Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part X

The Carstairs Hotel had a doorman dressed up like a London beefeater: Red coat, tall fuzzy hat, gold button, bayonet -- the works. It was just that kind of hotel, the kind that catered to top executives, politicians and even media celebrities.

To say the lobby was ornate would be like saying that Limburger smells cheesy. The chandeliers, the plush, dark carpeting, the frescoes on the wall, the gold trim and statues of British generals. The Carstairs defined ...

"Class," thought Flak as he noted that the sand in the ashtray was imprinted with the Carstairs logo.

The real question was, what was Janey doing there? Alive?

Flak stood in the lobby, soaking in its ambiance of wealth, status, prestige.

"Excuse me, sir." The voice had a rough British accent. Flak turned around to find the Beefeater doorman just behind him.

"Yes? Can I help you?" Flak said.

"That's just what I was going to ask you, sir," the doorman said.

"Just soaking it all in, my good man," Flak said in his best British accent. "A fine hotel you have here...old chap."

"Yes, sir, old chap," the doorman cleared his throat. "But is there a place where you'd fancy going."

"Ah, yes. Certainly. Can you show me to the ... lift? I'm meeting a friend in room 215."

"215?"

"Indubitably," Flak said. English accents were fun!

"I have something for you," the doorman said to Flak's surprise and marched to the bell desk, took an envelope and marched crisply back. He handed the envelope to Flak.

"What's this then?" Flak asked, switching to a more Cockney style. Sort of.

"This is for you. I was told to look for you and hand you this. And here you are. And I have handed it to you."

"Inscrutably, I might add," Flak said, then did a double take, realizing that the doorman still stood before him, clearing his throat. Finally, Flak understood, pulling a crisp 20-dollar bill from his money clip and handing it to the doorman.

"My good man," he said, and resumed his post at the entrance.

Flak opened the envelope. Inside, he found a folded sheet of manila note paper bearing the logo of High Profile Communications. On the paper, in Janey's familiar, loopy script, was a note:

"Zip on up, Pete. Right to the top!

Luv,

Janey

Inside the note was a plastic hotel door key for the Carstairs.

Flak turned to the doorman.

"Is there a restroom here, my good man?"

"In the back, behind the fountain."

"Cheerio," Flak said, and walked as fast has he could before the bile in his throat could reach his shirt.

Been doing too much of that...there must be a drug for this, Flak thought, as he carefully washed his faced, scraped the dirt from his fingernails, ran a dab of gel through his hair and sucked vigorously on a fresh breath mint before heading to the elevator.

* * *

"Goddammit you beefeating son of a bitch! You will let me in!" Samara Steele was adorable when she was angry. And she knew it. Rosy cheeks and icy blue eyes and a rock hard 5-foot-three-inch frame that belied a low, booming broadcaster's voice. The doorman took a step back and gripped his bayonet.

"Yes, ma'am. But the camera has to stay outside. We do have strict rules. I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Not as sorry as your going to be. Get your manager."

"Very good, ma'am," the doorman said, and turned to the phone attached to the wall by the door.

Damn, Steele thought. On to Plan B, I guess.

She turned to her camera man. "Artie, run," she whispered. I'll meet you." Artie nodded and jogged off.

"Ma'am..."

"No matter," Steele said, smiling her widest TV smile. "He's gone. If you'll excuse me..."

"Very good, ma'am," the doorman said, holding the door open as Samara Steele strode briskly into the lobby. As the door closed, he picked up the phone and made one more call, smiling.

# # #

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Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part IX

You might want to start this saga at Part I...

_______________

The message light on Flak's phone was blinking like a debutante. He sat down at his desk, spun on the chair and punched the voicemail button. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the News 6 cameraman standing in the doorway, red light on. He suppressed a smile as he punched his password into the phone with efficient authority.

Two messages...first message:

"Flak! Johannson. The Commissioner wants a report tomorrow at 6:00 am. No more goddamn press conferences!"

Oh-kay, then, Flak thought and punched six to hear the next message.

Second message:

"Peter, it's Janey. I'm in trouble. It's Bannister. I can't believe this. You've got to come quickly. I'm in trouble and you're the only one who can help. Meet me at the Carstairs Hotel, room 215...I left the key at the desk. Hurry! Love ya."

Hmmph, Flak snorted. Janey was always a bit melodramatic. Great trait for a publicist, lousy for a friend. Fortunately, she's my publicist, not my friend, Flak thought. Or was...before she died.

Right! Dead! Forgot again!

She'd left a message on his home machine last night, but he assumed that was before she died. But this one ... it had to have been more recent... this morning.

Flak dropped the phone, and ran out the door, nearly upending the News 6 cameraman and tackling Reporter Samara Steele. He hastily untangled himself from the reporter and raced for the street.

"Let's follow him," Steele said.

"Like you had to tell me?" the cameraman said.

# # #

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Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part VIII

"Flak! Flak! Flak! Flak! Flak!"

The media mob sounded like a flock of mallards around a man in a trenchcoat with a bag of bread, but instead of bread the man handed out heaping hunks of news, and these media mallards were hungry ducks.

"Ha ha!" Detective Lieutenant Peter Flak said, raising his hands to quiet the crowd. "I have a brief statement, and then you may ask questions. One at a time, please. You'll all get your turn."

Flak paused looking out over the mob, satisfied at their expectant quiet.

He smiled.

The reporters stared.

Flak smiled wider.

"A statement, Detective?" one of the reporters, a young pixieish girl with short blonde hair and a "News 6" logo jacket, called out impatiently. "We've got deadlines, y'know."

Flak smiled even wider.

"A statement, yes," he said, standing up taller, and summoning up a firm, competent, determined expression. "I have a brief statement, and then I will answer your questions."

"You said that already," growled a grizzled print veteran in a coffee stained white Oxford.

"Yes. My statement is this: We have been working night and day on our investigation into the heinous murder of Laine Bannister. This investigation will clearly be a long, hard climb."

Up the stairs...holding the bannister, he thought to himself.

"Is something funny?" the News 6 reporter asked.

"Of course not," Flak said, recovering his steely expression. "Murder is never funny." He cleared his throat and continued.

"As I said, this investigation will be a long hard climb. But, we are making significant progress. We have uncovered critical clues that already point us toward a number of possible suspects. Our investigative team is interviewing some of these suspects at this very moment."

"Do you know who killed Laine?" News 6 called out.

"Not yet," Flak said. "Do you?"

"No! Why would I...You're the... ?" Ha!

"What can you tell us something about the critical clues you've discovered," the grizzled print vet said in a low voice.

"You know, of course, that I can't tell you that... we are always careful not to tip our hand to the perpetrators of crimes yet under investigation. But, I can tell you..." and at this Flak paused, dramatically, for effect, and among the effects were reddening faces and gnashed teeth inherent to people who spend all of their waking hours on deadline.

"...that we know one key fact about this crime. We believe that Mr. Bannister was on a date the night he was killed. With the killer."

Flak paused again, allowing the revelation to settle in, and, incidentally, tilting his good side to the photographers as flashbulbs burst. When they finished, Flak smiled at the mob... and walked away from the microphone.

"You said you'd take questions, you son of a bitch!" "Get back here, Flak!"

Flak ignored the screams. Janey always told him to keep the media on their toes -- it was better to keep them guessing than to answer questions straight out. She'd never taken it this far, of course, but that's why he was the boss. Or would be. Some day.

As he headed back onto the precinct house, the blonde News 6 reporter caught him by the sleeve and shoved him inside, cornering him against the wall just inside the door, and out of reach of the slowly dispersing media horde.

"Samara Steele," she introduced herself. "News 6. Listen, Detective. I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but Laine Bannister was a friend of mine. You better not be on a fishing expedition here."

"How good a friend, Miss Steele?" Flak said, cocking an eyebrow.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Steele said. Then she shoved another palm into Flak's chest, causing him to rapidly expel a lungful of carbon dioxide at Steele's hair. It had no effect. "Listen, yeah. I was dating Laine. I was his girlfriend for the past six months. Am I under investigation?"

"Hmm," Flak said. Considering that he had no other suspects, this conversation might turn out to be a godsend, he thought. "I didn't say you, specifically, were under investigation. But perhaps you should be?"

"I didn't kill, Laine," Steele scoffed. "And he didn't have any girls on the side."

"How can you be so sure," Flak asked.

"Let's just say I'm very sure. What I want to know is what the hell this critical clue is that you're hiding back there."

"You must understand that I just can't say. My hands are tied," Flak said, demonstrating how his wrists were locked together by invisible ropes and offering a helpless shrug.

"All I know is that your clue better not be one of his goddam breath mints. He eats those things like they're popcorn."

"We knew that," Flak said, quietly.

"I'm sure," Steele said. "Look, Flak. I'm watching you. And I'm watching this case. And I'm going to find out who did this to Lainey whether you like it or not. We're going to be on you. We're going to make sure the public interest is served, and that justice is done. Or else. Got it?" And with that she pointed her adorable pixie fist at Flak's chin and tapped, hard. Then she stalked out of the precinct house.

Flak rubbed his chin and smiled. He was going to have his own camera crew on this one!


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Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part VII

"Well, sir, one thing we do know is that there was someone else in the room with him when he died," Flak said, speaking slowly, trying to remember what it was he was supposed to know about this case.

"Well, lookee here. We got the ever-lovin' Sherlock Holmes here!" Captain Johannson said. "What? Did you think he did that to himself?"

