having naughty thoughts and then make love to you for hours, until you decide that a dick in the hand is worth two in the truck or something."

"You’re so silly," she sighed.

"I just love you," he said.

"I know," she sighed again. "I just made up all those goofy things to see if you were really serious."

"I am serious," he said.

"I’m having naughty thoughts about another man right now," she said softly.

"Oh? Who?"

"It doesn’t matter," she said. "What are you going to do about it?"

She was on her knees, her head down and her cherry red buttocks raised high when he stopped and rolled her onto her back.

"Owwww," she complained.

"Be quiet," he growled. "I’m not done yet."

"You better not be," she panted, spreading her legs wide. She drew her knees up, offering her wet sex to him.

He slid in and they both groaned as he stopped and rubbed her clitty with the base of his cock.

"Did you really just make up all those conditions?" he panted.

"Mostly," she gasped.

He kissed her. "Good. That Elvis thing kind of spooked me."

She kissed him back and then, when they broke the kiss, she smiled and squeezed him with her pussy muscles.

"That’s the one part I was serious about."

Epilogue

The groom and best man stood, waiting at the end of aisle, dressed identically. They weren’t wearing the traditional tuxedos, though. Instead, the casual observer might have assumed they were actors in a gangster movie from the thirties. They wore the pinstriped suits, with wide lapelled jackets, of that time period. But they must have been gentlemen gangsters, because they were wearing top hats instead of fedoras.

Even though the chapel was in the middle of a bustling city, it was relatively quiet in the cool interior. It didn’t stay that way once the ceremony actually started, though. It seemed somewhat odd that the signal that started it was not organ music. Instead, it was the whirring motor sounds of an electric garage door opener.

A 1964 Cadillac convertible, painted so pink that you’d expect to see a real life Barbie in it, nosed into the chapel and inched down the wide main aisle. The driver was singing "Rock A Hula Baby" at the top of his lungs, in a very credible imitation of The King’s long vanished voice.

He could have been any man, riding along, singing a song, but for three somewhat jarring things.

First, he not only sounded like The King, but he looked like Elvis too, in his white jump suit, covered in rhinestones and embroidery, with the signature high collar.

A native of Las Vegas normally wouldn’t have given him a second look, to be honest. There were a lot of Elvis impersonators in Sin City. They would have looked twice at this one, though, because he had a little boy, wearing a top hat, standing on his lap, "driving" the car down the aisle. For some reason, this little boy felt compelled to yell "TOOT TOOT!" as he delivered his mother to her groom. This little boy might have been mistaken for Elvis' son, because he was also wearing a rhinestone studded Elvis outfit.

The locals WOULD have looked twice at the bride, standing on the floor of the passenger side of the convertible. She was wearing a white buckskin shirt that dipped low between her breasts and wrapped around her sides but left her back bare. A complex array of thin leather straps kept it on her, but didn’t obscure the large tattoo on her back of a very naked Mother Nature. It was sleeveless, and left bare the fiery tattoo on her right shoulder as well. Below that, her hips were encased in a red pleated miniskirt which barely covered the tops of black fishnet thigh high stockings. Her top hat matched that of the ones worn by the groom, best man and "driver," except that hers was bright red and covered with crushed velvet. Blood red Converse high tops could be seen on her feet as she stepped out of the caddy, holding a posy bouquet containing three red roses. She tugged gently at her miniskirt and waited for Elvis to unburden himself and escort her to her groom.

Ambrose hopped out of the car on the passenger side, landing on both feet with a thump and yelled, "YAY!" He held a teddy bear in his arms, also dressed as Elvis. Someone had fashioned a top hat for it as well.

Elvis formally offered his elbow to Lulu, who smiled at him and took it, walking beside him the last few feet it took to get to the rest of the wedding party. She thanked him and turned to hand her bouquet to Jessica, who was dressed in an outfit similar to the bride’s, but in reversed colors. Her top was red, her miniskirt was white, and her dark legs set off the white of her fishnet stockings. Her top hat was black, like the men’s, but was covered in crushed velvet like Lulu’s. She took the bouquet and kissed her friend on the cheek.

The wedding was taking place in the Doo Wop Diner, a unique replica of a diner from the 1950s. A Wurlitzer juke box whirred to life, playing soft background music as Elvis gave Lulu’s hand to Kris and took his place to officiate their wedding, which was being beamed out to the world live on the internet.

As bizarre as the visuals were, the ceremony itself was remarkably traditional. Elvis took the rings and described them as symbols of the love shared between Lulu and Kris, an unbroken circle made of precious metal that called to mind the precious nature of that love.