"No, sir! Of course not, sir!" Flak said, snapping out of his stupor. "It's just that, he wasn't alone...if you know what I'm saying."

"No. I do not. Flak..."

"What I mean, sir, is that he had a breath mint."

"A breath mint. Flak! See that window behind you?"

"Yes, sir."

"How high up would you say we are?"

"I'd say we're on the seventh floor, sir, but..."

"I swear to god I'm going to push you out that window, watch you fall seven stories, take the elevator down to the street and start pounding the rest of you with a battering ram if you don't start MAKING SOME GODDAMN SENSE!"

Flak was beginning to realize that his boss was a bit steamed. He figured there was only one way to go from here.

"I certainly wouldn't like that, sir! What I'm saying is that we are working under the theory that Laine Bannister was on a date when he was killed, and that the killer may well have been his date!" Flak smiled proudly.

"And?" Johannson said, leaning forward.

"And what, sir?" At this point, Flak deduced that the expected compliments were not forthcoming.

"What else? Recent dates? Spurned lovers? Desperate housewives? Where's your goddamn list?"

"Sir, we're still developing that sir," Flak said, thinking quickly. "I have a plan to gain that very information very quickly, sir."

"And how, pray tell, will you do that?" Johannson said in mocking tone, completely lost on Flak.

"Tomorrow," Flak declared, "I will hold a press conference!"

"Oh, God," Johannson put his face in his hands. "Get the hell out of here. Flak!"

"What?"

"Just go!"

# # #

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"Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part VI"

Flak looked at his reflection. Not bad, he thought, and mussed his hair a bit, then flipped up the collar on his trench coat, which he had left on despite having spent the last two hours indoors, pacing the cramped confines of the precinct interrogation room.

The door slammed open, and Captain Johannson entered like a bursting balloon.

"FLAK! Why the goddam hell do you have a goddam publicist?"

Under intense questioning from colleagues clearly relishing the chance to put the screws to the "Super Cop," Flak had been forced to admit that Janey was not a date or a suspect or anything other than his publicist, who he was meeting for drinks at Marty's last night, just before her car exploded. Flak, not surprising in retrospect, had become the prime suspect.

"Well, I don't anymore, now do I?" Flak said petulantly.

Johannson grunted. "I see you cared deeply for her."

"Janey was a great girl. I guess I'll miss her," Flak said.

There was a long silence as Johannson scanned the file, then stared at Flak, and then scanned the file again.

"May I go now?" Flak asked, meekly.

"Sit down. Flak."

Flak sat.

"Flak. Besides evidence that you were sharing appletinis with this...publicist... and the fact that you fled the scene of a crime, which I'm going to chalk up to cowardice..."

"Thank you, sir."

"Ahem. I have nothing I can pin on you."

"Just as I would have expected, since I've done nothing."

"Hurrg," the Captain grunted. "That's what you're best at. I'm going to keep trying, though." The Captain stared at Flak, thinking that if Flak would just flinch or sweat or make any kind of move, he might just sock him one. But Super Cop was cool now, that sonofabitch.

"So," Johannson growled. "What have you got on Bannister?"

* * *

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"Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part V"

Don't forget to scroll down to read parts I, II, III and IV

-------------------

Flak wearily unlocked the door to his Lakestone Drive condo and undressed, meticulously placing his shirt, suit, tie and trench coat into separate dry cleaning bags and hanging them up by the door for morning.

"What a day," he said out loud. "What...a...day."

He checked his messages. One from his brother:

"Pete. It's your brother. Listen, when you get this, check out Ravistech. Everyone says they're about to do a deal with ... Aw, man, I can't leave this on your machine. Call me."

The get-rich-quick deal of the week, he thought. Maybe when he solved the Bannister murder, Janey could line up some endorsement deals.

Another message, this one from Janey. "Peter, we need to talk about this Bannister thing. There are some things you need to know. Rush right to my apartment, right away, when you hear this. Do not delay. Bye now."

Oh, Janey. Janey was always trying to get him to her apartment. Clearly, he mused, he shouldn't have let what happened happen that time ... that it happened. He chuckled to himself. "You never know what's going to happen when that happens to happen," he said, still chuckling.

Flak was in the shower for ten minutes when he remembered: Janey's dead.

"Janey's dead!"

In shock, he fell backward against the shower wall, slipped and landed on his ass. He stood up, slipped again and fell foward against the shower door, landing sprawled on all fours on the bathmat.

"Deep breaths now, Flak," he said to himself. "There must be an explanation.

Flak considered the situation carefully, and came to a single, frightful conclusion:

"Janey's ghost left me a message!"

Finally, he stood, and dressed himself in neatly pressed button-down pajamas. He slipped into bed and, as he did every night, picked up his microrecorder to set down his thoughts for the day and goals for tomorrow, in the manner he learned at the seminar.

"I have the chance of a lifetime. To really be the Super Cop they say I am. Lane Bannister's murder will be my launching pad!" He paused for a moment, then spoke in a lower voice. "Of course, it is a horrible tragedy, and I am confident that we will bring the perpetrator to justice." Good, Flak, Good. "But this will be a tough nut to crack. It's going to take all of my training, investigative and managerial skills to pull this of, but I'm sure... I am confident...that we will bring the perpetrator to justice!" Even better. Good to get that down right.

"But what of Janey's ghost? How does she figure into this? It sounds like she's trying to help, but is she?" Is she? "What could she know? Or..." Flak rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. "Or...is she trying to sleep with me again? Can you sleep with a ghost?" Good question, Flak! "Maybe I should call Ghostbusters..."

"Or, maybe she's not a ghost, and she somehow made that call before she was killed," Flak said, then scratched his head. "That seems unlikely. She was with me and never mentioned her apartment. The ghost theory makes a little more sense, I think."

Flak turned the recorder off and nodded, still thoughtful. "OK, goals for tomorrow. Check out Janey's apartment and confirm ghost theory. Review conclusions of investigative team. Hold press conference to update TV on the latest. Be smart, be intense, be proactive."

Nice one! Flak thought and closed his eyes. It seemed like he'd hardly slept when he heard the banging on the door. And the shouting.

"FLAK!"

Johannson.

"OPEN THE DAMN DOOR! YOU'RE UNDER ARREST!"

"Coming!" Flak said.

# # #

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"Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part IV"

"What the hell happened to you, chief?" AK, police department photographer and forensic analyst, looked Flak up and down. Flak's usually impeccable trench coat and suit were smeared with oil, his pale face darkened by black soot.

"Car exploded on 7th Street. My...um..." he generally tried to keep the fact that he'd hired a publicist and agent quiet among colleagues. If they knew, he thought, they'd all want one. "...my friend...was inside."

"Dead?" AK's eyes widened, slightly in awe, mostly in disbelief.

"Yeah, Janey's dead."

"Car just blew up."

"Yeah. We had a drink at Marty's, she gets the car from the valet, turns the corner and just blows up. Ka-boom."

"Come on, Flak. You don't know people who blow up."

Flak frowned. He was being mocked, he was sure of it. He wasn't going to stand for it.

"Well I do now, don't I?" Snap! Flak thought.

"Sorry, man," AK said and shook his head. Then he went back to staring at his flat screen monitor.

Flak stomped his foot on the floor and sniffed. Pull yourself together, Flak. He works for you...

"So, what do you have for me?" Flak said. AK looked up at him blankly. "C'mon. On Bannister."

"Yeah, I know...I'm just messin' with ya. Here, come take a look at this."

On the wide screen, high resolution monitor was a photo of the body that once was Lane Bannister, TV anchor, now mutilated and hollowed out corpse. Flak felt the remains of the egg salad sandwich he'd had for lunch nearly 12 hours ago rising toward his esophagus. He covered his mouth.

"Why don't you just tell me what you see?"

"Breath mint."

"Geez, do I need one?"

"No, look." AK clicked a mouse and zoomed in on a spot to the right of Bannister's head. "Breath mint."

"You want one?" Flak said.

"No, man, look!"

"I don't get it." Flak didn't get it. AK wheeled around on his chair and faced Flak. "Son of a bitch, Flak! Open your eyes!" Flak's eyes were squeezed shut and his hand was over his mouth.

"Just tell me, AK. Please," he said through his hand.

"Just tell me, AK. Pleeeeaaasaasssseee," AK said. "Look, I've zoomed in. You can't see the body anymore."

"You can't?" Flak opened his eyes a crack, then all the way and uncovered his mouth. "Good. I don't have much expertise at forensics."

"Sure. Now do you see that right there?" There, on the plush red carpet, was a round, white pill speckled with blue flecks.

"Breath mint!" Flak said.

"Don't mind if I do!" AK said and filched the box of Altoids from Flak's trench coat pocket.

"No, right there -- that's a breath mint." Flak paused, and began to pace. "So. Our victim was killed in this most horrific fashion. He's stabbed, then shot."

"Shot...then stabbed."

"Right. Shot, then stabbed," Flak said, miming the actions as he spoke each word. "Then, he chokes, and out pops...this breath mint. Sucked upon for, I'd say, approximately 30 seconds."

"Amazing..."

"Yes. I know this because you can still see the blue specks."

"Uh huh."

"Longer, and it would turn white."

"Wow."

He's mocking me again, isn't he? Flak thought. Ignore it. Move on. He'll respect me when I'm chief.

"So," Flak said. "The question is: What makes a man take a breath mint?"