Their vows were simple and unique to their relationship. The bride went first.

"I promise to love you always, even when I’m mad at you, and spank you when you need it."

Kris grinned and took his turn.

"And I promise to love you always, even when you’re mad at me, and spank you when you want it."

Elvis pronounced them married and began singing "Rags To Riches" while the couple kissed. They kissed for the entire song.

The best man and maid of honor decided to kiss too. Ambrose covered his eyes.

Twelve poses later, and with VHS video of their wedding in hand, Elvis delivered his signature "Thank you verruh much," and kissed the bride himself. He tried for just a little tongue, but got a stiff finger in his ribs instead. He’d just have to be satisfied with the $375.00 they had paid for the "Teddy Bear Wedding Package," the extra $150.00 for the use of the caddy, and another $130.00 for a single tier cake that would serve twenty.

"What now?" asked Mitch, leaning back in the limo that had delivered them to the wedding chapel and was taking them back to the hotel. Jessica was still wiping tears from her eyes. Mitch licked frosting from his finger, where he’d dug it into the cake he was carrying on his lap.

"I can’t believe I’m married," said Lulu, an almost tremor in her voice.

"I have my hooks in you now, missy!" said Kris triumphantly. He made a claw of his hand and tried to put a leer on his face.

"I LIKE weddings!" said Ambrose, jumping up and down. Jessica reached out and snagged him, hugging him and kissing his cheeks.

"Me too!" she said, just as excitedly.

"Are you going to get married too?" asked Ambrose, squirming. "Can I drive?"

"Not today," laughed Jess.

"You could marry Mitch!" squealed Ambrose. He got still and cupped his hands around his mouth, putting them up to Jessica’s ear. "He’s a policeman!" he whispered, loudly enough for everyone in the back of the limo to hear.

"He IS?!" Jessica sounded shocked. "What should I do?"

"You have to be reeeeeally good," said Ambrose sagely. "Then he won’t rest you."

"Ooooo," moaned Jess. "What happens when they rest you?"

"You have to take a NAP!" groaned the little boy, rolling his eyes.

"I’m going to have Mitch rest YOU!" said Lulu, reaching out to tickle him. "You need a nap."

"No!" said Ambrose. "I’m all wide awake! I’m hungry, too!"

"That’s what’s next," said Mitch. "Dinner!"

As hard as Ambrose tried to stay alert, the day’s activities got to him during supper. He leaned against Jessica, who put her arm around him.

"Want to have a sleepover in our room tonight?" she asked.

"What’s a sleepover?" he asked, looking up at her.

"That’s where you spend the night in our room. I’ll read to you."

"I can read," said the boy somewhat defensively.

"I’ll let you stay up late," she bribed.

"OK!" he said, with a resurgence of energy. He turned to his mother. "Will you be OK if I’m not there?"

Lulu smiled. "I’ll be OK," she said.

"I’ve never made love to a married woman," panted Kris, lunging hard into Lulu. "I kind of like this."

"I’ve never made love with an old married geezer either," said Lulu, humping her loins up at him. "You’re not doing too bad. Do you need to take a break? I wouldn’t want you to have a heart attack or something."

He stopped suddenly and started rubbing.

"I’m not stopping until you’ve had ten orgasms," he growled.

"Make me pregnant," she whispered, grinning.

"That won’t work this time," he warned. He grinned as he felt her pussy muscles flutter around his cock. She didn’t say anything, but bit her lip and squeezed her eyes closed.

"That’s one," he said.

In the two-room suite next door, reserved for the best man and maid of honor, the babysitting was taken seriously. Games had been packed for this very purpose, but Ambrose fell asleep halfway through Chutes and Ladders. Mitch picked him up and put him to bed. When he came back, Jessica was standing hipshot, in her naughty nurse outfit.

"Did somebody call nine-one-one?" she asked.

Mitch clutched his chest.

"I’m having pains," he said. "I need an exam."

"Take off all your clothes and sit down there." She pointed at the bed.

As he disrobed, she turned to her suitcase and pulled out a stethoscope. She turned around to find him lying down on the bed, his erection straining up in the air.

"Oh my," she said. "You have some swelling issues, I see."

"Can you help me?" he moaned.

"We’ll see," she said.

She made him spread his legs and bend his knees. She hefted his testicles and applied the stethoscope to them.

"That’s cold!" he complained.

She opened her mouth and breathed out on his balls, instead of the stethoscope, and then put it back.

"Hmmmmm," she hummed.