"On a whim, I'd say he had bad breath," AK said, a small, mocking smile playing across his face. Inscrutable, Flak thought.

"Exactly!" Flak announced, dramatically taking the conversational initiative.

"Well. I'm glad we settled that," AK said. "You want to know what I think, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, I want to know what you think," Flak said loudly, his impatience rising.

"I think that most people don't pop breath mints when they're alone," AK said. Flak furrowed his brow seriously. He decided it would appear more commanding for him to appear to listen carefully.

"Mmm hm," Flak said.

"Mmm hm," AK said, "and he'd just popped that breath mint before he was shot, stabbed and gouged and cut and whatnot."

"Hm. Yes, go on," Flak nodded.

"And, we know that there were two sets of fingerprints in Bannister's condo -- one set his, and the other unknown. So, I'm surmising here that he wasn't alone when he was shot, stabbed and gouged and cut and whatnot."

"Well of course he wasn't!" Flak could keep silent no longer. "The murderer was with him!"

"Well. Yes," AK said slowly. "But what if the murderer was not dressed in a black mask and striped shirt, like most murderers, but was dressed in, say, a little black dress, when she entered his condo?"

"Why, then..." sputtered Flak, "she'd be a woman!"

"True," AK said even more slowly. "But, more importantly, she would be a woman that knew Lane Bannister. Perhaps she was someone who Bannister thought he might kiss."

"If he was planning a date, as you seem to be implying," Flak said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "he would have arranged his room just right, combed his hair, brushed and flossed, maybe lighted some candles..."

"Yeah? And?" AK said hopefully.

"And," said Flak, "just before she arrived..."

"Yeah...?"

"He'd pop a breath mint!"

"Yes!" AK shouted. "That's it! And so what happened?"

"Bannister's date had just arrived when the murderer burst in and killed him!" Flak shouted triumphantly, then ducked as a heavy, black metal object that happened to be a Swingline stapler flew by his head, grazing his ear. "Hey! Cut that out!"

"Or," shouted AK, "since there was only one other set of fingerprints in the room, it was his date that killed him!"

Flak froze.

"So we find the date..." Flak said quietly.

"And we find the killer," AK finished.

"I was going to say that," Flak said.

# # #

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"Peter Flak: Big Time Detective -- Part III"

"You'll make Chief someday. I promise," Janey said over the rim of Marty's special apple-flavored martini. They clinked glasses. Flak laughed.

"I hope so. Dead bodies are disgusting. And Bannister is very disgusting."

"Once you make Chief..."

"If I make Chief..."

"Once you make Chief," Janey said emphatically, non-verbally reminding Flak of the self-actualization seminar she'd sent him to last year, the one on how visualizing the impossible is the key to achieving the impossible. "Once you make Chief, you'll have detectives to see them for you."

"Damn right!" Flak said, and raised his glass, a Manhattan, to his publicist. He winced and tottered slightly on the bar stool.

"So," Janey said, waving to the waitress and holding up two fingers. "Any leads yet on poor Lane?"

"Hmp. Are you kidding? I delegated. The officers are doing the interviews. The labs are analyzing fingerprints and stuff. The ghouls are cutting into what's left of him to determine cause of death. I'll get a report in the morning. I'm sure they'll come up with something."

"I'm sure you will, Super Cop!" Janey flashed a wide smile.

"Janey, you've got a little smear of lipstick on your teeth."

"Where?"

"Right there," Flak pointed to the top of her left front incisor, and helpfully offered the corner of his napkin. She leaned forward and he gently cleaned the stain. She leaned forward a little more.

"Peter, I..."

Flak's phone rang. "Excuse me, Janey. Duty calls." He flashed his own smile, confident in his teeth's perfection. He flipped open the phone, and lowered his voice an octave.

"Detective Peter Flak speaking!"

"Flak! It's AK. There's something funny in the photos."

"The photos?"

"Of Bannister. You need to come down to the lab."

"It's kind of late, isn't it?""

"Just get down here. It'll be worth your while. I think I know who killed Bannister," AK said impatiently.

"AK, just tell me now...I trust you," Flak said, winking at Janey. He and Janey had worked on that line. It was useful for building confidence in subordinates and building their respect for him...and for avoiding the more unpleasant aspects of his job.

"I can't. You have to see this. Just get the hell down here, OK?"

"All right. I'll be there in 30 minutes." Flak flipped his phone closed and sighed. "I interrupted you, didn't I Janey?"

"The media plans. You want me to call the night desk now?" Janey said from behind a compact mirror. "Otherwise," she sniffed, "We can go over it tomorrow."

"I guess we better do that, Janey," Flak said. "Probably a little early to call the press tonight. I'll let you know what we have first thing."

"You got it, Petey!" Janey said, her smile now perfect. She was cute, Flak thought, in her own officious way. A little too short, a little too pushy and a little older than he usually liked, but she did the best with what she had. They hugged and pecked each others' cheeks. The valet drove up with her BMW 9000i and she smiled and waved. Waiting for his own used Audi to arrive, he admired Janey's car as it drove down the block and rounded the corner onto 7th Street.

Love that car. I should get into PR, he thought.

That's when he saw the explosion.

Flak backed up into the glass door of Marty's, and then experienced one of those rare moments in his life when fight overcame flight, and he ran toward 7th Street. The smoke was thick and the fire hot. He heard a crack under his feet -- a familiar pink compact, covered in black soot -- Janey's.

The BMW was a smoking ruin, and Flak shook his head at the waste. He tried to see whether anyone was inside the car, but the smoke made his eyes water. Then through the smoke he saw a gnarled, charred arm rise out of the window, as if waving, and then fall limp. Flak covered his eyes.

What a way to go. Maybe I'll stick to police work," Flak thought, looked around, and, with sirens approaching quickly, more familiar instincts took over and he backed up to the entrance of Marty's, took the keys, tipped the valet five bucks, made a hasty U-turn and headed for the crime lab.

# # #

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"Peter Flak: Big Time Detective -- Part II"

"This cop will not rest until we bring the perpetrator to justice!"

Flak paused, and flashed his $10,000 grin to the motley armament of microphones and video cameras that recorded his every utterance from the steps of the precinct house. Due to the tireless efforts of High Profile and Janey, his agent, the word was out that Peter Flak, Super Cop, was on the Lane Bannister case, and the city press ate it up. Finally, Flak sensed it was time to stop the questioning.

"I will be here tomorrow with an update. Until then, please, let me get to work. You'd think you've forgotten that the victim is one of your own!"

The reporters nodded and grimaced artfully, and Flak held, for just long enough, highly concerned grimace of his own, turned away from the microphones and smiled at his reflection in the dark glass precinct house door. He brushed a stray strand of hair back into place.

"FLAK!" Captain Johannson appeared, blotting out Flak's reflection. Disappointed, Flak turned to face his boss as he charged out the revolving door.

"Flak. What the hell are you doing here? They're waiting for you at the crime scene. Goddamn. Flak. If you screw this up I'll..."

"Really, sir. Forensics will prepare a very complete report. There's no need for me to actually be on the scene, is there?"

"How the hell did you make Detective? Don't answer that. Just get the hell over there before I punch you in the mouth."

Flak held his hand over his mouth, saluted and jogged for the garage.

* * *

"Ewww!"

Flak covered his mouth with both hands.

"You OK, Detective?" The photographer didn't look up to see Flak's response, a dry heave aimed at the windows that spanned Bannister's high-rise condo like a wide-screen TV. His camera clicked in sync with the snap of the wad of gum he kept at all times in his left cheek.

"Yeah. Pretty gruesome, eh?"

"Well, I've seen worse," said the photographer, a Californian-American of Korean ancestry who everyone called AK.

"You have?"

"Oh, yeah," AK said, snapping a close-up of Bannister's mutilated face. "This one vick down in Lowertown, she had her whole face bit off. Just a skull with hair. You remember that one?"

"Oh, yeah," Flak nodded knowingly, though he hadn't.

"Anything else you need?" AK said, packing up his equipment.

"No, you've done great, thanks."

"Catch ya later."

Something tapped Flak on the shoulder.

"Get away from me!" he shouted at the uniformed officer. He was a young cop, three years on the force, who was known for wearing a perpetual smirk.

"Sorry, sir," said the officer, who's name was Petitte.

"Well. You should be," Flak said, regaining his composure. "What do you want?"

Petitte continued to smirk. "Thought you'd want to hear a report from the officer first on the scene," he said.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do," Flak said. "Get him over here, Petitte."

"Um, yeah. Well, he's here," Petitte said. "He's me. Sir."

Flak didn't like that short pause before Petitte said "Sir." The uniformed cops never seemed to like him much, as hard as he tried to gain their favor. Perhaps he should try harder, he thought.
"Good man," Flak said and clapped Petitte on the shoulder. Petitte looked at Flak's hand and smirked. "Let's hear it," Flak said, resigned to the fact that he was going to have to hear the gory details.

"Alright," Petitte said and flipped open his notebook. "At 9:53 pm we responded to a 911 call from a Jennifer Simpson, intern producer at TV station NBC-7. Simpson said she was to get Bannister and bring him to the station for the 11:00 pm news."

"Hm. He doesn't need much prep time, does he?"

"Just a talking head, sir. But Simpson reports that he should have been at the station by then. She was to, quote, "snap him out of it," unquote, and get him to the station."

"Snap him out of what, Petitte?"

"She wouldn't say," Petitte said, his smirk nearly turning into a grin before getting control of itself. "She buzzed the buzzer and banged on the door, to no avail. Then she called security. Said Mr. Bannister might be asleep."

"Hm."

"Yeah. Anyway, the manager's a big fan of Mr. Bannister, so he let's Ms. Simpson in. At which time, they find Mr. Bannister in the position in which you see him now, sir."

"What's the, uh, cause of death?" Flak said, feeling the bile rising again into his throat.

"Let's see. A lot of stabbing. Couple gunshots. Slashes. You noted the eye gouge, I'm sure..."

"Yes," Flak said weakly.

"Yeah, well, that's not the most unusual thing." Petitte paused, waiting to see Flak's reaction. Flak stared back, silently gritting his teeth behind his thin, tightly pursed lips.

"No, for that you'd have to look at his midsection. He's almost completely emptied out. His guts were sealed neatly into plastic bags." Petitte held up a gallon-sized bag for Flak to see. Flak's eyes widened.

Flak said something incoherent.

"Yeah, pretty sick, huh? But you know, Wilson, the forensics guy? He was almost appreciative. It takes all kinds, doesn't it, sir? Sir?"

Flak had already passed the officer and was racing down the stairs, frantically trying to brush off the mess he'd made on his trench coat before he reached the bottom.

NEXT TIME:

Eww! Gross!

Will Flak be able to stand the sight of dead bodies long enough to solve this mystery? Find out, as the mystery deepens, and the glare of publicity closes in...

# # #

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"Peter Flak: Big Time Detective -- Part I"

"FLAK! GET THE HELL IN HERE!"

Detective Peter Flak didn't flinch. He smiled, because he'd been practicing not flinching at Captain Johannson's roars, and it filled him with pride to know that he'd succeeded.

He stood slowly, careful not to hurry. Flak smiled and nodded at the Captain, who stared smoking holes in his skull as he strode, slowly, to the coffee pot. His ceramic mug was a favorite. On it was printed an old-fashioned camera with a bursting flash. The tagline was "Smile! You're on Candid Camera!" He calmly, slowly, filled it with steaming coffee, then carefully tore open a packet of sugar and poured the sugar into the coffee in a circular pattern around the edge of the mug. Then he reached for the tiny cups of creamer and, turning the opening flap away from him to avoid splashing half-n'-half on his suit, he very deliberately peeled back the cover and poured it into the coffee, again in a circular pattern. Then, Flak reached for a stir-stick, dipped it into the coffee, stirring around and around, and then in a figure-eight pattern to ensure that the coffee was properly...

"FLAK!"

Flak flinched this time, but didn't look up. He could feel Johannson's hot breath on his cheek, and the pungent odor of salami, brown mustard and provolone that his obviously long-suffering wife must have packed him for lunch that morning.

"Coming right over, sir!" Flak said brightly.

Captain Carl Johannson and Peter Flak were a study in contrasts. Where Flak was tall, thin and wiry, Johannson was built like a block of concrete. Where Flak took great care of his full head of thick dark hair, Johannson's morning routine included just enough time to comb the remaining wisps of long steely gray hair over his bald, oily scalp. Where Flak's face seemed sparkling and smooth even at midnight (due to his frequent trips to restroom with the electric razor he kept in his coat pocket), Johannson's five-o'clock shadow sprouted by noon and by 8:00 pm when he threw on his tan trench coat and time-worn fedora, you could have forgiven the cops at the front desk for sometimes assuming they were letting a homeless man out on his own recognizance.

It was five-o'clock, Flak noted. Johannson looked like he had gray nails sprouting from his jowls.
"How's your day going, Captain?" Flak said, trying to lighten the mood.

"Flak." Whenever the Captain said his name it was always began and ended the sentence. "Shut up. You've already taken up more time than I have for you."

"Sorry, Capt..."

"I said shut up. Flack. You have an assignment."

"That's great! I..."

The Captain cut off Flak with a a low growl. "Take a look," he said, and slapped a folder down on his cluttered desk. Flak grabbed the folder, sat up a little straighter. Paper clipped to the inside cover was color glossy of a well-coiffed man -- blond hair, blue eyes, strong trustworthy chin, thick healthy hair -- and Flak recognized him immediately -- it was Lane Bannister, the new anchor for the NBC-7 11:00 pm news.

"That Bannister...he's a good looking guy, sir," Flak said. "For a guy, sir."

"Not any more he's not. Look at the next photo."

Flak lifted the photo to find another color photo. Past the deep bloody gashes and cris-crossed knife cuts, the chunks of bare scalp and the garish hole where the left eye used to be, Flak recognized the same strong, trustworthy chin that made Bannister the hottest newscaster in the state.

"What a shame, sir," Flak said, choking back the bile that suddenly lodged in his throat.

"Yeah? How so?"

"He won't be much good on TV now, sir," Flak said, swallowing. He flipped the pages of what was obviously a rather extensively detailed forensic report.

"Damn right, you jackass. He's dead!" Johannson exploded. "And those sons-of-bitches down at the station have specifically requested the 'Super Cop' they profiled last month to lead the investigation."

"Well! I'm quite flattered, sir!"

"Listen. Flak. You know and I know that the Super Cop profile was a snow job put together by the Mayor's PR department. You know and I know that there is no way I'd let you anywhere near this case," Johannson snorted, and cleared his throat, which sounded something like a vacuum cleaner trying to suck up a sock. "But, the conglomerate that owns the TV station informed the mayor's office, who informed the police chief , who informed me that they expect nothing less than our own Super Cop on this case, on penalty of budget cuts." Johannson spat into his ash tray. "So the Super Cop they will get."

Flak smiled, his full set of teeth gleaming.

"Don't worry, sir," Flak said, still smiling. "The station, the mayor and the public can rest assured that I will not rest until we find the vicious animal who did this to one of our most beloved citizens."

"Flak."

"Yes, sir?"

"Just don't screw this up. And stay away from the cameras."

Flak smiled more broadly.

"I'll do my best sir. But it always seems to be the cameras that find me!" he said.

Flak left Johannson's office practically bouncing. He walked quickly past his desk, dashed down the stairs and out the front door. From the sidewalk, he pressed a speed-dial code on his cell phone.

"High Profile! Janey speaking!"

"Janey. Pete."

"Pete! Super Cop! How's the screenplay coming?"

"Janey, listen. This is it! A heinous crime against a high-profile media celebrity...and it's mine!"

"No, kidding? Bannister, right?"

"How did you know?"

"Are you kidding? Everybody knows! Poor Lane..."

"Yeah. Listen, your my agent. Make the most of this, right?"

"You know we will! Keep your hair in place, Petey. You got your soundbites?"

"Of course."

"Let's hear it, Peter..."

"'This cop will not rest until we bring the perpetrator to justice!'"

"Gold! I'll meet you tonight at Marty's. 10:30?"

"See you there!"

Peter put away his cell, looked up at the sky and took a deep breath of city air -- the mixture of exhaust fumes and tobacco smoke delivering a unique sort of buzz. This was it. Even more than with the Super Cop story, this was going to make him a star. And from there? Technical advisor in the movies? Maybe even some on screen roles.

Damn! he thought. I've gotta go home and shower!

# # #

NEXT TIME:

Will Flak resist the siren call publicity in the case of a celebrity murder?
Can he keep his teeth clean and hair in place?

and...

Who killed Lane Bannister?

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"Dreams Have Eyes"

Leaves falling. Colored leaves -- red and yellow. Deep and beautiful. These aren't just fall leaves. They're the Autumn leaves from which all others were shaped and colored. I'm on the Massachusetts Turnpike amid the foothills of the Berkshires. I drop down the off-ramp like an eight ball in the corner pocket, like I'm rolling off a table, like I'm falling off a log....

I wake up on the floor. Twisted my arm. Get up. She'll see. To the bathroom. Take a leak. Wash hands. Take a drink. Water's soapy.

Go back to bed...Nah, not yet.

Step downstairs, quietly. Can't wake the kids.

Slide the door to the deck back...slowly. Shoot. Gotta fix that.

Bare feet in the snow. I don't care. Flurries falling on my hand. So sharp...so...ephemeral. No rhyme or rhythm...it just falls.

I'm on my knees now. So cold. What was I thinking? I want to go back. To the Autumn. To the fall. Where everything is ... perfect. Where there's not so much pain. Where what you see when you close your eyes is what you see when you open your eyes.

She's here. I can't see her but I know she's there. Her arms are crossed and she's shaking her head. She's saying something. Something about frostbite, about losing my toes. She's right, of course. She's always right. Usually. She was right on the day we met, when I told her she was lucky she found me that day, besieged as she was by that sad collection of geeks and losers when I slipped in and held her eyes long enough that the rest slunk off and disappeared into the bar, and I told he she was lucky she found me. And she said, with this twinkle in her eye, she said, no, there was no luck at all. It all happened the way it was supposed to happen. Meant to be, she said. I laughed. But she was right.

I want to scream. But I don't. I won't.

I'm flying a kite on the beach. Chatham. Cape Cod. White houses, The ocean is choppy. The kite fights me. I fight back, pulling back, letting out a little line then yanking the line like I'm setting a hook. The wind comes steady, then in gusts, a slap in the face. The kite dips and I run until it catches an updraft and I sit, digging my heels into the sand. Got it. I could do this forever. A dog runs by. Golden retriever. Bumps my knee. I trip, and fall. I let go. The kite shivers, shimmies and shakes. It's gone.