"Will I live?" he asked, grinning.

"There are lots of little voices in there, all yelling, Let me out! Let me out!" she murmured. "I’m afraid you have a case of lackanookie."

"Oh no," he moaned. "Please help me."

"I have to take your temperature first," she said, tossing the stethoscope aside. She lowered her face toward his stiff shaft. "I can take it orally…" She opened her mouth and sucked in half of his prick. He moaned. She pulled off. "Or I can take it rectally."

Mitch watched in something like horror as she stuck her index finger in her mouth to get it wet.

"No!" he whined.

"Be brave," she said, grinning.

His unbelieving eyes watched as she moved her hand under his balls. He felt the tip of her fingernail tickle his tightly closed sphincter. He didn’t believe she’d do it.

She did.

His yelp as her finger invaded him turned to a groan as her mouth sucked him in again. The combination of sensations was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Part of him wanted to wiggle his way loose and berate her for her perversion. Another part of him decided to make him cum instead. He was suddenly spraying in her mouth, and it was like no orgasm he’d ever had in his life.

"That’s six," said Kris, rubbing in big circles. Lulu was gasping for breath under him, pushing weakly at his chest with her hands.

"Beast!" she panted.

"Careful," he cautioned. "I might have to add an orgasm."

"I love you!" she gasped. "Do with me what you will."

"Ahhhhh," he sighed. "I love it when they finally submit."

"You are so full of shit," she groaned. "Let me be on top."

"Do you promise to have four more?" he asked.

"I promise."

They changed positions and she sank down on him. She didn’t move. Not externally, anyway. Inside was completely different.

"Good luck," he said, smiling. "I’m onto you now."

She didn’t look at him. Instead she cupped her breasts and started squeezing her nipples, pulling at them.

"I love feeling you inside me," she moaned. "I’ve never felt so complete before. I’m so glad you talked me into marrying you. Maybe we WILL have a baby together."

"Really?" He wasn’t smiling any more. He was frowning.

"Maybe," she sighed and started using her internal muscles to milk him.

Less than two minutes later, she giggled as he spurted inside her.

"You owe me four orgasms, tough guy," she crowed.

"Oh man!" he groaned. "Not AGAIN!"

The next morning they went to the Guinness Book of World Records Museum, where Ambrose was in seventh Heaven. Then it was on to the Neon Museum, called "The Boneyard," where they had made an appointment to be taken on a tour of hundreds of old signs from Las Vegas' past. These sometimes huge signs had been saved from demolition by a group of volunteers who were obviously in love with them. Some of the signs had been refurbished and glowed brightly, while others looked forlorn and lost, sitting in pieces.

A trip after that to the Hollywood Movie Museum met with disappointment, when they found that it had been closed down, but they did get into the Magic Movie Hall of Fame, where they were treated to a show on the history of magic and saw a live comedy magic show in the Comedy Magic Theatre.

Mitch heard about an attraction that he just had to see, and they rented a car to drive the forty miles to the place, which had on display the actual car that Bonnie and Clyde had been ambushed and killed in. He stared at the car, which had over a hundred bullet holes in it, including armor piercing rounds from a Browning Automatic Rifle, shotguns, and several kinds of pistols.

Lulu stepped up on the running board, standing in the open driver’s side door. "Take my picture," she giggled. "From now on you can call me Lawless Lulu!"

That evening, Mitch and Jessica took Ambrose swimming at a water park, to give the honeymooners one more night alone, before they all had to return to Connecticut the next day.

Lulu and Kris decided to spend a few hours at the Erotic Heritage Museum, as a prelude to creating some erotic conditions themselves. Almost immediately upon entering the huge building, they realized it would take days to see all the exhibits, which included graphic arts, sculpture, and even an impressive collection of comic books.

The philosophy of the museum was that the legacy of the American Sexual Revolution had resulted in the belief that sexual pleasure and fun are natural aspects of the human experience, that such pleasure should be available to all, and that our individual sexuality belongs to each of us. One curator said, with a small smile on her face, "There is no such thing as kinky, between consulting adults. It really isn’t anybody else’s business … except for the museum, of course." She grinned and went on with the tour.

Back in their hotel room, Kris and Lulu spent the next two hours just exploring each other’s bodies. There was no hurry or frantic drive to seek an orgasm. Their exploration slowly turned into languid lovemaking that also didn’t seek an orgasm as its end result, though both had them eventually. They just spent time loving each other without words.

Next door, Ambrose was spending another sleepover night with his "Aunt Jess and Uncle Mitch." While the newlyweds were communicating physically and without words, their friends were communicating with words, but for once, less physically. Typically, when Jessica and Mitch got together, it was all sex and no talk.