She's grabbing my shoulders. Pleading. I can't move. She pulls harder, cursing. Very rude. Can't talk that way in front of the kids.

I fall. I'm on my back.

Look at that sky!

The snow, falling harder now, lonely white crystals in a black night sky. The frozen breath of an unseen god. Oh, please.

Hard to believe these tiny, lonely specks join together into something so thick, so strong.

So cold.

I'm moving. Sliding. My head hits the floor. She's begging now. Is she crying? Really crying? I didn't think she...

I rise. Stumble, grab her shoulder for support. She lifts me up. I go to hug her. She stiffens.

Dreams have eyes, you know. They're watching. Like a suspicious lover, they know when you're true, and they know when you've strayed.

Forgive me.

* * *

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"The Shortest Story"

I went down to the coffee shop just down the block from my office to buy myself a coffee when all of a sudden this car drives by through the puddle left by the rain last night, the first we've had in a long time what with the drought and all and I remember the thrill we had last night when I sat with my kids by the window, counting the seconds between the lightning and the thunder, wondering how close the electric flash was to the old maple tree in the front yard and secretly imagining it split in twain with a tremendous, dramatic crack, but nothing like that ever happens here, which either makes us really lucky or really unlucky, depending on how many dramatic surprises you want in your life, like your mom suddenly dropping dead from anyeurism or an airplane heading toward your 53rd floor window and not stopping like it's supposed to, or a Jetta weaving to the right just so, so its tires could splash through a deep puddle like a toddler in a yellow slicker and rainboots and soak a passerby who just wanted to get himself a latte and forget, for a few minutes, that the really cool stories always happen to other people while stuff like this just happens to me, although I guess that's OK because when the really cool stuff happens to those other people, they don't often live to tell the story.

# # #

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"A Distant Shore"

"So. Here we are," Anna said.

Martin and Anna sat at the edge of the little pier, dangling their sandaled feet just over the water so that every third wave or so would lap at their toes.

"Here we are." Martin didn't look at Anna. But he didn't have to. He knew that he'd see her blue eyes staring out over bay, the corners of her mouth crinkled just so, they way she did when she tried to suppress a smile. He knew she was wearing that paisley sundress, the one with the spaghetti straps, and that the morning sun was glistening off her tanned shoulder and that if he looked he'd want to run his fingers over her skin and lay his palm across her collar bone and wait in silent hope for her to tense in refusal or slide closer in casual assent...

"You didn't call last night. I thought you were going to slip out of here without..." Anna said.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that would have been better."

"Better for who?"

"Whom."

"Whom? No one says 'whom'. Not out loud."

They sat silently. Tied to wooden post next to Martin, the sailboat bobbed. Windy day. Good sailing weather.

"I suppose," Anna said, "you won't be able to correct anyone's grammar out there." She fingered a pendant between her fingers. It was an opal held by a greying silver chain. Martin had found it among his mother's effects, and gave it to Anna on the occasion of their first year together. She rubbed the stone with her thumb, and looked to the sky.

"I guess not," Martin said. "Anna, I... this isn't personal. You know that, right?"

"Everything is personal, honey."

"What I'm saying is that, you know, I have to do this."

"No you don't. But you're going to." Anna smiled, and brushed away a single tear. She sniffed, and looked Martin in the eyes. "It's OK."

"Really? Is it really OK?"

"No, not really," she said, and stood up. Martin closed his eyes and imagined grabbing her legs, clinging to her like a three-year-old. Anna took off the necklace and held her hand out to Martin.

"I've made my choice," she said. "What's yours?"

Martin stared into her blue eyes for a long moment. Their first kiss had been on a morning just like this one. They hadn't slept all night, just sat on the beach, staring at the ocean and each other, reveling in the perfect conversation, each afraid to break the spell. Finally, the sun rose in an orange wave and he reached out and brushed her cheek with his hand and her lips with his and, later, as their shadows began to lengthen and then disappear they left, hand in hand.

Martin closed his eyes. He knelt down and unwrapped the rope that tied the boat to the pier. Anna gripped closed her hand around the pendant and threw it as far as she could into the ocean.

# # #

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"A Clean, Well Lighted Place" - A Comic

NOTE FROM CHRONIC, The Author:

I've been trying my hand at writing comic book scripts over at PencilJack, and having a lot of fun with it. I connected with a terrific illustrator, who drew up a script 'o' mine, which was an odd, possibly funny (though Mrs. Chronic didn't think so) little slice of life/horror story. 'Twas the first time I've ever had a script illustrated, and I'm quite pleased with the results... enjoy!

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"Burrito Dreams"

I had a burrito for lunch today and I think I'm going to pay. It was what "Burrito del Soul" calls an "Especial", stuffed with guacamole, cheese, pico de gallo and chopped steak, wrapped in tortilla about as big as my thigh.

I actually brought my lunch today -- leftovers from last nights stir fry in a Tupperware bowl -- but I couldn't face it. Just had to get out of the office. So I emptied the bowl in the trash and rinsed it out so the wife would think I was saving eight bucks today. It's the little lies that get you through the day sometimes.

Like last week, when I was sitting at Burrito del Soul, eating this very same Especial, munching on nachos, sipping a soda and mulling the Sudoku puzzle when this woman walks by. I call her Jane. I call her Jane because she looks like this character named Jane in an American version of a British TV show that was on air a few years ago for about the blink of an eye. Jane is dark haired and curvy, with big blue eyes and a penchant for wearing bright red lipstick and tight white sweaters or loose button-down tops and pants that hug those curvy hips.

I don't know Jane, but I've ridden the elevator with her a few times -- up to the 47th floor, down to the parking garage. One of those characters you see all the time who you never talk to but you make up stuff about just for fun. I'm a married guy, you know? I don't just go chatting up women. There's only one reason to chat them up, you know?

So Jane ends up sitting one table over facing me. She's got her own soda and one of those taco salad tostada bowls, and she's by herself reading this chick lit book about a young mom whose husband cheats on her and she ends up reviving her life and getting to choose between four different suitors, including that skunk of an ex husband. Hey, my wife read it...I was just looking over her shoulder, okay?

Anyway, I'm looking at Jane and she looks up, I catch her eye and I smile and nod, because that's what you do when you see someone you recognize but don't know and you know that she knows she's seen you before but doesn't know you either. And she knows that too so she smiles and nods and goes back to her book and I go back to my Sudoku. And then I look up again and for some reason say:

"That Chad sure is a bastard, isn't he?"

Now, you see, that's not a pickup line. Because no one man in his right mind would broadcast the fact that he'd read this trashy chick novel, and no woman would be impressed by this. At best, she'd assume you didn't go for the opposite sex. At worst...let's not go there.

"What?" she says back with a 'you talkin' to me?' sort of look.

"Chad ... in that book ... can you believe she'd even think of taking him back?" Then she laughs, which was what I was going for. Anything for a laugh some days, you know?

"Well, they were married for seven years. There's a bond there."

"Yeah, but if I'd slept with one of my employees in my wife's bed ... I'm pretty sure my wife would call that 'unforgivable'." See, I even mention my wife here.

"Well, may she just 'didn't understand him'," Jane says, still smiling. I laugh back.

"You'd make a great girlfriend," I say and suddenly get this shiver through my whole body...and I mean my whole body.

"Too bad," she says, smiling and holding up her left hand to show off the silver band there, the silver band I had, of course, noted the very first time I'd seen her in the elevator on the way to the 47th floor.

I can't speak, so I just smile and laugh a short, breathy laugh. She shakes her head and goes back to her book. I look back at my newspaper and shove a nacho into my mouth. I'm gonna pay for this.

# # #

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"Sign of the Times"

"Here ye! Here ye!"

"No, no. It's 'Hear ye!'"

"That's what I said."

"No you didn't. You said 'Here ye! Here ye!"

"You're telling me there's a difference in what I said and what you said?"

"Well, yes, of course. In the first instance, you are, perhaps, calling people over to speak, crying 'over here! over here!' You're speaking of a place aren't you?"

"I suppose, but..."

"Now, in the second instance, you're crying 'Attend to me! Listen! For I have news! Hear, ye, to the important tidings which I bear."

"Bare? Far from it, I'd say. As a matter of fact, I'm rather sweaty in this ridiculous costume. But the king requires it, so that is what I wear."

"What are you talking about? Where?"

"Well, right here, in fact."

"I'm sorry. What did you hear?"

"I said that I'm right here. That's what I said."

"Well, I'm not sure I should write anything here, but if you have a quill and some ink, I'm sure I could scribble out something for you."

"What were we talking about again?"

"Your town crying. You're spelling your cries wrong."

"I most certainly am not."

"You are."

"I think we'll just have to agree to disagree."

"I disagree. I'll do nothing of the sort."

"I can't here you...."

"Stop that!"

# # #

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"Checking Up"

A one-minute sequel to this One Minute Story...

The woman stared at the door of the little house, wondering if she should ring the doorbell. Or knock. Or, if she stood there long enough, would the occupant sense her presence outside the door, the way her husband used to flinch and growl when she stared in the early morning, careful not to touch his sleeping face, bristling with days of scruffy beard.

She shifted the bundle of cloth so she could cradle it gently with one arm. She pressed the doorbell. Hearing no sound, she knocked weakly, then firmly on the door.

No answer.

She sighed, dramatically, as if someone might be watching. She looked at her bundle, the mysterious bundle she'd received a few hours before, with such a rush of hope and possibility. What had she been thinking?

She carefully unwrapped the bundle, just to look at it. The blankets held an old shoebox. She pulled the top off of the shoebox, which revealed an old ragdoll, blonde-haired and pig-tailed. It smiled up at her. She picked it up, put down the shoebox, and, looking around now to be sure that no one was watching, hugged it close, the yellow yarn brushing her cheek like a soft kiss.

The doll was surprisingly warm, and growing warmer.

When she was a girl, she used to stand by the dryer, waiting for her mother to unload her favorite blanket. She'd grab it and swaddle herself in its warmth, quickly, before it cooled. She thought about her blanket and her mother -- now older and sadder -- as she held the doll and rocked back and forth on the porch of the little house where the man had sent her with the doll.

But the warmth didn't fade like the blankets. In fact, it grew warmer.

She drew back to take a closer look, cradling the doll's head so it wouldn't flop. There were the little black knit eyes and the wide, red stitched smile.

The eyes...blinked. A puff of sweet air brushed her face.

The doll wriggled.

The woman stumbled back, nearly falling down the porch's concrete steps.

"What are you?" the woman breathed.

"Shhh," the doll said, and closed its eyes.

The door opened, and a black girl, no more than six, stood, nearly eye to eye with woman. The girl didn't speak, just stared, at this strange, disheveled woman on her sidewalk.

The woman stopped, composed herself, brushed the folds from her business suit. She took two steps to the doorstep, now towering over the girl.

"I believe this is yours," the woman said. The girl's eyes widened. She smiled.

"Can I have her?"

"Are you OK?"

"Uh huh," the girl said and thrust both of her arms out expectantly. "I am now."

The woman handed the doll to the girl, who mumbled a 'thank you' and closed the door, leaving the woman standing at her doorstep holding a child's blanket.

As she turned to go, the house began to glow, and she heard shouts of joy and laughter.

# # #

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"Customer Service"

She drives up in a white Toyota Corolla, one of about a dozen brand spanking new Toyotas that just came off the car carrier here. Why buy a white car when you can rent here for $37 a day? That's what I always say.

She rolls down the window and hands me the rental agreement.

"Thanks. How you doin' today," I say, like I always do. It puts the customers at ease, y'know? I'm here to help.

But she looks at me and frowns. I look at her folder. Jennifer Grayson, 39. From Chattanooga, Tennessee.

"You from Chattanooga?" She nods, still frowning. Tapping her foot on the gas. "Pardon me, boys!" I smile my best smile. Yeah, she's probably heard that joke a few times, but not here. I'm smiling like I want her to smile. Sometimes, I just need a smile out of 'em, you know? And I think maybe they need a smile, too, as they head out of the lot to their business trips and their family vacations and who knows what else. I'm here to help, right?

So, I'm smiling and she's just sitting there, tapping her foot and scratching the back of her head with those manicured fingernails. I think they call that color "fuschia". Or maybe "ecru".

"Can I help you get somewhere, ma'am?" I say, still smiling.

"Away," she says, real quiet, like a sigh.

"What's that ma'am?" Thought I'd best ask again, just to be sure.

"Nothing, nothing," she says, staring straight ahead now.

"That's funny," I say, "because I thought you said you were trying to get away..."

"I did ... forget it. It was a joke." I lean out of my little hut. Nobody's waiting behind Ms. Grayson.

"What are you trying to get away from? If you don't mind me askin'..." I say that last part just to be polite. I always find that a little courtesy goes a long way in this business. Lets you get to know folks.

"Everything ... just everything," she says, and then she looks right at me for the first time. Pretty girl. Green eyes. Blonde hair, cut short. Nice tan. Sleeveless T shows she's been working out her arms. She says, "Have you ever just wanted to go some place...some place where no one and nothing can find you? Not your husband, not your kids, not your boss, not anyone. Have you ever just wanted to go away?"

She's shaking now, shivering like the temperature just dropped 40 degrees. But it hadn't.

"Well, you know, ma'am," I say, laughing a little. I'm hoping to put her a little more at ease. "I just have this little hut here, all day long. There's not much of anywhere to go for me."

She smiles a little, let's out a weak laugh.

"But you know," I say, "in my experience, people who say they want to get away, they really just want to have something to go to. You know what I mean?"

"I think so..."

"Here," I say. Hold on just a minute." I turn around and pull out an old cardboard box. It's got a logo from one of those dot-com companies, from when I ordered up that book about the Civil War and the big book about President Lincoln. The one 'bout how he freed the slaves. I think...haven't got to reading it yet. The books aren't in it now... now it's full of, well, all sorts of things. I find what I'm looking for.

"Here you go...you take this." She takes the yellow bundle and looks at it like it's some kind of alien egg, like something's going to jump out of that little bundle and bite her on the nose.

"What...what is it?"

"It won't bite you, ma'am. Open it up."

She unwraps the bundle and finds the little doll inside it -- little blonde yarn pigtails, blue dress and all that.

"Why...who does this belong to?" she says, staring at the doll.

"I don't know for sure, but look on the back." She turns it over, and she reads the label on the back, which the words, in a child's handwriting, 'If I'm lost, call my mom!" and then a name, 'Tanya L.' and the first five digits of what looks like a phone number.

"Is this a local number," she asks me.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Have you tried to find this little girl?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I can't really get out to do a proper search." At that she smiles a real smile, looks at me with this furrowed brow like she's trying to decide whether to hug me or call the cops, and then she laughs.

"That would be some place to go to, wouldn't it?"

"It certainly would, ma'am," I say.

She laughs, shakes her head at me. I hand her back her rental agreement and step back into the hut as the white Corolla drives off down the frontage road to the highway.

That's what I'm here for, you know? I'm here to help.

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"Ants in One's Pants"

"I'm feeling a little uncomfortable," said Joannie.

"Don't worry," said the man in the white lab coat with his back to Joannie. "This will only take a few minutes."

"Could you be more precise?" Joannie asked, with an emphasis on precise that hinted of her two semesters in Oxford 20 years prior and a lifetime devoted to increasing her ability to account more accurately for life's variables, from the careful planning that reduced her wake-up-to-office time by 20 minutes to the meticulous pruning of her diet to those foods that allowed her body to extract maximal nutrients and minimal waste such that the time she wasted on the toilet was down to three minutes and 37 seconds each week.

The man in the white lab coat, who she knew only as "Simpson," said nothing, but turned around and tightened the thick leather straps that held her wrists, and she articulated a clipped grunt. From her prone position on the steel table, she lifted her chin adjusted her eyeballs downward to get a better look at the man, Simpson. She couldn't see much: thick dark hair, dark eyes, two-day stubble, white lab coat, head down, always down as he reviewed the checklist on his clipboard, pausing here and there to check the computer monitor with the red and blue graphs and simulated dials.

"I mean," Joannie said helpfully, "I would like to know when this will be..." She paused, seeing the right word, and then decided upon... "...finished."

"We're ready," Simpson said in the low, throaty growl that substituted for a proper speaking voice.

"When you say, 'we'," Joannie said, voice cracking slightly, "does that include me? Because I'm sure that I'm not ready."

Simpson again said nothing, and Joannie sighed and resumed counting the visible squares created by the cross-hatched bars that held the white speckled, factory-issue drop ceiling. She was at 48 when she felt the needle prick the skin on the underside of her left forearm and at 64 when her body stiffened and tensed, her back arched and teeth ground so hard that she could feel the sharp edges of the flecks of hardened calcium newly trapped under her tongue. Her fortunately smooth nails dug into the palms of her hands. Her skin screamed, as if Simpson had attached millions of tiny fish hooks to every inch of her skin, and then, all at once, each tiny fisherman pulled, and reeled, and pulled.

"I'm feeling very uncomfortable," Joannie said.

"Don't worry," Simpson said. "A few more minutes."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

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"What They Knew"

They didn't know it when they saw it.

You know how you're always told that you will? That you'll know it when you see it? It doesn't matter if you're talking about love, art, obscenity, or, in this case, a two-story, four-bedroom house of recent vintage in a decent school district, Jason had always thought that he'd "know it when he saw it" -- know that it was the right place and the right time.

But he was wrong. She knew it. He didn't. So they didn't know it.

When the walked in the door, before she even took off her shoes, Rachel gave a little leap and clapped her hands; Jason imagined she did the same thing on her seventh birthday when she tore off the gift wrap on a new Barbie.

Jason felt nothing.

It was an OK house with high ceilings, shiny wood floors, stone counter tops and stainless steel fridge and stove. The reproduction had an automatic ice maker, which Jason thought was cool. But, you know, big deal, right?

Rachel dashed up the stairs with a stream of "look at this! Oh, this is nice's, I've always wanted that's..." while Jason stared out the window, over the massive deck where he imagined kicking his feet up with a beer on a little plastic table and his guitar in his lap singing out off-key tunes to the night sky.

"So?"

"So. What?"

"How do you like it?"

"It's OK."

"OK? OK? Don't you think it's just perfect?"

"Well, sure I guess." Jason thought about the back deck in their own house. You couldn't even go back there in the summer, with all the mosquitoes. Probably the same here, he thought.

"I need to know how you feel. Jason. Wake up!" Rachel's voice was sharp, crisp, like a drill sergeant and it snapped Jason to attention.

"What does it matter? We'll like what you like."

"But I want to know what you like. I want you to care."

"Well, maybe I don't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. I'm just talking."

"Talk some more."

"I...I don't care where we live. I just want to live somewhere. If it makes you happy, it makes me happy. I really could live anywhere."

"Jason."

"What?"

"Jason." Rachel said again.

"What? What?"

"That is the biggest load of crap I've ever heard."

"Oh, I'm sure you've 1eard bigger."

"No, I don't think so."

"Look, what can I tell you. Maybe this just isn't the right place."

"What does the right place look like?"

"I don't know... I'll know it when I see it, right?"

"Yeah, right," Rachel said, and she turned her back to Jason and slipped on her shoes. Jason stared after her, and then followed suit. Back in the car, Rachel drove, and Jason started singing the song on the radio out loud, drumming on the dashboard..."Mis-ter Jones and me...runnin' through the barrio..."

Rachel didn't take her eyes off the road.

"What are you so happy about?" she said.

# # #
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"The Story of the Story"

Living as he did, moving around, cross country every few years, Seth didn't have any childhood friends. No one who knew him now could tell you what he was like back then, and how that got him to the place he was at now.

Not that this was necessary, but it would have been... useful... given the circumstances.

In the small conference room with the window that overlooked the river, Seth took a moment to reach between his legs to grab the lever and pull, carefully, so his chair would rise just a couple of inches. He placed his elbows on the brown melanin conference table, wiggled his seat so the chair would settle, and waited.

The door opened with a loud click and the the managers stepped into the room. The non-descript lady from HR with the brown hair, glasses and sensible suit sat down first. Seth didn't look at her. The tall man with the close cropped blonde hair entered next. He was the Vice President of Operations, and while he wasn't happy, his clothes were as sharp as his pointed chin. His shoes and his hair glistened with polish. His socks matched his belt and tie, and blended artfully with his three-buttoned suit.

The Vice President of Operations smiled. Thin-lipped. Grim, Seth thought.

"How have you been, Seth," he said.

"You really want to know?" Seth said, smiling.

"What I really want to know is what's wrong. What's happened."

"I think you know that already. What, specifically, do you want know?"

"You want specifics? Here." The Vice President opened a manilla folder. "Missed meetings, here, here and here. Missed deadlines. Missing projects."

"And?" Seth said, still smiling. The Human Resources lady handed a binder clipped sheaf of papers to the Vice President.

"Here's a report from IT, analyzing your computer use," he said.

"We do that?"

"Yes. In fact we do. Just about every keystroke."

"What's it say?" Seth said, smiling wider, openly curious.

"This one is just for yesterday. Twenty-two minutes on something called 'websudoku.com,'" he said.

Seth laughed. "That was a record."

"What?"

"Nothing. What else?"

"Pointlesswasteoftime.com. Thirty-two clicks between 12:30 and 1:57 pm. I'm guessing that's not related to our work here."

"Hmp. Probably not," Seth snorted, looking up at the two managers across the table to see if they were laughing with him. They were not.

"Here's one called 'marvel-dot-com-slash-digitalcomics. Seems like you were on there for about 97 minutes."

"They put up new ones."

"New what?"

"New digital comics. Didn't I just say that?"

"So, you're telling me that you read comic books for 97 minutes yesterday?"

"Well, probably not that long. I'm sure I got up for coffee at some point."

"I'm sure. What about this latest..." the Vice President of Operations paused. "...incident? Can you explain it?"

"Which incident? You mean...?"

"You hurt people, Seth. They feel betrayed."

"Most of them laughed."

"Most of them didn't know that you were serious."

"It didn't take that long to clean up. And the smell is almost gone."

"What were you thinking, Seth?"

Good question, Seth thought. I was thinking that people needed a good laugh. That I needed a good laugh. That I needed something creative, something innovative, something surprising, unuusual or even fortuitous to happen here, where nothing of the sort ever happens. I was thinking that an eruption, an explosion of sorts, would be good for our souls.

"I don't really know," Seth said.

The Vice President made an "Mmmhmm" noise and stared at Seth for 10 long seconds. Seth stared back for five and then looked around. It was a dark day outside -- on TV they said rain was coming this weekend. Hundreds of feet below, on the edge of downtown, the river looked choppy as it flushed over the old dam.

"Is there something you want me to say here? What do you want me to do?"

"I want to get your reaction to this. Is this the contribution you think you should be making here? Is this the contribution of someone who wants to be here?"

Seth looked down at the table. The he stood up and turned around, toward the window, and the river. He thought about what it was like, a long time ago, in the summer by the river, to tell his Mom he would meet her in two hours at the picnic tables and take off with his friend, Clay, into the heart of the fair with ten dollars and a stack of ride tickets. And how Clay stood by him when he threw up on the Tilt-a-Whirl and they each won a plastic bow-and-arrow at Skee-Ball and spent the next hour hiding behind the bench next to the roasted corn stand and seeing if the suction-cup arrows would stick to girls' backsides.

"What do you think?" Seth said.

"Are you playing games with me?" the Vice President said.

"Alan!" the Human Resources lady's voice rose, concerned.

"Seth. I don't see how we can keep you here. We're going to have to end our relationship."

End our relationship, Seth thought, and laughed. He exhaled, deeply, realizing he hadn't been breathing for quite a while, as breathing goes.

"Thanks," Seth said. And he shook their hands.

# # #

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"Inky Black Depths"

There's no crying in war, thought Roger as he peered over the craggy, khaki-colored clay of the trench where he and his team lay in wait. Nothing yet. He exhaled, deeply, his mouth a brown, round "O," like he was blowing smoke rings. He didn't smoke, of course. No one in his family did, what with the stories coming down from when they were young about how Grandpa Larry died of emphysema and Dad had his lung collapse at 18 after a six-year, two-pack-a-day habit that seemed, from the old pictures, to be driven by a need to have two Marlboro packs rolled up in the sleeves of his white t-shirts, just so.

But he found himself thinking about what it would be like to be leaning back against the counter of his Dad's 7-11 store back home in Middletown, wearing that garish polyester uniform, crossing his arms, just so, taking a drag and blowing out slow.

He peered over the trench again. There's no crying in war, thought Roger. There was movement on the other side, under the white angular, rusted outdoor rooftop that covered filthy metal tables and flimsy plastic chairs of what once was a cafe on the edge of this desert town. Not a lot of movement...a shifting shadow, hunched and quick, that disappeared behind an overturned table.

Roger motioned to Lopez and Jake with two fingers and then pointed. Take 'em out. Two cracks of automatic rifles, a shout and a cry and it was done.

Roger hopped out of the trench and walked to the cafe, impatiently, and the two men followed. He didn't want to run, but wished he could just be there, now, instead of watching the overhang and the chairs and the tables and the bodies grow larger with each heavy step.

The bodies lay on the concrete patio. It was a man and a woman -- a boy and a girl, really, their faces smooth and hopeful to their last breath. Her head was on his chest, like they were laying together at night in a park, looking up at the stars. Only the growing red stain told a different story, seeping out through and behind her long, coal-black hair, soaking his white cotton shirt.

"Couple of kids," Lopez said. "Shouldn't have been here."

"Just where we thought they'd be," Roger muttered.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jake said, startling Roger. He nearly raised his gun.

"Nothing. It's nothing, Jake."

"So what do we do with them?" Lopez asked.

"Nothing," Roger said. "Let the locals take care of it."

"Of them, man. Of them," Jake said.

"That's what I said."

"No, man. You said 'it'. You called them 'it'. They're not 'its'. They're them. They're people. Two dead people. Dead kids. Don't even know what they did or what they're doing here. No guns on them. Look at them! They look like a couple of sweethearts out on a date."

"They are," Roger said. "Don't ask me any more questions."

"I didn't ask you any questions. I was telling you. These are people. That's all I'm trying to say."

"Jake, you better calm down. Right now," Roger said and he turned his back to his comrade. He looked down at the couple, at the girl and her boyfriend, how nice they looked together and how strange and aloof she's seemed when they met the first time, months ago, and she told him what her father said about Roger, his people, their mission. He asked, and she told him what she thought, and he recalled how her speech widened her eyes and wet her lips as she pointed and gestured and her slim fingers grabbed and held his wrist with startling strength. She had passion that was...unquenchable. Until now.

Roger heard the stamp of boots on concrete, felt his neck muscles stiffen.

"You having second thoughts? Are you thinking about what we've done here? Are you even human? You'd better be thinking." Jake grabbed his shoulder firmly.

Roger spoke without turning around. "Lopez."

A loud click. Two steps. A long pause.

"Shit. I'm cool. I'm cool," Jake said, finally, raising his hands and walking away.

Roger raised the first three fingers of his hand to his right eye, and curtly wiped away the wetness that had gathered there.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

# # #

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"An Afternoon in Autumn, When Johnny Had Nothing Better to Do"

Johnny sat at the desk, hands poised lightly on the keyboard. It was a child's desk. Small, brown wood stained with old cheap metal handles on each drawer, dangling like door knockers.

On the desk was a green folder labeled 2005 taxes, a nearly spent spindle of recordable discs, a plastic cup adordned with colorful letters spelling the names of two kids, he guessed, Brian and Ben, filled with some strange, be-ribboned poupourri. The desk was dominated by the laptop computer, large keyboard and screen fitting uncomfortably close to the cheap HP printer with the cables and wires crumpled about in a vain attempt to keep out of site.

To the right was the "in box" on top of the old black steel filing cabinet -- blanketed by a pile of unopened bills and unfiled papers arranged like a still life of a waterfall. The checkbook was balanced, open, in between like a bridge from the filing cabinet to the desk.

He stood, stretching like a calico cat in his orange and black Bengals sweatshirt, and decided he needed a snack. Paydirt -- an unopened box of Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookies. He quietly broke into the package, took three...and then three more, poured himself a glass of milk and shuffled back to the office.

"I sure wish they'd get home soon," he said out loud, to himself, just to hear a voice speak. The words came out in croak, like someone else's voice, and he was startled for a moment, but only a moment.

Johnny ate a cookie, gulped down a mouthful of milk, wiped the excess away with the back of his hand and reassumed the position, fingertips at the ready...asdf...jkl;

A click. A key turning, lock sliding back, like a turtle going into its shell. Door opening with a grunt. Coats rustling, children's footsteps drumming across the kitchen and up the stairs. Heavier footfalls. Her. Down the hall. Toward the office. Door opens. Gasp of surprise.

"Who the hell are you?" she says.

Johnny stood up quickly, dark brown cookie tumbling over his three-day beard.

"Johnny," he said.

"Get...out...of...my...house," she shouted with authority, but he could see she was trembling.

"I was just, you know. Working," Johnny said, trying to be helpful.

"Working? What do you mean, working? Who are you?" She had brown hair and brown eyes and wore a red sweater that stretched over her hips. She wore thin black leggings and New Balance running shoes.

"It's me. Johnny. Don't you remember?" Johnny thought he was going to cry, and was determined not to. She didn't speak.

"In the grocery store. I was right behind you. Told that little boy of yours that Reese's would rot his teeth. You thanked me and smiled. You have a nice smile."

"So?"

"So I thought you'd want to return the favor."

"Return the favor? We chatted in the grocery."

"I needed to borrow a computer."

"Get out. Now. I'm calling the police."

"Oh, now that wouldn't be very nice."

She turned and ran, heading for the kitchen. Johnny grabbed her arm. She spun and socked him on the head with her other forearm, then kicked him in the crotch. He fell to the floor. He heard the tell-tale "beep...beepbeepbeep" of a cordless phone dialing 911 and swore under his breath. The he saw a rainbow flash of light as something hard and resonant struck him in the temple. An old brass tea kettle or something... he'd seen it on the fireplace when he walked in.

"I'm really not very good at this," he thought as he lost consciousness.

* * *

"So ma'am, you really don't know what he was doing here?"

"I have no idea. He said we chatted in the grocery line. I sort of remember. I think it was like a month ago."

"And he was working on the computer?"

"I don't know. He was in the office. That's what it looked like."

"Hey sarge! Come over here," a voice from the office called. The sargeant and the woman entered the office, where a young detective was peering at the laptop screen.

"Did you write this, ma'am?" the sargeant asked.

"Are you kidding me?"

"I don't kid," the sargeant said.

"No, sargeant. I did not write that."

"Well, ma'am, this is one for the books," the sargeant said, and walked out of the office. "I gotta get some air."

"I'll join you," the woman said.

A young uniformed officer tapped the detective on the shoulder.

"What does it say?"

"Hmmph. Read it yourself."

The officer peered over the detectives shoulder and read:

I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...

# # #

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"Cold Feet"

I'm sitting on the ground. Brown dirt, tree roots, grass. My feet are in the grass. The green shoots wriggle up between my toes. Cool, damp.

I lean back. Tree bark. Rough, thick, knotted, grooved, carved by gnarled fingers.

I look up at the sky. Branches, leaves. Seeds encased in tiny propellers. Blue sky, clouds. Wispy white faces, skeletal hands, grasping, clawing at...blue.

I breathe. Deep, full. Exhale. Dramatic pause. Just another day in paradise. This is supposed to be relaxing.

Crack, crackle, rustle above. Bird? Squirrel? Chipmunk. Red-brown, black and white. Arms outstrectched, leaping, running.

I look out, straight out. Wide green field. Park. Soccer net. Sunny day. Too sunny. Squint. Glad I'm in the shade. Seagulls, gliding. How did they get to Minnesota?

Tickle on my hand. Tick! No, ladybug. Smash! No, brush off, lands on a blade of grass. It's outside, her home, not mine.

Rumble, grumble, ramble, hiss. Truck. Driving, interrupting.

Time, ticking. Time to go. Time to pick up kids, make lunch, play, remember, remind, cajole, convince. Discipline.

What to do next? Plan ahead. What's next? Plan ahead. What's next? Plan ahead. What's next?

Decide later. Time to go.

Another day in paradise.

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"With Great Power..." - A Dom Parker Story

A Dom Parker Story

* * *

Dom had flown too far, too fast. Again.

At least I brought a shirt this time, he thought.

The last time he flew, he'd wanted to see how fast he could go. He'd spread his wings and circled high over the skinny part of the bay that the locals called The River. He built build up speed, then shot like a cannon. He'd flown miles before he splashed down in the ocean at the southern end of the island, cold, shirtless, with just enough pocket change to take a city bus back home.

This time, he came prepared. He was glad he'd told his Dad he'd go biking with him. His Dad immediately came through with gear useful to a kid with 16 foot-transparent wings that sprouted from his back on command. Skin-tight spandex pants and shirt, and a little pouch where he could fold up a matching windbreaker and stash his house keys, cash and a cell phone. He'd cut two slits in the back of the shirt, so thin you'd never notice them, but just right so he could slip his wings through without ripping the kind of gaping holes that had been baffling his mother of late. He looked like a superhero. A really, really skinny superhero.

But landings. In the comics, everyone lands so gracefully. I land like God's using me as a skipping stone.

He must have flown eight miles tonight. His back ached his arms and elbows were scraped red and raw. So he sat for awhile, on the beach, staring at the ocean, picking at the sand. He made a small pile: Two clam shells, no clam; a stick that once held a popsicle, or maybe a corn dog; four cigarette butts; six flat stones, two round ones; one penny, the most money he'd ever made at the beach. Michelle said she found three dollars once, but Dom found that hard to believe.

Where are you, Michelle?

A golden retriever ran by, splashing, chased by a couple in sweats. Dom waved. It was late, too late for the bus, so he'd have to fly back home, no matter how much his back hurt. He stood and started the climb the the hill, to the rocky cliffs on his right, where he could more easily get some air.

Funny that I land here, Michelle. It had been almost a month now, when they walked here and watched the sun set and talked about life and friends and what the stars might have to say. And then it was time to go and she said she'd be leaving for awhile, and she couldn't say where or why but she was and then she kissed him, briefly but so softly on the lips and walked back to her car and Dom's mother shouted, so he rejoined his family on the beach as they packed up the blankets and towels and cooler for the drive back home. She was gone ...

Then she screamed. Screamed? No, that's here, now. Where?

Another scream.

He looked around frantically. Two silhouettes, at the top of the cliff, the tourist overlook, the one with the binoculars for a quarter. One cringed, arms over her face, by the railing, fending off what, in the moonlight, looked like a swarm of bees. The other figure looked like a vampire -- guiding the swarm like a conductor.

Cyril. What's he doing here?

Without thinking, he ran. Up the cliff, clamboring over rocks.

Cyril turned to look at him, his face, even paler in the moonlight, framed by his long black hair.

"Dom. So nice you could join us," he called.

What's with the evil genius voice, Cyril? Dom kept his thoughts to himself. He was on the trail now, the one that led up to the vista point, so he could run.

Oh great, Dom thought. Cyril had turned to face him and the swarm turned on him, a pale cloud of rocks and dust and shells and bottle tops and popsicle sticks and whatever other garbage Cyril could find.

Dom kept running. He closed his eyes.

I can't do this.

His jaw clenched. He could feel tears welling. He was breathing hard.

I can't do this.

He opened his eyes and saw the girl, leaning on the railing, staring at him in horror.

Not Michelle. Dammit. Tracy...from Calculus.

The swarm had almost reached him, and he nearly froze. The last time, he'd felt it's sting -- death by a million cuts. There was pain, and it never stopped.

"I can't do this!" he shouted out loud. But inside he knew.

I will do this.

Dom leaped. The wings blossomed from his back, great and ghostly. They carried him over the swarm. From the top of his arc, he glimpsed Tracy, on her knees, eyes wide in awe. He stopped for a moment, as Cyril tried to redirect the swarm.

Then, Dom dove, and in a moment, his outstretched slammed into Cyril's chest, knocking him to the ground. Dom stood over him, not sure what to do. Cyril smiled his most ingratiating grin.

"Well played, Dominic. See you in school." A cloud of dust burst in Dom's face. When he finished coughing, Cyril was gone.

"Who...who are you?" Tracy called. She doesn't recognize me.

"I just wanted to help," Dom said. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I guess."

"Do you have a car?"

"Yes. Yes, I do." She was recovering, getting her bearings. Staring at him. Dom backed away and turned to the side. She walked toward him.

"Good. You can drive right? 'Cause I don't have a car here or anything."

"I'll be okay, now." She paused. "What are you?"

"I'm just a kid, you know? I just wanted to help."

They stared at each for a moment, Dom half in shadow, Tracy's pretty face cut and scraped from the swarm.

"You make a funny angel," she said, and smiled a little.

Angel? Angel?!

Dom had an overwhelming urge to run.

"I...I'm glad you're okay."

And he ran.

# # #

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