Mitch carried the sleeping boy to his bed and came back to find Jessica lounging on the couch, with a glass of wine.

"Having a kid around isn’t quite what I thought it would be," he said, as she extended him his own glass. "It’s kinda nice."

"Yeah, well, you missed all the years when all it seemed like that goober did was pee and poop constantly," said Jessica.

"So you don’t want to have kids?"

"I didn’t say that at all," she said. "It’s just not as sunshiny as people without kids seem to think it is, that’s all."

"Hmmm," he said. "So you DO want to have kids?"

She lowered her lashes and licked her lips.

"With the right man … maybe."

"And who is the right man?"

She put her glass down and crawled to lie across him, with her arms around his neck. She kissed him on the lips and their tongues teased each other. She leaned back.

"Let’s just say that you’re not completely unacceptable as a potential father," she said.

"Wow," he said, his eyes wide. "You wouldn’t believe how hard that makes me."

"It’s supposed to make you hard." She smiled.

"But I’ve never even thought about being a father," he said. "I mean really. I just always assumed I’d never do that."

"I’m not asking you to impregnate me," she said, still smiling.

"But I WANT to!" he sighed. "That’s CRAZY!"

"It makes me feel good that you want to," said the woman in his arms.

"Is that why you didn’t go on the pill?"

"I have no idea."

"What do you mean?" he asked. "How can you have no idea why you didn’t go on the pill?"

"I thought about it," she said. "I’m still thinking about it. Lulu yells at me every day about it. Any one of the doctors at the hospital would write me the scrip if I asked him to. I just haven’t asked and I have no idea why."

"I don’t know what to do," he sighed.

"You need to decide whether or not you can handle being a daddy," she said.

"That’s not fair," he moaned. "I don’t even know how to be a good boyfriend."

"You’re doing fine so far," she quipped.

"Is that what we are?" he asked, his face serious. "Are we just boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"It’s more than that for me," she said. "I won’t lie about that. You make me think of things I never thought of with any other man."

"Like what?"

"Like not asking any of a dozen doctors to write me a prescription," she said.

"You gave me your virginity," he said softly.

"I practically raped you," she corrected.

"There were no men before me," he said.

"Yes there were," she said firmly. "I just never met one who made me want to do that with him." She sat back up. "If I had, I would have thought about getting that prescription then. But I didn’t."

"I wish I knew what that meant," he sighed.

"It means I love you."

"I know that," he said. "And I love you in a way that’s different than it ever has been before. But this is serious, Jess. I mean this is REALLY serious."

"I know that," she said. "I’m very glad to hear that you know it too."

"What now?" he asked.

"Ambrose is asleep. Kris and Lulu are probably going at it like minks. I’m very horny."

"THAT’s what’s so different," he said. "You’re so up front about everything. You don’t play games."

"I can think of a game or two I’d like to play right now," she said.

Ten minutes later Jessica thrust her pussy up onto Mitch’s hard prick and gasped her way through an orgasm.

"You can do that to me any time you want," she panted, going limp.

"Can I cum in you?" he moaned.

"It’s about time you finally asked," she breathed.

"Can I?" he groaned.

She wrapped her long dark legs around him. "Yes."

Life returned to a new kind of normal when they got back to what Mitch called the "real world."

It got very real for Mitch. He and Jessica got married and had five children, though not necessarily in that order. Three girls and two boys, over the years, graced progressively larger homes. That Mitch took the Chief of Police job, when Dabney retired, was more from financial necessity than because he wanted to be in charge.

Meanwhile, Ambrose started kindergarten. Lulu kept her job, though with Kris' income she really didn’t have to. She kept her web development business, too, but it became more of a hobby than a job.

Kris wrote books. He finished "The Case of the Broken Kangaroo Pounder," which hit the bestseller list within a week of its release. He worked on "Hit and Run," which was a highly stylized version of what had happened to him and Lulu, but was never happy with it and it was never published. Of course, it was discussed many times, with many people, including the governor of New York and his wife, during a dinner party at the governor’s mansion.

But it was a good story, and lots of people recognized that. And, since he had never established copyright to that story, there wasn’t much he could do when an unauthorized version was written AND published.

That book was titled "For Want of a Memory."

What’s that? You’re asking about whether they had children or not?

Come now. Didn’t I tell you earlier that Kristoff Farmingham … and now his wife … treasure their privacy?

Content

Lubrican Robert For Want of a Memory

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue